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futuremrsreid · 12 days ago

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𝘼𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

Third instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Look at the poor boy, he’s got the unscratchable itch.” — or the one where you're overwhelmed and Spencer discovers he's an absolute munch.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer is back and hornier than ever. Cums in his pants, again. Oral and fingering (fem! receiving). Slight discussion about reader having mommy issues and her past (read the prior parts and it'll make sense).

A/N: It took me forever but here's the third part to the 'Home For You' Universe! English is not my first language and this is not yet fully proof read! Please tell me what you think and if you have ideas or thoughts about the future of these two lovebirds. ♡

It had been raining when you woke up.

The soft, whispery kind. The kind that worked as a lullaby. The kind that made the whole city feel like it had collectively decided to sleep in.

The only reason you’d even stirred was because Spencer had moved—just enough to pull the blanket up over your bare shoulders sometime around 8 a.m. He hadn’t been fully awake either, just instinctively attuned to your comfort. You’d watched him through slitted eyes as he settled again, his profile soft in the dull morning light.

Neither of you had said a word.

Instead, you’d nestled closer, one leg tangled between his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d made a little noise—one he always seemed to make when you burrowed in—a little half-asleep sigh out of pure contentment.

And that’s how most of the day had gone.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had you. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just a tangle of sheets, long-winded conversations about nothing, and the kind of kisses that made no sound from how gentle they were.

By the time afternoon rolled around, you’d only gotten out of bed three times—once to use the bathroom and get dressed, once for a late breakfast, and once more for another bathroom trip. Spencer had gotten up four times, the extra one to grab the Sunday newspaper from his mailbox.

You were draped across him like a sleepy cat, the sheets twisted around your legs, your chin resting on his chest. His fingers traced mindless patterns on your back, barely there, a touch just shy of tickling.

“Molecules move randomly, right?” you murmured suddenly, voice low from not having spoken in a while.

The glow of a lamp flickered against the spines of his current bedside reads, casting their titles in blurry shadows. One book was yours, obnoxiously pink, wedged between dense academic texts like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. Spencer thought so, anyway. You watched his eyes linger on it for a second before he looked back at you, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. You infiltrated more of his life and home each day that passed. Even if it was as simple as an extra toothbrush on the sink or your Converse placed next to his in the entryway.

“Yes, they do,” he answered softly. “Is there something on your mind?”

You shrugged, shifting so that your cheek lay flat against him now, ear to his heartbeat. “Just something stupid a school class discussed when they visited the library.”

He didn’t press you. Just waited for you to say something. Like he always did.

You absentmindedly rubbed your leg against his, your toes brushing against his calf as you talked. “There was a kid—one of those annoying twelve-year-old dweebs with a Justin Bieber haircut and permanent marinara sauce in the corners of his mouth—you know the type?”

Spencer laughed, nodding in agreement.

“And he tried to scare one of the girls by saying that since they move randomly, oxygen molecules could spontaneously assimilate in a singular spot in a room, suffocating anyone outside of it.”

His brow lifted, bemused. “Were you the girl he tried to scare?”

“No, no,” you defended, grinning,“I just thought you could maybe rationalize it for me.”

Spencer wanted to reach out and grab you. Bite you, even.

Because he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you, lying there on his chest, curiosity burning in your eyes, waiting for him to ramble on about something that you knew got the gears in his brain turning.

He’d thought you were pretty since the first time he saw you at the checkout counter at the library. But it had been fleeting, simply registering another beautiful human in passing.

It was different now. So very different. Because he knew you, and he could read your behavior, your quirks and traits. The way your mind worked. The strange little questions and facts you collected—like air molecules grouping together to suffocate you.

He knew that you had different laughs for different situations. He cherished them all and cataloged them like rare editions.

1. The little snorts that would come out of your nose when he said something silly, usually a pun that bordered on criminally bad.

2. The high-pitched giggles that wriggled out when his fingers skimmed over your sides, late at night when you were half-straddling him in bed and desperately trying not to wake the neighbors, making the giggles even more squeaky-sounding.

3. The loud, from-the-stomach kind of laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back even if you tried—just because something was so genuinely funny. Like when he accidentally turned all his white shirts a soft pink thanks to a rogue red sock, or when he tried to surprise you with breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the bedroom floor.

You let out one of the first snorts now as he explained, nose scrunching up adorably. Spencer was fairly certain you didn’t even notice you did it.

“It is possible, though,” he said, tone casual, trying not to sound too eager. “In theory at least. In a system of random motion, any arrangement of particles is technically possible, including extremely unlikely ones.”

You squinted up at him, suspicious. “So… I could suffocate?”

“You can calculate the number of oxygen molecules and then find out the statistical probability, but I’m assuming you don’t really want to learn that?” Spencer suggested, his hand moving to his hair, shoving curls off his forehead.

You found his hand as it landed back down on the bed, lifting it to lay next to you on his chest, your fingers intertwining with his own.

You shook your head, and he felt your hair rustle, telling him that his assumption was right. “No… I just want to sleep at night without having nightmares about suffocating.”

He gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you reassuringly. “We’re talking about hundreds of septillions of molecules that would have to randomly gather together.”

Spencer knew you had a tough time sleeping already. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue; instead it was staying asleep. You would fall asleep at a reasonable hour (for someone who mostly worked late or even night shifts), but then after a while, you’d wake up and just lay there. You didn’t need the added stress of silly nightmares, but he sometimes got the feeling they already haunted you.

“So the chance is, like, microscopically small?”

“A septillion is a quadrillion billions.”

You stared at him for a beat, eyes slightly wide as you tried to comprehend the number. You weren’t even sure what a quadrillion was. Occasionally you got the zeros confused even at a billion. The number was huge, at least. And that was comforting.

Spencer watched as you thought about it, wanting to take a picture of your puzzled expression. “You’re more likely to shuffle a deck of cards and get them in a perfect order millions of times in a row than for all oxygen to group in one spot.”

You huffed out a little laugh before you mumbled, “I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards.”

“That I can teach you. Much easier than Avogadro’s number.”

“Avocado who?”

“Amedeo Avogadro,” he corrected, laughing out loud. “Italian physicist. He’s the namesake for the constant used to calculate the number of particles in one mole.”

With a slight head shake and a scrunch of your nose, you declared that math and physics weren’t something for you. “I’d rather learn how to shuffle cards and play strip poker with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his neck before he even had a chance to react, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

Spencer was blushing—because of course he was. You always knew when you got to him. When your dirty words made his IQ split in half. You’d said it was one of your favorite things—the stupid and surprised look on his face whenever it happened. Spencer was on board with agreeing, even if the blush made his cheeks hurt.

Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, and he let out a small, stunned huff. His hand instinctively rubbed your shoulder, your knitted cardigan slipping down from the motion, exposing the strap of your tank top—and the soft, maddening curve of your cleavage beneath it.

One (equally horrifying and fascinating) thing that Spencer had discovered about himself since being with you was that he was a boob guy. He hated to admit it—that something so primitively sexual appealed to him. But he was just a man at the end of the day.

Since seeing and touching them for the first time, he’d become obsessed.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d sometimes let him sleep on your chest, and he could unabashedly feel them as he nuzzled closer. Maybe it was the fact that your skin was impossibly soft and that your breast were somehow the softest part, squeezable and malleable, cupped in the palms of his hands. Maybe it was the way they bounced when you were sat in his lap, your hips grinding down onto his clothed cock.

Maybe that was it.

He was a boob guy. And not afraid to let his eyes linger as your cardigan fell down and your top got exposed as you pressed into the side of him.

Your tank tops were his undoing. It was simply sadistic—the way that whatever clothing brand had designed most of the tops you wore. Thin and soft to the material, a lace trim along the square neckline, and, worst of all, a little silk bow placed right in the middle. It was an evil trick, Spencer was sure of it, to make him stare down the valley of your tits.

Which he did. A lot.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed his little fixation, but you sure didn’t do anything to stop him from looking, almost on purpose making the tank top slide down a little as you lay on top of him, the cups of your bra now peeking out.

The ample skin moved as you pushed yourself against him, your breasts bubbling out of their confinement. Perfectly biteable bubbles. Spencer imagined putting his fingertip to the swell, just to watch the skin jiggle.

Oh Lord. This was the kind of greed they warned about in the Bible.

Despite all of this—despite Spencer staring you down like he wanted to eat you alive—you hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Spencer told himself it was a “yet.” Clung to that word like a little life raft. But he wasn’t sure how true it was.

Because you had a tendency to push him away.

It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, which Spencer had noticed. You made out a lot, kissed him whenever you got the chance, usually for hours on end. Like horny teenagers, he assumed. It was routine at this point—to watch a movie, or read together, maybe have a lazy conversation in bed after a long day—and then by the end of it, you’d end up in his lap, hands in his hair and tongue down his throat.

Spencer had gotten braver with how he dared to touch you, not always keeping his hand stiffly glued to his side. He loved to feel your skin between his fingers, whether it was your plush thighs or your soft waist. Boobs too, of course.

If he was capable of keeping it together, he’d wait for some time alone to sort himself out in the bathroom afterwards. But on more occasions than one (five times and counting), you’d made him bust in his pants. And no matter how many times you said it was the hottest thing ever, Spencer still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to the point of no return.

And you… He’d only made you finish once. That first time on your couch on Valentine’s Day—when he’d rubbed your soaking clit with his fingers until you collapsed in his embrace. Only touched, not tasted, not penetrated.

Spencer couldn’t help but want more. And it wasn’t because of his lack of experience or lack of willingness that there hadn’t happened again.

You simply just didn’t let him close enough to even try. You didn’t show any signs of wanting him to help you out, and he was too scared to ask.

Can I go down on you? or Do you want me to finger you? were not questions that Spencer had in his vocabulary. Although he thought about saying them more than what was probably healthy. He didn’t know if it was fear from your side, or guilt, or something darker, and he wasn’t going to push.

You would only smile like you’d accomplished what you wanted when he was a panting and blushing mess with a spreading stain on his trousers, and then you’d continue on with your evening like nothing was different.

And you smiled in the same way now when you followed his eyesight straight to your cleavage.

“Any plans for next week?” you asked, almost nonchalantly.

“We’re consulting in California.” Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Cold case that’s been reopened, something from when Rossi started out.”

You hummed and nuzzled just a little closer, your nose brushing the edge of his shirt. If he hadn’t been wearing one, your lips would’ve been right over his heart. The little sound made his stomach flip, which was ridiculous because you did things like this all the time. Making sounds, that is. The very human thing that was noisemaking.

“How long?”

“Flying out tomorrow morning, then we’ll see. Maybe a week?”

A week. Seven days. Possibly more. He really should be used to this by now, but the idea of not seeing you for that long made something inside him wilt.

You exhaled through your nose—soft, but unmistakably disappointed—and your fingers loosened from his hand. They disappeared beneath the blanket instead, toying with the hem of his worn-out t-shirt. It had the Caltech logo on it and was slightly too tight on him. You’d jokingly called it a crop top once, and Spencer thought about tossing it out until you said it was sexy. A personal milestone since it was the first time he’d ever been called that.

“What about you?” he asked, voice low. “Do you have anything planned while I’m gone?”

Now, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his stomach. Just a featherlight touch. He tensed—he always tensed—but not out of discomfort. No, it was the opposite. It was the unbearable pleasure of being seen and wanted by you, and the helplessness of not knowing what to do with that feeling.

“Work. Sleep. Work some more,” you said, stretching your legs with a lazy yawn. “Help Edith set up her new TV. Maybe catch up with friends. Oh—and uh… lunch with my mother on Thursday.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “She’s in town?”

“She technically lives here,” you said, pushing yourself up onto one elbow. “Unless she sold the place and moved full-time to Baltimore with her new man without telling me.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a strange ache creeping in at the edges of his laugh. You hadn’t let him meet her yet. You hadn’t let him meet anyone yet.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He sometimes worried he had yet to meet the real you even.

You fit in perfectly when he introduced you to the team. Socially adaptable was what Emily had called you, like she could somewhat see through that you were nervous and uncomfortable, but still doing your best to be likable. And they did like you, a lot, it seemed. Soon you’d be off on girls’ nights with them, leaving Spencer behind. He knew it.

You sat up suddenly, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. Spencer looked at you like you’d gone mad. Until you pointed at the alarm clock on his bedside table and he read the time.

“3 o’clock,” you simply said. “I have to get to my place and get ready for work.”

“Why?”

The question left Spencer like an exhale. He could already feel a coldness spread in his body from where your contact was now missing. You’d made him hate the laws of time. Every time he was alone with you, he dreaded the moment you’d be apart. And every time you were apart, he counted the hours until he would next see you.

You laughed, turning to look at him with a raised brow. “You’re asking why I have to work?”

“No, I mean—” he floundered, “Why this late?”

“Because the library is open at night?” you teased. “Where else would geeks like you spend their time?”

“But there have to be other people available for the late shifts as well.”

“I got hired because I like working nights,” you said, standing and stretching, tugging your cardigan back over your shoulders. “The qualified librarians signed up for nine-to-fives. They’ve got spouses and kids waiting for them.”

“You’ve got me,” he said, almost too quickly.

You paused mid-movement, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “Other times, you’re on the opposite side of the country.”

He winced. He didn’t mean to guilt you. That wasn’t fair. But you weren’t wrong.

Spencer stayed in his spot as you started to move around his bedroom, padding across the floor to his dresser where your bag and clothes were. He only shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The pajama pants you were wearing slipped off in one easy movement, exchanged for a pair of dark-wash jeans. You didn’t seem to care that he was watching, which somehow made it worse. That he could spot the see-through material of your underwear as you tugged the denim over your hips—doing that awkward (yet attractive) little jumping motion to get them on—made him wonder all over again about why you didn’t let him close.

Since this didn’t seem to bother you, that is.

Were you waiting for him to make a move?

He hated that his mind did that. He hated that he still didn’t know and that he was too scared to ask.

“And I have picked up earlier shifts when I know you’re going to be in town. I’ve done it so much that Elizabeth complained,” you continued, arguing your case even though you had already won.

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, as you headed back to the bed to sit down to put on socks. Little white socks with lace trims. No one would see them, but he knew the mere fact of wearing them made you happy—how the lace peeked out from the top of your shoes.

“Is Elizabeth the scary one with the owl necklace?” Spencer questioned, turning to you now that you were next to him.

“Mhm,” you hummed.

You smiled faintly and turned to pick something up from your bag. A tangle of headphones. An essential for you together with your iPod. You couldn’t go on a walk without them, needing the distraction of music blasting.

Spencer watched as you struggled to untangle them, wordlessly reaching out to do it for you. Not because he thought you were incapable of doing it yourself, but because you’d asked him for help multiple times before and seemed to like the gesture of him helping you.

He was more efficient with his fingers, anyway.

“Hey,” you said, glancing down at him, “why don’t you enjoy being alone for the evening? Watch some foreign movie without having to translate it to me.”

“I was going to suggest Bergman’s Autumn Sonata,” he murmured, handing you the untangled headphones.

Spencer watched your mouth press into a thin line, eyes flickering just slightly away from him. He didn’t understand why he mentioned the damn movie—like it would miraculously stop you from having work to do? No, it was just stupid.

He knew you loved Bergman. You talked about his work with the same kind of reverence he had for Russian literature. But you hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata. He hadn’t asked why. Not yet. But he made a mental note of it, filing it away in the ever-growing, completely normal, and definitely not obsessive folder of things about you that fascinated him.

Your fingers tightened around the headphone cord, twirling it between them as you quietly said, “I haven’t seen that one. And it’s got subtitles.”

“I know, that’s why I wanted us to see it together.”

You shook your head a little. “No, you can watch it and tell me what you think.”

“You say that like you don’t already know that you’ll love it.”

“…There’s a reason I haven’t seen that one, Spence.”

His lips parted, a question already forming—but you kissed him before he could speak. It was soft but lingering, and he felt your fingers curl slightly against the back of his neck. His brain short-circuited because kissing was still something he was getting used to. He was very aware of every single movement, every shift of pressure, every tilt of your head. Was he doing it right? Was he too stiff? Should he be—oh, your tongue—

And then you pulled away, smiling at his dazed expression.

“Will you call me before the flight tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing edge.

You simply wanted to hear from him. Like that wasn’t a totally insane thing to say. He couldn’t believe you expected him to behave normally in front of you. Or maybe you didn’t expect it, but it would get old quite quickly if he verbally, as well as mentally, freaked out every time you showed him affection—a certain need for him that you actually had and he still couldn’t grasp.

But still—

“Of course,” he said, embarrassingly quick.

You smiled, lingering just long enough to memorize the way he felt beneath you, before you straightened up again.

“Be safe. Have fun,” Spencer said, sitting up after you, closing the space you’d created.

“Fun? At work?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I have fun at the library all the time,” he teased, so close that you felt his lips against yours.

“Shut up.” You laughed into the kiss he pulled you back into, fingers curling into his hair, warmth spreading through his chest.

Seconds later you were gone. The door clicked softly shut behind you. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a pin dropped.

Spencer stared at the space where you’d been, his hands still half-curled, like he was holding onto the shape of you in the air. His shirt smelled like your skin—soft and floral, and a little like the soap he had in his shower. The sheets were still warm where you’d laid, rumpled and twisted, half falling off the bed.

He let himself collapse back against the mattress with a sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your absence was growing inside of him, starting from his chest and spidering out like a nervous system drawn in light. A slow, luminous burn.

And he was terrified—utterly terrified—that this feeling consumed him far more than it ever would you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The case in California was… a weird one, and not the usual type of weird. Because that was a measurable thing for the team. A normal amount of weird, an abnormal amount of weird, and then thirdly—the weird kind they’d never encountered before.

This was the third kind. Not because of blood, death, and gore. It was stranger than that. Stranger because it was stale.

A forgotten cold case dumped on their laps like an aging puzzle missing half the pieces. Files yellowed with time, reports handwritten in blue ink fading under the fluorescent lights. Evidence stuffed in mismatched cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in a converted conference room at the local PD—each one covered in decades worth of dust.

If this was one of those TV series about agents solving crimes and catching killers in the act, this would be the episode where everyone unanimously decided to stop watching because the show wasn’t worth it anymore.

No progress was being made. At all.

It was partly because the old detective was territorial and proud—only really letting in the help from Rossi—and partly because the leads went nowhere anyway.

They were most likely dealing with a copycat. It was one singular murder that had a slight connection to a series of murders committed in the eighties. The connection was: same small town in California that didn’t see many murders and the same M.O. used. Asphyxiation with a barbed wire.

They hadn’t had any reasonable suspects in the eighties, and the pool of people to look into now was even smaller. Or way too big, depending on how you looked at it. People handling barbed wire in a small farming town was a large amount.

When Thursday rolled around, they’d spent four days with this going-nowhere thing. Stuck in the conference room with their boxes, pestering old witnesses and relatives by bringing up bad memories, and at the M.E., looking at the new corpse for too long.

Maybe they would have to give up.

It was far more usual than what Spencer wanted to admit, but they couldn’t spend forever on one case when they had other ones waiting.

Rossi had gone with the detective to look at the crime scene once more. Hotch was outside of the conference room, possibly speaking with Strauss by the strained look on his face. Derek and JJ had gone on a coffee run, and Spencer and Emily were left in the conference room.

He wasn’t sure if Emily was even awake—sat quiet and still in a corner with her file covering her face for over half an hour.

Spencer had gone from standing to sitting to standing again.

He flipped open yet another file, scanning the interview transcript, but his eyes weren’t really absorbing it. Not fully. Not when his phone was sitting face-up on the table beside him, untouched since breakfast. The screen annoyingly black and the sound eerily silent.

You were supposed to have called by now.

Lunch with your mother couldn’t be a simple thing—he knew that much. He’d heard the tone in your voice whenever you mentioned her. A tightness that suggested years of subtle warfare and passive aggressiveness layered under polite smiles. Still, even the most drawn-out emotional lunches didn’t usually last past two o’clock. Unless things had gone wrong, and you were currently trapped in some kind of emotional gladiator battle over a Caesar salad.

Spencer checked his watch. 2:14 p.m.

You were never late without saying something. Not unless something had gone wrong. Which meant something had to have gone wrong.

The door creaked open, and he looked up automatically. Derek stepped in, carrying coffee and a half-eaten bagel. JJ trailed behind him, flipping through a folder.

Derek clocked Spencer’s expression immediately. “Look at the poor boy,” he muttered to JJ. “He’s got the unscratchable itch.”

Spencer froze mid-step. He’d been pacing, subconsciously. He whirled around. “I’m not in love with her.”

Derek smirked, taking a seat in his chair, leaning back. The exact kind of smirk that let Spencer know he had walked into a trap. “I wasn’t talking about love, pretty boy. But it’s very telling that you think I was.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. His face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and pooled somewhere just under his collarbone.

JJ gave him a soft, knowing look. “Then what’s wrong, Spencer?”

He inhaled sharply. “She’s not answering her phone.”

There. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But now he was committed. He pressed on, pacing again.

“She said she would call me after she had lunch with her mother, and it’s now 2:16 p.m. That’s a reasonable time for lunch to be over, right? I mean, unless they got a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant, in which case I would understand the delay, but they didn’t! Because they go to the same café every time, and it’s not a place that serves twelve-course meals, unless you count uncomfortable conversations as a course, which, in that case, I’d argue that—”

JJ cut in gently, “Maybe they just lost track of time? Had a lot to talk about?”

“But she doesn’t like her mother. Or maybe she does. It’s complicated—”

Emily, who’d been eavesdropping at the far end of the room, didn’t even glance up from her file as she interrupted, “No girl likes their mother.”

Spencer stopped mid-ramble. “That’s not true. I mean, statistically—”

Emily held up a finger, ticking off points as she spoke. “They might love their mothers. Unconditionally, even. But like? Like requires compatibility. And most mothers either carry a sadness that their daughters became something they never did, or they carry disappointment that their daughters became less than they expected.”

Spencer was momentarily thrown. He had a degree in psychology. He had read hundreds of case studies on maternal relationships. And yet, somehow, Emily Prentiss casually dropping this into the conversation like it was an immutable law of the universe had his brain short-circuiting.

The conference room went silent. A metaphorical tumbleweed rolled by.

Spencer stared.

JJ blinked. “Jesus, Emily.”

Emily took a sip of her coffee, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not rocket science. It’s like if the Electra complex was actually useful and not just about male-centered attention. There’s a rivalry between mothers and daughters over everything.”

Spencer opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“But,” he managed after a moment, “that still doesn’t explain why she won’t answer her phone.”

JJ muttered under her breath, “Who would’ve guessed boy genius’s kryptonite would be love?”

“I already said I’m not—”

“Reid, take a breather,” Hotch’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp as ever. “The rest of you, back to work. We need someone to go to the crime scene again. ”

Spencer huffed, reluctantly collapsing into his seat. He stared down at his phone, holding it between both hands like it might sprout legs and run off. His knee bounced under the table. He tried to focus—on witness statements, on timeline inconsistencies, anything—but his mind kept looping back to one thing:

You hadn’t called.

Logically, he knew there were perfectly rational explanations for why you hadn’t called. But his gut—which had been trained by years of profiling and reinforced by knowing you—was telling him something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t ever thought of it like that, the simplicity in the words. How like could be stronger than love—because you choose what you like, and you are somewhat predestined to love. At least when it came to family.

Gathering their things, Spencer and Derek got ready to leave the conference room and join Rossi at the crime scene.

He heard Derek mutter something under his breath about how they possibly couldn’t gather any more information from looking at the same bloody barn again. Spencer wasn’t unusually cynical, but with this case, it was growing on him like moss.

At 2:21 p.m. his phone rang. A quick beeping tone, signaling a text message. It wasn’t often he received those. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they heard it.

Spencer’s eyes hesitantly scanned the screen.

He was right; it was a text. A short one too.

That was it? No Sorry, I forgot; no Lunch was a nightmare, please send a SWAT team, just a quick, impersonal abbreviation. Spencer squinted at the letters, blurring together. He still wasn’t entirely confident about texting as a method of communication. He had once typed out ’See you later’in a message, and somehow autocorrect had changed it to ’Seal utters’. He did not trust this medium, nor his ability to decipher abbreviations.

Across the table, Derek raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower now, as if he suspected Hotch to still be in the hallway listening. “So… did she answer?”

“No, but she sent a text,” Spencer muttered, “Got called in to work, ttyl.”

“Talk to you later,” JJ translated. “See? It wasn’t something worth getting upset over.”

Spencer slumped, staring at the message like it personally offended him. You weren’t supposed to work until 9 tonight. You had a night shift. You couldn’t possibly work from 2 p.m. all through the night. You were… lying.

“I still feel like something’s wrong,” he said under his breath as he put his phone in his pocket. Biting his lip, forcing him to not think of why you were lying. He had to focus on other things now. Such as… a bloody barn.

Emily, yet again, didn’t look up from her notes as she spoke, “Well, the faster that big brain of yours helps us solve this case, the faster you’ll find out if you’re right.”

Spencer sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

. . . . . .

The bloody barn didn’t tell them anything new. As evening fell over the little town, it had been decided that they were going home. The old murders would remain cold and the new case would be handled by the local police. It could probably lead to something. It just wasn’t enough to grant them being there for longer.

Spencer was torn inside if it was the right or wrong thing to do. But there would always be another case, always be another murder. They couldn’t get them all.

The team boarded the jet in silence. None of them had anything left to say.

On the plane ride home, Spencer did something he maybe shouldn’t have done. Or maybe this was exactly what you had wanted. He borrowed Emily’s laptop and downloaded Autumn Sonata, watching it all in one sweep, not taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. Emily had looked at him with worry—calling it ’Mommy issues, the movie’.

And that was what it was. Autumn Sonata unfolded like a violin string pulled taut over the little laptop screen. A mother and daughter dissecting decades of buried wounds in soft lighting and whispered monologues. It was 93 minutes of waiting for a rubber band to snap—either breaking clean or lashing back hard enough to scar.

“The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter. The mother’s failures are to be paid for by the daughter. The mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness—it’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.”

When it ended, Spencer sat very still, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines. He understood why you hadn’t called.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week.

From the Sunday morning Spencer left for California to this very moment—early Friday at six in the morning, with your shoes squelching every other step and the sky still weeping as if the clouds had lost the will to hold anything back.

You had lost that will too.

You usually liked rain. Found it calming. Romantic, even. But right now? Your socks were soaked through your Converse, the sleeves of your coat clung cold and damp against your arms, and your jeans had turned several shades darker than when you'd left the apartment last night. Rain was not romantic. Rain was not poetic. Rain was miserable.

You looked like something dragged from a pond. Not a lot of people were awake to see you in this state, which was a saving grace of working the graveyard shift. That, and the fact that most of your mascara had been rubbed off by staying awake at the checkout desk all night, so you didn’t have to worry about looking like a melting member of the band KISS. Everything else was still miserable, though.

You climbed the stairs, keys jangling, counting each tired breath. All you wanted was to crawl into bed, cocoon yourself in something dry, and sleep until the world stopped being soggy.

It was all you had wanted to do since 2 p.m. yesterday—when you had gotten home from lunch with your mother, lied to Spencer about why you hadn’t called, and then fallen asleep until your night shift.

You had wanted to call in sick. But you weren’t sick. Just tired.

So you suffered through it. Helping a few stressed students, organizing the current popular books, and drinking so much tea your taste buds still felt burned.

But now, you were seconds from falling asleep on your welcome mat, even just seeing it outside your front door. A little bristly thing saying ’come back with a warrant’ in Pinterest-esque cursive writing. You had told yourself it was funny when you bought it.

However, the moment you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you stopped dead in your tracks, your cocoon of blankets having to wait just a little longer.

Because there was a light on.

The vintage Tiffany lamp on your hallway table, seeping light through its stained glass. You definitely hadn’t left it on before leaving yesterday.

With a quick turn of your head, you saw the shape of a man sitting on your couch. Alone there in the darkness.

“Spencer?”

He stood up quickly, startled.

“What are you—”

Your words got stuck in your throat at the sight of him. The man in front of you looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Spencer’s shoulders slumped forward, the crisp lines of his usual attire replaced with something wrinkled and weary—his sweater and tie gone, shirt half-untucked. Disheveled curls clung to his forehead. And his eyes… His eyes flicked from the floor to your face like they couldn’t decide what was safer.

“Edith let me in,” he said hurriedly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I—she had the spare key you gave her, and I just… I needed to see you.”

You placed your soaked bag by the door, the water from your coat already beginning to drop onto the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tonight.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—” he said quietly, eyes lowered, “Actually, I do not understand, not fully, because you won’t tell me anything.”

You blinked at him, shivering now that you were standing still. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed around midnight. I took a cab straight here.” His voice cracked at the edges. “I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd actually talk to me instead of… abbreviating everything.”

A pause.

“T-T-Y-L,” he repeated bitterly, “Is that really how we communicate now?”

You winced. “Spencer…”

He didn’t flinch exactly, but his shoulders rose—defensive, folded in. “You can throw me out headfirst if that’s what you want, but you should know that’s the opposite of what I want.”

For a moment, just a flicker, he laughed—something small and tired and helpless. But it disappeared fast. His face crumpled into something far too raw for someone trying to act composed. A dull, terrified shine behind his eyes. Like he was seconds from breaking again. Like he'd been bracing for you to become the next person to walk out on him.

You should’ve known he would catch you in your lie. He wasn’t easy to fool. It wasn’t that you had wanted to lie to him. You just hadn’t wanted to talk about…it. About anything, really. You couldn’t face yourself, let alone him. And you knew that Spencer could force it out of you by just looking at you in the right way, the walls of your façade coming crumbling down.

That was a terrifying thing.

“I’m just…” you exhaled, bringing the sleeve of your coat up to your cheek to wipe lingering raindrops away. “I’m so tired, Spencer.”

A similar little helpless laugh escaped your lips. Spencer dared to step closer to you.

“I can see that,” he said with a slight smile, just inches away.

But when his hand came forward to touch your arm, you tensed up, unthinking. It wasn’t that you had wanted to shy away. It just…happened.

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hand suspended in the space between you, looking at you with a perplexed expression. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He asked it like someone who was hurting—like someone who’d been waiting far too long to understand why they were being kept at arm’s length.

“Because I—” you faltered. The words had come so easily to the front of your mind, but saying them out loud was a different thing.

“Because I’m terrified, Spencer,” you finally whispered. “I’m terrified of being too much for you and making you uncomfortable. Because if we start, I’m scared of taking it too far. I always do.”

Spencer’s brows pulled together.

You’d had this discussion before. You thought you were too much; he didn’t realize that he was enough. An evil spiral of sorts. Maybe he’d thought you’d gotten out of it, hence the confusion. But you hadn’t. Or it had at least returned, in full force, like a hurricane sweeping by and taking everything with it.

“When are you going to realize that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable?”

The look in Spencer’s eyes was now the closest thing you’d seen to anger. It frustrated him. The walls you put up around yourself, thinking you were protecting him, hindering him from being close to you—they frustrated him. Because now he knew the reason.

And quite frankly, the reason was stupid. You both knew it.

You couldn’t hide from affection in a relationship. Because you were terrified of it leading somewhere further? That defied the entire purpose of your relationship. It was a support system, a center of gravity. It couldn’t develop if you were scared of that exact thing.

Spencer exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “You always just… assume that I’m uncomfortable. For once, let me make up my own mind. ”

“You sort of… look uncomfortable.” You twisted, arms coming up to fold over your chest.

“I think that’s just my face,” he deadpanned.

You huffed a quiet laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“But you never make the first move,” you said softly. “You’re never the one to kiss me first. Never the one to—”

He moved.

Quick, certain, finally—he closed the last of the space between you, and before you could get another word out, you felt your back hit the door. Not hard, just enough to steal your breath. And then his mouth was on yours.

His hands braced beside your head, then slipped down, anchoring you at your waist. It wasn’t rushed or messy. Just certain. Very certain that this was what you both wanted. Needed.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer and not caring if you got him wet. You could taste the coffee he must’ve had hours ago. The slight salt of your own skin where the rain had dried between your lips. His breath shook when he finally pulled away just enough to speak.

“Is that better?” Spencer whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you want,” he explained.

You should’ve caught on to what he was doing. For him to suddenly become all confident in matters of… love (?) was something you simply dreamt of. Maybe you needed to help him along the way, even though your stupid brain kept telling you that it would make him view you as a burden. As someone too much, too eager, too loud with feelings he hadn’t asked for.

Yet here he was… actually asking for it.

“What I want…” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm, ticking impossibly fast. That gave you courage. “…is for you to want me.”

“I do want you,” he said. “Painfully so.”

“I need to hear you say it,” you whispered. Then, a small smile. “Or show it. Pushing me against the wall is… a good start.”

“I believe we’ve established precedent,” he said, returning the smile.

You laughed, light but wrecked, and for a second everything felt okay again. And then you shivered. A cold, involuntary tremble you couldn’t hide. The wetness of your coat and jeans clinging to your skin returned to the forefront of your mind.

Spencer noticed it too. You couldn’t help the way your teeth chattered. He smoothed a hand gently down your arm, concern flitting through his features. “Why don’t you go get out of these wet clothes and lie on the bed for me?”

In seconds you saw the fear in his eyes, noticing what he’d actually said out loud. Intended innuendo or not. Spencer stumbled over his next words, hurried and ashamed. “If that’s okay, I mean—”

You continued to smile. An awfully content smile, like you were just waiting for him to notice that he’d done exactly what you wished for.

With a loud thud, you had shaken your coat off your shoulders, sneaking past him further down the hallway, saying a little sing-song, “Already on my way, Spence.”

You didn’t look back as you walked toward your bedroom. But you could hear him exhale—something long and full of relief.

Your bedroom was a sanctuary, always had been. Peeling off your soaked socks with your toes, you moved through the dim space, switching on the bedside lamp and the soft glow of fairy lights tracing the ceiling’s edge.

You sat down on your bed as you got there, struggling with the button of your jeans. It got even worse as you dragged the denim down your legs, the wet material sticking to your skin as your hands tried their best to get a good grip.

It wasn’t the rain slicking your hands anymore. It was a nervous sweat.

“You got here too quick,” you said as you heard his footsteps near the door. “I’m not done yet.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway, simply observing you on the bed, jeans pooling around your ankles.

“Jeans are difficult to get off when they’re wet.” You huffed out a little laughter as you pulled them off completely, tossing them to your hamper, landing on the floor. You should’ve hung them to dry immediately. But Spencer was more important.

Pantless, you realized your state of undress, reminding yourself that it was what he’d asked for. He wouldn’t be standing in the doorway if he didn’t want to see it.

You tried to decipher his expression. Soft smile, even softer eyes.

“Is that my shirt?” he quietly asked, walking into the room. His feet stopped when he was standing plainly in front of you.

You looked down at what you were wearing. Peeking out from your sweater were the edges of a pink dress shirt. One that he’d accidentally dyed pink in the wash. Spencer had wanted to throw them all out until you said that you liked the color pink. In general, but especially on him.

You could only nod at his question. There was no denying it. Looking back up, you caught a glimpse of an uncontrollable smile, where he had to fight the corners of his mouth from perking upwards too much, too noticeable.

“You wore my shirt all day? To work? To lunch with your mom?” Spencer asked.

You shrugged, lifting your rain-soaked sweater over your head, messing up your wet hair even further in the process. Spencer took it in his hands, throwing it over to where the jeans had landed.

“It smells like you,” you said, lifting the pink poplin to your nose. “Or it used to. I’m afraid it smells like me now.”

It was a comfort thing, you realized as you did it. Why you had worn it. Wanting a part of him near you, even subconsciously.

Spencer’s gaze moved slowly across your body, not greedy. Your thighs flattened out against the mattress, the skin in contrast to the rose-colored shirt. You felt his eyes on you as he took you in. He was good at watching, bad at talking—you concluded.

“Stand up?” he asked softly.

A little surprised, you obeyed, rising slowly from the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath you. Spencer stepped a little closer and let his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of the shirt—his shirt. His warm palms wandered down to your hips, brushing the hem of the fabric and the tops of your thighs in an easy movement.

He didn’t rush. Not even a little.

Not even as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt. He could’ve ripped it open in seconds, but he began gently with the lowest button.

You could feel his breath on your skin as he leaned in, eyes still focused on the buttons up the center of your stomach. His fingers moved with quiet precision, undoing one, then another, then another—his knuckles grazing your skin, warm and steady.

When he reached the last few buttons, right over your breasts, he looked up at you. Waiting for something. Your nod. Something saying yes, yes, yes.

With the last button undone, you let the shirt fall to the floor.

Stood there on bare feet in nothing but your underwear—your worn-out, simple white bra and a pair of cotton panties where the elastic had started to fray—you couldn’t help but feel the nerves settling in again. Steady and heavy, like a weight on your chest.

The air was still cold on your damp skin, but his hands were warm when they skimmed your sides. Spencer snuck his arms behind you, fingers ghosting over the clasp of your bra, waiting again, always waiting for the yes without asking it aloud.

And then, with two quick movements…

“Do I ask how you did that so well?” you asked, blinking as the straps slipped off your shoulders.

“I’m efficient with my fingers,” he said absentmindedly, still focused, eyes gentle but studious.

You blinked once, bit your lip. He didn’t even realize the double meaning—of course he didn’t. In his mind, “efficient with his fingers” meant things like… moving chess pieces or untangling cords.

But the way Spencer’s knuckles dragged along your arms as he slid your bra down made you sure that he wasn’t completely innocent or unaware of his actions. He caught the garment in his hands before tossing it on the floor too, his hands quickly back holding your hips.

You reached up and touched the side of his face. “Come closer.”

Spencer looked at you briefly. You knew the spots where his eyes wanted to linger. Then, he pulled his own shirt over his head, putting it aside. You weren’t entirely used to him shirtless yet, his pale, lean yet strong build hypnotizing to you. His arms wrapped around you, skin to skin, almost pulling your feet off the floor as he embraced you. His chest was warm against yours, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“You still smell like you, at least,” you whispered.

Spencer smiled against your hair. “That’s good.”

He was gentle as he led you towards the bed, the back of your knees bucking as you hit the mattress. In a brief moment of disconnect, you shuffled to lie on the bed, sighing as your head hit your mountain of pillows.

With one leg propped onto the bed, Spencer waited a moment before he joined you. He loved seeing your skin. As simple as it was. He could get lost as his eyes trailed the texture of it. Scars, bumps, bruises, and birthmarks. Almost completely naked too. He wasn’t just a boob guy—he was a you guy. That was easier to get on board with than the simple stereotype that boobs were just great.

Spencer got in beside you, a slight touch of his fingers all the way from your ankle up to your shoulder as he settled on top of the covers. On his side, his body cradling yours.

His palm rested flatly on your stomach, moving with your heavy breathing up and down. You didn’t say anything but turned your head to meet his, lazily adjusting forward to kiss him. Kissing him was all you needed to feel safe. To feel that it was true.

With a soft, open-mouthed trail, Spencer left kisses all over your face, down your neck, and chest. His hands started to roam as well, carefully gripping at your skin.

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he whispered as his mouth landed in the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you with golden warm eyes.

“Angel? That’s new,” you whispered back. Once his fingers dared to wander so low that he could run them over the fabric of your panties, feeling your arousal that had soaked through, you audibly hitched your breath. “I— I like it.”

Spencer moved his body to hover over you, lowering down between your legs as you purposefully spread them apart. He was a scrawny mess of limbs most of the time, but somehow felt natural crouching together at the edge of your bed to face your most desperate parts.

“Tell me what you want,” Spencer said, his hands touching over the soft swell of your stomach, down to your hips, but hesitant when they came back up, nudging the underside of your breasts. His nerves were finally showing. “And I’ll do my best.”

You intertwined your fingers with him, making sure to have eye contact as you teased, “All bark, no bite, huh?”

Spencer was flustered. You’d seen through his confident act since it began, but you enjoyed watching him try. He opened his mouth to say something, shutting it just as fast as he overthought. It was like you could see his decision-making happening, the signals connecting in his brain.

“Do you want me to explore instead? Trial and error?” he finally asked, tilting his head slightly with a boyish grin. He took small breaths that you could feel against your stomach, waiting for an answer. “Because I have a few ideas I’d like to try.”

You couldn’t wait to pick his brain, wondering exactly where he had gotten his ideas from. He was an anomaly as is. It wouldn’t be from an adult film or magazine. Knowing Spencer, it was something scientifically proven or from literature written centuries ago.

“You—you can try,” you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth from your own cheeks. He could fluster you too. “Y’know that you don’t have to, like—you can stop immediately if you don’t like it—”

He cut you off. “Let me try before you decide for me.”

Assertive. That was new.

With the same warm eyes from before, he sought you out as his fingers found the hem of your underwear. You nodded eagerly, lower lip lodged between your teeth.

You wanted to help him—rip the fabric off in seconds. But he took his time. Agonizingly slow as he bunched the sides up between his hands and started to pull them down your legs, shifting your hips slightly upwards to ease the process.

You kicked them onto the floor with the help of your foot as soon as you were able. There was something desperate growing inside of you as Spencer found his place between your legs again.

He was big with his movements first, heating your skin up—your stomach and thighs—using the warmth from his palms. Softly cupping your boobs, he pushed them together as his thumbs toyed with the nipples. Then he was gentle, with smaller movements. As Spencer’s fingers slid all the way to your pussy, slowly spreading your lips apart with pressure on each side.

His thumb was first to touch your clit. Barely any pressure, just to watch your reaction to it. He pulled away, to see your wetness cling to his skin, before he gently swiped over it again.

Spencer looked at you in a way you weren’t sure you’d experienced before—with a certain awe or fascination. Really took in the view of you naked, like he had all the time in the world. It felt intimate in a weird way. But not necessarily uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for being used to guys who fucked you with the lights turned off or under blankets, not someone who would drink in the sight of you aroused.

On Valentine’s Day, when the first piece of your sexual puzzle together had been laid, you almost hadn’t had the time to feel nervous. You’d been too focused on Spencer and on his pleasure. When he had wanted to get you off with his fingers after your little dry humping session, you’d let him do it in a (desperate) heartbeat. That you hadn’t shaved or that no one had seen you naked in close to three years wasn’t at the forefront of your mind then.

It was painfully obvious to you now, though. An outgrown little thatch of hair, your leaking entrance clenching around nothing, and your skin… flawed.

Resting his cheek on your thigh, Spencer tilted his head to look up at you, his finger inches away from tapping your clit again.

“I don’t tell you enough how pretty you are.”

He said it simply. Easy. No qualms.

Your brain shut off for a moment when you saw him lick his lips as he touched your pussy again, your eyes squeezing shut at the tingling pleasure.

You truly did look pretty through Spencer’s eyes. Angelic even, the accidental pet name he had used suited you perfectly. With your damp hair clinging to you, your skin still slightly cold to the touch, your nipples pebbled like peaks.

“Can I—”

Spencer couldn’t finish the question, the words stuck in his throat. Slightly mesmerized by the view in front of him, he teased the pad of his index finger around your clit, down towards the entrance, gathering your wetness along his digit.

“You can finger me—yes, Spencer.”

With a low groan, you hummed in agreement as he began to push the finger inside of you.

It slipped in easily, even though it was noticeably bigger than what you were used to. Your own fingers would do nothing after this. He was tentative at first, like he took in the feeling of your cunt, warm and tight, around his finger.

“Is this—Am I doing it right?”

He sounded slightly worried but just as he asked it, he curled his finger upward, touching a spot deep inside of you.

“Oh, uhmf—” you gasped. “Right-fucking-there. You’re good at this.”

“I’m a virgin, not a monk.”

“Could’ve fooled me—”

With the building wetness, Spencer slipped his ring finger inside of you too, catching you off guard. He never took his eyes off of you, though, in case you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t when it felt this good. A surprised curse left your already open mouth together with a ringing laughter, “Oh f-fuck you.”

Just the thought of you made his painfully hard cock leak in his boxers. Your taste, however, would send Spencer over the moon. You reached down to push the curls off his forehead as he finally delved in, leaving a series of kisses and nibbles on your inner thighs before you felt his tongue between your folds, his hands helping your legs up to spread apart even further.

“You’re sweet,” he mumbled. Just as quickly as he had said it, his mouth was back on you.

Tentative, again. But observing. Tuned into your body. Your reactions, your sounds. To every little touch he made. He tried out different methods, switching from gentle kissing and sucking of your clit to using all of his tongue to lap you up.

Your thighs closed around his head when he did it, your cunt tightening around his fingers as he continued to work them in and out of you, sucking even harder and longer on your clit. Spencer could easily piece together that it was your favorite part—the long, repetitive suckling. Together with his fingers touching that special spot deep inside of you. That was what brought the most mind-blowing little moans from your mouth, staggered and breathy. His observing nature made him a natural… and a mess, face glistening from your slick.

Spencer’s hair felt silky in your grip, tugging slightly as you settled into the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t help it as you started to rock your hips against his mouth, his nose pressing at your most sensitive part. Spencer choked out a groan as he realized what you were doing, the vibrations from it going straight into you.

Disguised behind your own cries, you heard him time and time again. Spencer’s sounds vibrated against your skin, sending jolts of added stimulation. He was moaning into you, clearly lost in the moment, just as much as you were. When you looked down, his hips were rutting hard into the mattress, desperate to rub his aching cock against anything, desperate for relief as he ate you like he was losing control.

“I’m close, Spence,” you gasped, shuddering, the grip his hands had on your hips only getting tighter. “That’s—right there, please, I’m gonna cum.”

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you closer than you thought was possible, continuing to whisper sweet nothings into your cunt, telling you to let it all go.

With one last curl inside of you and a couple of lazy kisses to your clit, stars began to form behind your eyelids as Spencer held you down by your hips. Your hands flew from his hair to your face, covering your cheeks as you came.

Spencer had noticed, even in non-sexual situations, that you were innocently shy about your own pleasure. Shy of taking, shy of enjoying. You probably always had been. But as he slid his fingers slowly out of you as you climaxed all up in his face, you were everything but shy. Your stomach tensing, your breathing stopping—and the sound, god what a sound. Deep from your throat, louder than he’d ever heard you.

With a curious gaze, he watched your pussy clench around nothing, twitching as you rode the very last second of your orgasm out. Slowly licking, he cleaned the slick from between your folds, around your cunt, before returning his focus to your face.

“Y’know, the female orgasm can last for up to 60 seconds, sometimes even longer.”

With your hands still glued to your cheeks, feeling nothing but burning heat, you malfunctioned a little as he spoke. “Why are you—oh my god, Spence. ”

He came up to lie beside you as you were still nothing but a panting mess. Of course that would be the first thing he’d say to you.

“Explains the aftershocks.”

You guessed it did. You’d be reeling from this feeling for days.

Spencer’s non-sticky hand gently took one of yours, removing it so you couldn’t hide your face. Intertwined, they rested on your stomach, still heaving irrationally from your breathing. You looked down at yourself, and at Spencer. Lovingly, almost. There were crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from his fingernails, your soft skin having spilled out between his fingers as he had pressed close to you.

He breathed heavily beside you too, still catching his breath. You had almost expected it to happen, but you still smiled like a fool when you realized it. The dark stain on his soft gray trousers. His bulge not so prominent, but still a sign of what had happened.

“Don’t mention it,” Spencer said, like through closed lips.

Catching his sight, you shook your head with a little laughter, “I’ll take it as compliment.”

And it was. Truly. To not always be the giver, but the receiver. And to have someone enjoy you receiving pleasure so much that it ends up bringing them their own pleasure. Again, you were ruined by men (boys, really) who were so focused on their own cocks reaching the final destination that you were only really there as a vessel for their own orgasms. You didn’t know the last time someone offered to go down on you, and for it not to be the result of you asking, making you feel like a burden for wanting it.

Turning to your side, you laid your head on Spencer’s chest, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been lodged in your ribs for hours. Your legs tangled with his instinctively, and you sank into the heat of him, body finally relaxing in the aftermath. It took about five seconds for the awareness to hit: you, naked, skin to his still clothed legs, with nothing but the slight stick of sweat and something more lingering between you.

One of Spencer’s arms curled around you automatically. The other hovered awkwardly in the air, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—just a few inches above the sheets.

“Sticky fingers?” you asked, amused.

“Y’know, it’s not as sticky as I first thought it would be. It’s more… wet—”

As Spencer explained, you grabbed his hand without thinking, looking up into his eyes for any sort of intel but being met with a mostly blank stare as you guided the two fingers he’d used into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them slowly. Lazily, curious if it would short-circuit his brain as easily as you suspected.

You were not disappointed.

“Jesus C-Christ—” Spencer’s whole body tensed beneath you, mouth parting in a sharp gasp.

A slight giggle was your only response. Lifting your head, your cheek had left a faint pink imprint across his chest. Truth be told, the entirety of Spencer was flushed. Face, neck, stomach. He was a study in pale skin turned soft rose.

“It’s like I can hear you overthinking,” you murmured, your voice rough around the edges, the way it always was when you were soft and…coming down.“And you really don’t have to.”

He hesitated, then shyly whispered, “Was I… Was that any good?”

The corners of your mouth lifted, lazy and genuine. “It was really good, Spence. Did you enjoy it?”

You felt him tense beneath your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away, too busy internally dissecting the phrasing—really good? As opposed to just good? Or better than expected? But before his thoughts could spiral, you kept talking. Doing what you always did: catching him before he fell too far into his own head, usually with something crude.

“You’re better than most men by principle,” you said, casual and completely sincere. “You know where the clit is.”

Spencer groaned, dragging his arm over his face. “You really have no filter, do you?”

You laughed—low, warm, the kind that curled around his mind and stayed there. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice came muffled through the crook of his elbow. “No. I love you for it.”

You stilled—just for a second. You didn’t say anything, but he felt the shift. The way your breath caught. The way your eyes lifted to look at him again, just to make sure you’d heard him right.

“You love me… for it?”

It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about what this was, what it meant. Part of you had worried once that maybe Spencer only loved you because he could. Because you were the first person to touch him like this, see him like this. That he was falling in love with the intimacy itself—not with you.

But that fear didn’t live here. Not in the quiet way he touched you. Not in the way he listened. Not in the way he waited—for you, for your pace, for your yes.

You knew, somewhere deeper than your mind, that this wasn’t a performance. Not a conquest. Not the story of the virgin who loved the first person who said “stay.” The stupid virgin who fell in love with the person they had given up everything to. (It wasn’t everything. Far from it, actually).

As you had grown to know him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ever think that. He’d never wanted this to be one-sided. He was doing it all for you. The two of you. The us. Because if it wasn’t mutual, it wouldn’t be worth it to him at all.

“Mhm,” Spencer answered seconds later, muffled but still easily understood. Then, after a breath, “Should we take a shower?”

Smoothly swerving the subject.

Your head tilted slightly. “Like…together?”

He nodded like it was obvious. “Yes, is that so weird?”

You grinned. “I’ve never seen you naked.”

Spencer blinked. “I—yes, that’s true. Technically. That feels… unbalanced.”

“Let’s even the playing field then.”

You pulled the sheet with you as you sat up, tossing him a wink over your shoulder. Spencer groaned under his breath—somewhere between overwhelmed and entirely thrilled, watching as your naked body slipped out of the room.

And in the quiet trail of your footsteps heading toward the bathroom, he found himself smiling so hard it almost hurt.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The water had already begun to fog the mirror by the time you stepped in, first wiping off the last of your makeup and letting Spencer quietly undress.

He stood beneath the showerhead, letting the stream beat down on his back and shoulders. His hair, flattened against his forehead, dripped steadily along his jaw. He’d slicked it back once, instinctively, and now little rivulets trailed down the line of his spine. The tips had already begun to curl again, wet and weightless, plastered to the nape of his neck.

Spencer wasn’t cold—he didn’t think he could be, not with the heat of the water and the anticipation of you coming in behind him.

Not nervous. Not exactly.

Just… aware. Aware of what this meant. Of how rare it felt to be so bare in front of someone and not feel the instinct to cover up.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the glass door open. Not right away. He just felt it—the slight change in the air, the extra warmth, the soft whisper of your breath as you stepped in behind him, saying a little hi.

Then your forehead pressed gently against his back.

That broke him a little.

Because it wasn’t a sexy thing, or even a performative one. It was grounding. A small gesture of trust. Your skin was slick against his, arms resting loosely at your sides, the crown of your head nestled between his shoulder blades like you belonged there.

Maybe you did.

He turned around slowly, and you looked at him like you’d been looking all along.

Maybe you had.

Your body was graceful in the low light, water gleaming as it slipped across your collarbones and traced down the dip of your stomach. Steam clung to your lashes, droplets staying on your cheeks. Spencer couldn’t decide what part of you to look at first. Your eyes always won.

He reached for the soap absently, trying not to fumble it. Jasmine.

The scent brought something up in him—unexpected and nostalgic. A low green bush outside his childhood home in Nevada. White, almost yellowing little flowers. His mother’s garden, where she’d hum Debussy and dig her hands into the dirt, fingers stained and nails wrecked but proud all the same. He remembered helping her water the jasmine in the summer, his small hands never quite strong enough to carry the big watering cans.

Now, years later, that same scent lingered in your hair. On your skin. Tied to you. Beneath his hands as he lathered the soap over your shoulders and along your upper back. He worked slowly, deliberately. Partly because he didn’t know what to do, partly because he wanted to feel all of you against his hands.

“That feels good,” you said, voice quiet with his hands running over your shoulder blades.

“Efficient fingers,” he said without a hint of irony.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, water cascading down between you. “You still don’t realize how that sounds.”

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “How what sounds?”

You didn’t explain. You just kissed the spot over his heart.

The water pelted the top of your head gently as silence filled the gaps between words. It wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Domestic, even. He thought maybe this was what safety felt like. This quiet comfort.

Spencer washed your back with care like you were something delicate and revered, and when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, you leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, though, the quiet gave way.

His voice was soft against your temple. “Do you want to talk about why you shut me out yesterday?”

A pause. Seconds long.

“No,” you admitted. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.” He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. For not answering me. Or for being short.”

You met his gaze. “How you made me feel isn’t the issue.”

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Then what is?”

Your eyes flicked toward the fogged glass of the shower door. You watched a droplet race another down the pane. “The younger version of myself still stuck inside. Constantly screaming that I don’t deserve this.”

Spencer’s face softened, his breath catching in his chest. “Deserve what?”

“Being with you,” you shrugged. You tried to make it feel simple. “Being loved by you. Being in love with you.”

He wasn’t worried that you hadn’t said it back in the bedroom, because he deep down knew—past his own insecurities—that you loved him back. But he hadn’t thought about your insecurities in the same way, how they formed like thick brick walls in front of you and hindered your capability of showing affection.

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Did your mother bring out these thoughts? That you’re not deserving of love?”

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your silence thudded between you.

“She’s a…” you started, then bit the words off in frustration.

“You’re allowed to say it.”

“A bitch, Spencer,” you whispered, uncharacteristic of you to care about cursing. “She’s like comically bad.”

He didn’t laugh, even though he knew you meant to ease the weight. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. The water streamed around you, washing the ache away in some way.

“You are deserving of love,” he murmured. “It would be terrible if you weren’t. Because I love loving you. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do with all of this love if you didn’t let me in to show it to you.”

Your fingertips curled at his chest, right where his heart lived. Then, you reached up to kiss him. Softly, sweetly. Your inhale was shaky as you pulled away, but your voice was clear.

“I love being in love with you too.”

After a few more minutes under the spray, you turned the water off, steam wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket. The silence that followed was almost startling—thick and filled with your shared breathing, the kind of quiet that felt sacred.

Spencer moved first, reaching for one of the larger towels hanging on the hook. You didn’t even bother drying off fully before wrapping it around your chest like a makeshift dress.

He grabbed another towel and rubbed it through his hair—quick, automatic motions. But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You wiped at the foggy mirror with the flat of your hand, revealing just enough to see the two of you reflected back— naked, wet, soft around the edges with fluffy towels in the low light of your bathroom.

Spencer stood there for a moment, drying himself with his towel, just looking at you. Damp hair, glowing cheeks, a surprisingly big smile.

“I know we’re having a sweet and sappy moment right now,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I have to say—”

He squinted, seeing mischief in your eyes. “Oh no.”

“You were lying when you said it was five inches soft, Spencer.”

“Oh my—” He made an absolutely strangled sound—halfway between a laugh and a groan—burying his face in the towel while simultaneously trying to shield what was more than five inches, apparently. Maybe he’d been humble. “Don’t ever change.”

You grinned into the mirror, entirely smug and still somehow the softest thing in the world.

In a moment of courage, and maybe as a slight comeback, he reached for your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and tugged you gently toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim, the morning sun barely sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines across the unmade bed. The covers were still tangled where you'd left them, half-slipped onto the floor.

You paused near the edge of the bed, still towel-wrapped, while Spencer rummaged through his travel bag. He emerged with a button-down and a pair of boxers in hand, the shirt rumpled from being folded too long. It was another pink one. You could tell without smelling it that it hadn’t been washed since he wore it last. California, probably.

“Here,” he said, holding it up. “Arms out.”

You blinked. “You’re dressing me now?”

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching. “If you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes, but they softened as you raised your arms. The towel dropped silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like a sigh. Spencer didn’t react—didn’t flinch or look away.

Spencer stepped in close, his own towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The shirt slid down over your arms slowly, the fabric catching slightly on damp skin. The hem fell mid-thigh. He only buttoned two buttons, in the middle of your stomach, leaving the rest undone and revealing most of what was underneath anyway.

But it smelled like him, and that was the sole purpose. You pressed your nose to the collar without even thinking.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, towel abandoned, bare thighs brushing the soft sheets. Spencer stood in front of you, pulling his boxers on beneath his towel before he too abandoned his in the pile of laundry gathered on the floor.

He didn’t say anything as he moved to your closet, opening a drawer you always kept a little messily organized. Underwear. You wondered if he panicked over the selection—if you would’ve judged him for grabbing a hot pink lace thong or the floral granny panties.

He settled on a safe pair in black cotton, just cheeky enough. Spencer handed them to you, and you giggled as you slipped them on. It seemed you still had to dress some parts of yourself.

Spencer then knelt slightly, just enough to be level with you, and placed one warm hand on your bare knee. “Now,” he said softly, “do we eat breakfast, or do we go back to bed?”

You looked toward the window, then back at him with a raised brow. “Spence, it’s 8 a.m.”

He just shrugged. “There are no rules. If you’re hungry, we eat. If you’re tired, we sleep.”

You considered it for half a breath, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Both,” you said into his shoulder. “I wanna do both.”

“Then we’ll do both, angel.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡ Title and lyrics are from Ankles by Lucy Dacus.

౨ৎ [ masterlist ]

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futuremrsreid · 12 days ago

Text

just don't imagine him moving your hair away from your neck so he could kiss it

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futuremrsreid · 12 days ago

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hi!

Can you do one where reader gets injured but doesnt want to bother anyone so she doesnt sag anything. The catch unsub, and maybe spencer notices something is off but is not sure. Eventually she loses so much blood and collapses on spencer or something like that. Not sure how it ends. Fluffy and angst

thankkkssss

xoxoxoxo

collapse — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader is hurt , lots of blood , mention of stitches , reader got stabbed a/n: hi hi !! hope you like this <3 i might've gotten carried away

The adrenaline was the only thing keeping you upright.

You bit down hard on your lip, the metallic tang of blood blooming across your tongue as you suppressed a groan of pain. The unsub thrashed violently between you and Spencer as he fought against your grip.

Your side burned—a deep, throbbing ache—but you refused to loosen your hold.

Just a little longer.

To your relief, the unsub finally stilled, his resistance crumbling as Spencer adjusted his grip and shoved the door open with his shoulder.

Spencer’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears.

“Are you okay?”

You could see the concern etched into the lines of his face—the way his brows furrowed, the slight downturn of his lips. You had taken a nasty hit during the struggle, but you had brushed it off, insisting you were fine.

You weren’t fine.

But now wasn’t the time.

You forced a soft smile, willing your voice to stay steady. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Derek was already at the car, his expression hardening as he took in the unsub’s snarling face. He reached out, wrenching the man from your grasp and shoving him into the backseat with a muttered, “Nice try, pal.”

The moment the weight was gone, your knees nearly buckled.

You leaned against the car for support as the world tilted slightly. Spencer stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.

“Are you sure?” he pressed, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

You swallowed hard, willing the black spots at the edges of your vision to fade. “Yes, Spence. I’m okay.”

You pushed off the car, determined to prove it—to him, to yourself. You took a step forward, reaching out to touch his arm, to reassure him—

And then, everything gave out.

Your legs crumpled beneath you, the pain exploding in a white-hot burst as your vision blurred. The last thing you registered was the warmth of Spencer’s arms catching you, his voice cracking as he shouted your name.

Then—

Darkness.

Spencer barely caught you in time, your weight slamming against his chest as his hands scrambled to keep you upright.

“Hey—hey! Look at me!” His voice was too loud, too sharp, cracking under the weight of sudden terror.

Your skin was pale, your breathing shallow. His fingers brushed against your side—and came away wet.

Blood.

His stomach dropped.

“Morgan! Hotch!” The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate.

Derek whipped around, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. “What the hell—?”

“She’s bleeding!” Spencer’s hands were shaking as he lowered you to the ground, his mind racing through symptoms, probabilities, how much time—

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, struggling to focus on his face.

“Sorry…” you slurred, the word barely audible.

“No, no, no—don’t apologize, just stay awake, okay? Look at me.” His palm cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin in frantic, soothing strokes. “You’re gonna be fine. Just keep your eyes open.”

Hotch was already on the radio, calling for an ambulance, but every second stretched into an eternity. Spencer could feel your pulse under his fingertips—too fast, too thready.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He should have noticed. He should have known.

His breath hitched as your eyes started to close.

“No—hey, no! Stay with me!” His voice broke, fingers tightening around yours. “Please.”

Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

The sound should have been a relief. But as the paramedics rushed toward you. Spencer couldn’t breathe.

“We need to move—now!”

Hands reached for you, but Spencer’s grip tightened instinctively, his fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt. A paramedic pried his hand away—gently but firmly.

“Sir, we need to treat her.”

He forced himself to let go.

The seconds it took to lift you onto the stretcher felt like hours. The moment they strapped you in, Spencer was moving, climbing into the ambulance before anyone could stop him.

“I’m not leaving her.” His voice left no room for argument.

The doors slammed shut. The ambulance lurched forward.

And then—there was nothing but the sound of the heart monitor’s steady beep and the too-slow rise and fall of your chest.

The paramedics worked quickly, cutting away fabric to reveal the wound—a deep, angry gash just below your ribs, still bleeding.

His stomach twisted.

The EMT pressed a fresh bandage to your side, and even unconscious, you let out a weak whimper.

Spencer’s hand shot out before he could stop himself, his fingers tangling with yours. Your skin was ice-cold, your grip limp.

“Hang on,” he whispered, voice cracking. His thumb traced frantic circles over your knuckles, as if he could somehow transfer his own warmth into you. “Just hang on, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”

The ambulance hit a pothole, jostling you slightly. Your face contorted in pain, and Spencer’s free hand hovered uselessly above your shoulder, desperate to comfort but terrified of hurting you more.

“Can’t you go faster?” he snapped, his voice fraying at the edges.

The paramedic didn’t look up. “We’re almost there.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes darting between your face and the heart monitor. The numbers taunted him—too low, too slow.

This was his fault.

He should’ve seen it. Should’ve known. He’d watched you take that hit during the struggle, seen the way you’d stumbled afterward, the way your hand had pressed discreetly to your side. But you’d smiled at him—soft and reassuring—and like an idiot, he’d believed you.

A sudden twitch of your fingers against his snapped him back to the present.

His breath caught. “Hey—?” He leaned closer, his free hand brushing your cheek. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

The ambulance screeched to a halt. The doors flew open.

And just like that, you were ripped away from him again, whisked into the bright, sterile chaos of the ER.

A nurse stopped him at the doors. “You’ll need to wait here.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue—but the doors swung shut in his face.

Alone in the sterile, suffocating silence of the waiting room, Spencer Reid— man who always had an answer—could do nothing but stand there, your blood still drying on his hands, and wait.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe.

So he paced.

Back and forth, back and forth—wearing a path into the linoleum like a man possessed. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers stiff with dried blood. Your blood. The sight of it made his stomach twist.

The team came and went in shifts, each checking on you, each casting worried glances his way.

Then, the adrenaline crashed.

Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow, but he refused to sit. The hospital chairs were too stiff, the silence too loud, the waiting unbearable. His mind, always too sharp for its own good, raced through worst-case scenarios.

He should’ve seen it. Should’ve known.

“Reid.”

Hotch’s voice cut through the static in his head. Spencer hadn’t even heard him arrive.

The unit chief stood beside him, his usual stoicism softened by the faintest crease of concern between his brows. “Any updates?” he asked as his eyes flickered toward the treatment doors.

Spencer shook his head, his throat too tight to speak.

Hotch didn’t push, before stepping aside as Garcia burst through the entrance, her heels clicking frantically against the linoleum.

“Oh my god, is she okay?” Her voice was high with panic, eyes red-rimmed behind her glasses. She zeroed in on Spencer immediately, her hands fluttering toward him like she could physically tether him to the present. “Spencer, talk to me—”

“They haven’t told us anything yet,” Hotch answered for him.

Garcia’s lower lip trembled. “But she’s tough—she’s gonna be fine, right? She has to be—”

Morgan arrived next, his usual swagger replaced by a grim tension. He took one look at Spencer’s ashen face, the blood still streaked across his sleeves, and exhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn't say anything.

Spencer's gaze was fixed on the clock above the nurses’ station, barely noticing anything around him.

Twenty-seven minutes.

Too long. Too long.

Rossi appeared with coffee no one drank. JJ murmured reassurances no one believed.

And Spencer paced.

At the fifty-three-minute mark, a doctor finally emerged.

Spencer’s heart stopped.

She looked at him first—of course she did—and offered a small, exhausted smile.

"She's going to be okay."

The words struck Spencer like a physical blow to the chest. Oxygen flooded back into his lungs so violently it burned, his knees nearly buckling under the sudden weight of relief. Behind him, Garcia gasped - a wet, shuddering "Oh thank God" muffled against Morgan's sleeve as she fisted her hands in his leather jacket.

Spencer remained frozen. Rooted to the spot.

Because the doctor was still speaking, her lips forming words that dissolved into meaningless static before they reached him.

—significant blood loss—

—no organ damage—

—lucky the blade missed the artery—

Lucky. The word turned to ash in his mouth.

There was nothing lucky about how your body had gone limp in his arms, your blood seeping through his shirt as he'd screamed for help. Nothing lucky about the way your eyelids had fluttered weakly before going still—

"—kept asking for you."

His head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. "What?"

The doctor's expression softened around tired eyes. "During moments of consciousness. She was disoriented, but she kept saying your name."

Something vital fractured behind his sternum. You'd asked for him. Even half-conscious. Even bleeding out.

"When can I see her?" The demand ripped from his throat, jagged and desperate.

"She's in recovery now. Give us another hour to get her settled, then one visitor at a time."

An hour. Sixty more minutes of this agony. Spencer's fingers twitched at his sides, still tacky with your blood.

"Reid." Hotch's voice dropped into that particular tone that brooked no argument. "Sit down before you collapse."

Spencer barely registered the hard plastic chair biting into his back. His hands trembled violently in his lap - the same hands that had failed to notice your injury, failed to protect you—

Garcia thrust a paper cup of lukewarm coffee between his shaking fingers. "Drink this," she ordered, her usual bubbly cadence replaced by steel. "

The coffee tasted like ashes, but he drank it anyway, if only to stop the trembling.

The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly. Each second stretched into eternity. Around him, the team moved quietly - Morgan pacing like a caged panther, JJ making hushed phone calls, Rossi leaning against the wall with a tension that belied his casual stance.

And Spencer sat. And waited. Counting each breath, each heartbeat, until he could see for himself that you were truly alive.

The hour passed in agony.

At first, there had only been relief—a dizzying, all-consuming wave of it that left Spencer lightheaded. You were alive. That was all that mattered.

But as the minutes crawled by, other emotions began creeping in, slithering through the cracks in his composure like poison.

Anger.

It started as a spark, small but insistent.

How could you not tell him?

The question burned through him, relentless. You’d lied to him. Smiled right at him, blood soaking through your shirt, and told him you were fine. He could still hear the way your voice had wavered—just slightly—when you’d said it. He should’ve known. He should’ve—

His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms.

And then, worse than the anger at you—the anger at himself.

He was a profiler. It was his job to notice the details, to see what others missed. He’d watched you fight the unsub, watched you stumble afterward. He’d seen the way your hand had pressed to your side, the way your breathing had turned shallow. But he’d let you brush it off. He’d believed you.

Idiot. The self-loathing settled heavy in his chest.

Across the room, Morgan shot him a look. “You good, Reid?”

No. He wasn’t.

“Peachy,” Spencer bit out, the word brittle.

Garcia frowned, reaching for him, but he stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. He needed air. Needed to move.

The hallway outside was quiet, sterile. He braced his hands against the wall, head bowed, breaths coming too fast.

He’d studied every microexpression, every twitch of every unsub they’d ever hunted—but he hadn’t seen this. Hadn’t seen you.

What if the unsub had gotten another hit in? What if—

“Reid.” Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral. Spencer didn’t turn.

“She’s alive,” Hotch said, quiet but firm. “That’s what matters.”

Spencer’s jaw worked. “She could’ve died.”

“But she didn’t.”

Because she got lucky. The unspoken words hung between them, heavy as a verdict.

A nurse appeared at the end of the hall. “Agent Reid? She’s asking for you.”

The nurse's shoes squeaked against the linoleum as she led him down the hallway, the sound grating against Spencer's frayed nerves. His pulse hammered in his throat with each step closer to your room. When they reached the door, he froze in the threshold, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"Thank you," he muttered to the nurse, barely recognizing his own voice.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And then—your eyes flew open, locking onto his like you'd been waiting.

"Spencer."

Your voice was rough, but the relief in that single word nearly undid him. A shaky exhale escaped you, as if you'd been holding your breath until this moment.

Each step was measured, unsteady, as if his body had forgotten how to move without trembling. He had counted every agonizing second until this moment, had played it over in his mind a hundred times—how he would rush to your side, how he would take your hand, how he would finally know you were alive.

But now that he was here, his legs wouldn’t cooperate.

And then he was at your bedside, close enough to see the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lashes fluttered weakly with each blink. His throat tightened.

"You're awake," he whispered, the words cracking under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets—a weak, aborted movement, like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t have the strength.

"Told you I was fine," you murmured, voice hoarse but laced with the faintest tease.

A broken sound escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob. His hand finally lifted, hovering just above yours before he let it settle, his touch feather-light, terrified of hurting you.

"You collapsed," he said, the words raw. "You—you bled out in my arms."

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching weakly beneath his. Then, with effort, you patted the empty space beside you on the hospital bed—an invitation, a silent plea for closeness.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated. His gaze flickered over the IV line taped to your arm, the bandages peeking out from beneath your hospital gown, as if weighing the risk of hurting you against the unbearable need to be near you.

Then, carefully—so carefully—he sat down on the edge of the mattress, his weight barely disturbing the sheets. His hands trembled as he reached for you again, but this time, you were the one who bridged the gap. Your fingers brushed over his knuckles, tracing the dried blood still smudged there—your blood—before curling loosely around his palm.

"But I'm okay now," you murmured, your voice soft but steady.

His breath shuddered out of him. He turned his hand beneath yours, intertwining their fingers with aching gentleness, as if you were something fragile. Something precious.

"You scared me," he whispered.

"I know. And I’m sorry," you whispered.

A flicker of guilt passed over his face, but before he could spiral further, you added with a weak smirk, "The nurses told me about a tall, pretty guy not letting them work properly."

They hadn’t, of course—but you knew him. Knew he’d hovered, frantic and pale, demanding answers they couldn’t give fast enough. Knew he’d probably been seconds away from reciting medical journals at them just to feel some semblance of control.

Spencer blinked, then huffed—a startled, breathless sound caught between indignation and reluctant amusement. "I—that’s not—" He faltered, then exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. "Okay. Maybe."

You grinned, despite the dull ache in your side. "So you admit you’re pretty?"

His cheeks flushed, but his grip on your hand tightened—just a fraction—like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on. "I admit," he muttered, "that you’re impossible."

"And yet," you teased, shifting slightly—then wincing.

Instantly, his expression sobered. His free hand hovered over you, uncertain. "Don’t—don’t move, just—"

"Spencer." You caught his wrist, guiding his palm to rest gently over your uninjured side. His breath hitched as his fingers skimmed the dip of your waist—careful, reverent, like he was relearning the shape of you.

He bit his lip, his thumb brushing once, twice, over the soft fabric of your hospital gown, as if to reassure himself that this part of you, at least, was unharmed. Then, with a quiet exhale, he murmured, "The rest of the team is waiting outside. I’m pretty sure Garcia got you a bunch of different plushies."

You could practically see it—Garcia bursting in with an armful of absurdly cheerful stuffed animals, each one louder and more ridiculous than the last.

"How many are we talking?" you asked, lips quirking. "Enough to start a zoo?"

Spencer’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. "At least three with googly eyes. One of them might be a neon pink llama."

You snorted, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced through your side. His hand tensed against you, his face flooding with concern.

"Hey—easy," he murmured, shifting closer instinctively. His other hand came up to brush a stray hair from your forehead, his touch lingering. "No more making fun of Garcia’s questionable taste in plushies until you can laugh without wincing."

"That might take a while," you admitted, but you were smiling again—small, but real.

Spencer’s gaze softened. "I’ll wait."

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken tension. Then, Spencer uttered the words like they'd been clawing at his throat:

"You lied to me."

His voice was quiet—too quiet—but the hurt in it cut deeper than any blade. His fingers still rested against your side, but they'd gone stiff, like he couldn't decide whether to pull away or hold on tighter.

You swallowed. "I didn't lie. I just... didn't mention the part where I was actively bleeding out."

His jaw clenched. "Semantics."

"Spencer—"

"No." His hand finally withdrew, raking through his hair instead. "You smiled at me. You said you were fine. Do you have any idea what it was like, watching you collapse like that? Thinking—" His voice cracked. "Thinking I'd just let you die?"

The raw pain in his words stole your breath. You reached for him, ignoring the protest of your stitches. "Hey. Look at me."

He did—reluctantly—and the guilt hit you like a punch. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale with exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I didn't want you to worry. I thought I could tough it out until we got him cuffed."

"That's the problem," he said hoarsely. "You don't have to tough it out alone. Not with me."

Your throat tightened. "I know. And next time—"

"There won't be a next time," he interrupted, voice fierce. Then, quieter: "Please."

You caught his hand again, pressing his palm to your cheek this time. "Okay," you murmured against his skin. "No more lies. Even the stupid ones."

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "...Even the stupid ones,"he agreed.

And just like that, the weight in the room shifted—not gone, but lighter. Bearable.

Outside, Garcia's voice suddenly carried down the hall, "—FBI, ma'am, I promise the emotional support alpaca is essential to her recovery—"

Your gaze drifted down to his hands—those beautiful, trembling hands still streaked with rust-colored stains. The sight punched through you harder than the wound ever had.

"You should wash up," you whispered, tracing a fingertip along the edge of the dried blood caking his knuckles.

Spencer flinched as if burned. He hadn't even noticed. But now the evidence clung to him like a second skin, flaking when he flexed his fingers. Your blood. The realization sent a violent shudder through him.

"Right," he choked out, standing abruptly.

He made it two steps before turning back, his voice cracking. "Don't— Don't disappear while I'm gone."

The joke fell flat, undercut by the raw fear in his eyes.

"I'll be right here," you promised, patting the sterile sheets. "Go."

The bathroom fluorescents buzzed overhead as Spencer scrubbed at his hands with surgical precision. Steam rose from the scalding water, turning his skin an angry red. He didn't stop until every last trace was gone.

The water ran pink, then clear, swirling down the drain with the last physical remnants of your blood.

Then — voices. Loud. Familiar.

Garcia swept in first, arms overflowing with plush animals—including, as promised, a neon pink llama with absurdly large googly eyes. "Oh, sweetheart!" she wailed, nearly tripping over her own heels in her haste to reach you. "Look at you, all brave and beautiful and—oh my God, is that a bullet wound?!"

Morgan followed close behind, rolling his eyes. "She was stabbed, Garcia."

"Details!" Garcia sniffled, dumping the stuffed animals onto your lap with surprising gentleness before cupping your face. "The important thing is, our favorite badass is still kicking."

JJ appeared next, balancing a tray of suspiciously green hospital Jell-O. "We brought contraband," she said, grinning as she set it on your bedside table. "Well, contraband adjacent. It's still hospital food, but it's the lime flavor, so…"

Rossi lingered near the foot of your bed, arms crossed, but his usual smirk was softer than usual. "You gave Reid ten years off his life, kid."

"I know," you admitted, your gaze flickering toward the bathroom door.

Hotch stepped forward. "You did good work today," he said simply. "But next time, maybe mention when you're bleeding out."

The apartment was quiet when Spencer brought you home.

He'd already fluffed the pillows on the couch, laid out your favorite blanket, and arranged a small army of Garcia's plushies along the back—including the neon pink llama, which now sat proudly on the armrest like some kind of fuzzy sentinel.

You barely had time to take it all in before he was at your side again, hovering. His arm hooked gently around your waist, his touch feather-light, like you might break.

"Sit," he murmured, guiding you down onto the couch with the same careful precision he usually reserved for rare first editions. "Do you need water? Pain meds? I bought those crackers you like—"

"Spencer." You caught his wrist as he started to turn toward the kitchen, tugging him back gently. "Breathe. I'm okay."

He hesitated, his gaze flickering over you—checking, always checking—before exhaling sharply. "I know. I just…" His hands flexed at his sides, restless. "I need to do something."

You understood. This was Spencer Reid, after all—the man who needed equations to make sense of the world, variables to control. And right now, the only equation that mattered was you, alive and here, and he had no idea what to do with the leftover terror still humming under his skin.

So you gave him a task.

"Okay," you said softly, nodding toward the blanket. "Then sit with me. And tell me about the book you’ve been reading."

Something in his shoulders eased. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours, and reached for the blanket.

"It's about quantum entanglement," he started, his voice warming as he draped the fabric over your legs with meticulous care. "The theory that particles can become linked, so that what happens to one affects the other, no matter the distance."

You smiled, leaning into him. "Sounds familiar."

His breath hitched. Then, slowly, his arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you carefully against his side.

"Yeah," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "It does."

Outside, the world kept turning. Cases would come, and wounds would heal.

But here, tangled together on the couch, you were perfectly, irrevocably linked—and nothing, not even blood or time or space, could change that.

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futuremrsreid · 12 days ago

Note

Ohhh, Hotch's Daughter x Spencer is my FAVOURITE. Anything forbidden, etc. My vision is that they're on a case in Readers' hometown, and they meet up and maybe some smut? Almost getting caught in the act type stuff? Some awkward Spencer 😬

wc: 2093

cw: making out and tits out, almost getting caught

me: thank u sm for this request gorg! i didn't do full smut coz i just Could Not but i hope u enjoy!! sorry this has taken so long it has been a crazy crazy month in gia land! i love this world so requests r still more than welcome! in my head this takes place quite a bit after the first two parts; a lot has taken place in the interim

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

It was weird enough being back in your hometown for the holidays after moving interstate for college, then your big girl job. Being back at your mother’s always gave you a weird feeling of detachment, being in a place that used to be home but didn’t carry the same weight anymore.

What was weirder, though, was the text you got from Aaron as you sat on the tree swing outside, reading.

Are you with your Mom? We have a case near you right now. Dinner when we finish?

You laughed at his proper spelling and grammar, texting back to tell him you would love to. The coincidence was uncanny, but you weren’t in any position to complain about seeing him.

Your mother was shockingly excited, going so far as to insist that you invite the whole team over for dinner on the night they closed the case. It certainly wasn’t the reaction you were expecting given the whole secret baby thing she’d done for two decades, but you thought it was sweet that she was enthusiastic about your relationship with your dad.

That was why you were at your local police precinct, alerted by your father that the case was wrapping up and would be finished by the evening.

“Miss me?” You walked through the door into the meeting room the BAU had obviously been delegated to. The team all looked up in surprise, except your dad.

“Baby Hotch, what are you doing here?” Morgan grinned, standing to give you a quick hug.

“I grew up here,” You replied, returning Rossi’s wave of greeting. “But here, here? I come with invitations. My mom insists that you all come for dinner tonight, as soon as you’ve wrapped up the case… and maybe had some showers. Not to be rude, but it is not smelling like heaven in here.” You were glad the team got your joke, what with half of them being covered in bruises or blood. You didn’t know what had gone down in the case, and you didn’t think you wanted to.

You stuck around as the team wrapped up the administrative parts of the case, exhaustion clear on their faces. Still, the promise of a home-cooked meal (and a glimpse into Hotch’s past and your private life) kept them going, spirits not too shabby.

“Alright, shall we say meet at your mom’s place in an hour and a half? That way, everyone has time to get cleaned up and you have time to go hide anything embarrassing in your childhood bedroom because you know they’ll all charm their way in,” Hotch said with a tiny glint of humour in his eye, the look he tended to save for his children. You nodded dutifully, jokingly saluting as you fished your mom’s car keys from the depths of your coat pocket.

The BAU all peeled off into the SUVs, ready for a hot shower and a change of clothes. You were just unlocking the doors to your own vehicle when the precinct doors opened and out stepped a very familiar face.

“Doctor Reid,” You said, voice full of mocking, “What a complete surprise!”

“You know, I was stuck taking witness interviews today so I’m not in any desperate need for a shower…” He matched your faux innocence, letting himself into the passenger seat.

Safely inside a car with tinted windows, you leant over the centre console to press your lips to his.

“Hi, Spencie,” You giggled, putting the car into drive. Reid pulled a face at the nickname, but let his hand fall to rest on your thigh regardless.

“You’re incorrigible.” He squeezed your leg lightly.

Your mom was busy in the kitchen when you both arrived, trying to knock each other off the path up to your front door like children.

“Hey, Mom. This is Doctor Reid from Dad’s team. He’s gonna hang out until the rest of the team gets here.”

“Spencer,” Reid corrected, waving from beside you. “Thank you so much for inviting us over, ma’am. The team is very fond of your daughter.”

“I see,” Your mom replied, shooting you a look that said he’s cute. Knowing Reid, he absolutely caught it. “It’s nice to meet you too, Spencer. Dinner won’t be for a while, you two go hang out.”

“Are you sure we can’t help out?” Reid asked at the same time you exclaimed, “We’re not thirteen!”

“Thirteen?” Reid asked with a laugh as you led him up the stairs to your childhood bedroom.

“Shut up,” You groaned, “It just sounded like she was gonna tell us to go play Monopoly, or she was excited for me to have my first kiss.” Spencer shook his head, laughing again at your ridiculousness. He liked your mom already.

“So, you don’t want to kiss me?” He asked with frankly highly effective puppy eyes, moving closer to loop his arms around your waist.

You only got a peck from the genius before he’d caught a glance of the bedroom behind you, spinning you quickly so he could snoop inside.

You stood in the centre of the room, sinking into the pink fluffy rug, as Spencer darted about the room, taking in every fragment of your life before college.

“Is this a tape deck?” He asked, immediately flipping through your collection of cassettes.

“Yeah, my parents refused to buy me a CD player, so it was my darkest secret in high school that I was still listening to cassettes. I’ve got a good collection, though. Now, can you please help me hide anything too embarrassing from Morgan?” Reid popped in a tape, Duran Duran’s Rio album, and got to work, but not without commenting on how embarrassing it was that you were into Duran Duran as a teen.

“Debate team?” He asked, pointing at the certificates pinned to your wall. You stared at them for a moment with squinted eyes, scrutinising.

“Leave them. At least I was good at debating. Take down the math olympiad participation prize next to it, that’s the line, I think.”

“I did math olympiads!”

“Exactly.” Spencer rolled his eyes playfully but took down the certificate nonetheless, putting it in the storage tub you’d allocated to anything you didn’t want seen.

You went about in peace for a while, you cleaning and Spencer snooping amongst your things.

“Is this actually you?” He broke the silence, holding up a small photo book.

“Oh my god,” You moaned, covering your face with your hands. The photos were from your senior year of college, when you and your friends spent spring break down by the beach. The photos were absolutely mortifying, capturing you drunk, messy, and in far too few clothes. You weren’t even that many years into the workforce, and you already couldn’t believe you were ever wearing those itty-bitty bikinis out in public. “I haven’t looked at tequila the same way since.”

“You look really great, you should wear that again sometime,” Spencer said, a light blush on his cheeks.

“Alright, perv,” You laughed, taking the photo book from his hands, “That’s definitely going in the box.” You bent over to put the album away when Spencer’s hands landed warm on your hips, spinning you around and pulling you flush against him.

“I’m serious,” He murmured, lips brushing against yours, “You’re so beautiful.”

Before you could reply, Spencer was kissing up and down your neck, a contented sigh escaping from your lips.

You led him blindly to your childhood single bed, falling onto it as the back of your knees hit the bed frame. You pulled Spencer up to your lips in a desperate kiss, running your fingers through his hair as he worked on getting his buttoned shirt undone.

He pulled away so you could get your own shirt off, his eye catching on one of your stuffed animals sitting snugly next to your pillow.

“Who’s this guy?” He asked with a small laugh, and you huffed.

“For your information, that’s Mister Stripes.” You succeeded in unfastening your bra, “And hello? More important things to be focusing on? We have to be quick.”

Spencer immediately turned his attention back to you, hands going straight to palm your tits, drawing a gentle sigh from you. You attacked his neck with kisses, sucking on his pulse point to hear the pretty moans he made.

You’d just popped the button of his slacks when you heard boisterous laughter from the kitchen, voices that were definitely not your mother’s. Spencer’s eyes snapped up from where his tongue was on your nipple, both of you freezing in your tracks. If the BAU were already in your house, it was only a matter of moments before they would find their way into your bedroom. You really did not want them finding you and Spencer getting hot and heavy… especially as none of them knew you were even close.

Spencer launched across the room over to your old wardrobe, pulling his shirt over his shoulders and doing the buttons with record speed. You heard your name being called from the bottom of the stairs.

“You up there?” Hotch called, and your eyes widened more than you thought possible.

“Uh, yeah! I’ll be down in a sec! Spencer too,” You added after a moment, hoping it would seem less suspicious if you were upfront about his presence.

“No way, I need to see her childhood bedroom.” You heard Morgan say, accompanied by heavy footsteps getting closer.

“Fuck!” You hissed, giving up on the possibility of getting your bra back on with your fingers anxiously shaking, kicking it furiously under your bed and pulling a sweater over your head to lessen the damage.

You brushed through your hair with your fingers as the door creaked open and the rest of the BAU let themselves in.

“Hey, Dad,” You greeted him with a smile you hoped was confident, giving him a quick hug.

“Hey, Honey. And Reid.”

“Doctor Reid got here a little early, I was just showing him around my room,” You cut in before he could say anything.

“She was a champion debater,” Spencer added with his signature awkward smile, pointing over to the certificates by the door. That got everyone’s attention onto the various memorabilia and memories scattered around your room and off of you.

You and Spencer made eye contact, identical sighs of relief making you giggle.

“Hey, Pretty Boy,” Morgan said as you were explaining a framed photo to the rest of the group, “Better do up that last button before Hotch notices the hickey on your neck.” Spencer almost jumped out of his skin, hands flying to cover up the mark. He did just that, trying to casually pass by your mirror and ensure his shirt covered everything indecent.

Your mother called you all down to eat minutes later, which saved you both from the persisting anxiety of having been almost caught. Spencer was seated far from you, but you both spent the meal stealing looks and small smiles.

Dinner with the BAU was everything you thought it would be: loud, chaotic and full of love. You enjoyed hearing stories of your Dad at work, it helped piece together the puzzle of someone you’d spent so long wishing to get to know.

As the night drew to a close, you found yourself dreading the team having to leave, feeling at home amongst the banter and teasing.

When it did officially become too late and even Hotch was refusing drink refills, you and your mom followed the team to the front door, making everyone promise to return for another meal the next time they were in the state. Hotch even suggested that you should do something as a three: him, you and your mom, which made you beam.

On the way out the door, Spencer gave your hand a squeeze. Soft, simple, something otherwise unnoticeable. But he couldn’t kiss you, couldn’t tell you to call him later or update him on the book you were reading. So he gave your hand a gentle squeeze to tell you he’d be thinking of you on the plane ride home.

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futuremrsreid · 12 days ago

Text

Bad, bad news 2 (worse news) - 18+

Masterlist | Part 1

GIF by Reidgif

Requested - "I daydream abt that one fic of yours (bad bad news) from how bad you edged me is it possible that we might get part 2"

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

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

WARNING: Smut, soft dom!/dom! Spencer, slight manhandling, PinV, no mentions of protection, brat tamer if you squint, no rhyme or reason, just mostly filth, ass-obsessed Reid, light/minor spanking, man moaning!!!, slight nipple play, back shot esc.

Word count: 2K See notes at end for author's note & spoilers.

You can only muster a feeble squeak before Spencer tugs you off him and gently tosses you aside. You land on your stomach, nearly face-planting into the bed. When he drags you closer by your legs, you half expect him to turn you around.

And he would, if he wasn't so entranced by the view.

You've pushed yourself up on your arms creating a mouth-watering arch between your lower back and your ass. The way it's raised allows him to catch a glimpse of your glistening cunt. So, so wet and so inviting. He doesn't even realise when his head bobs to plant a hot, sticky kiss to the back of your thigh, sight set between your legs.

It makes you shudder.

"Spence..." His name escapes you in a small gasp as he travels up, leaving a trail of kisses on his way.

You barely get time to react before his mouth meets your cunt, hungry and desperate. The sound of your moan surprises you and your face inevitably falls against the mattress, fingers curling the sheets into a tight fist. He's obviously had a target in mind since the moment he laid eyes on it.

Spencer Reid also has an incredibly good aim.

His arms hook around your legs from under your hips, hands digging into your skin. His lips wrap around your clit and immediately tug. You feel his teeth barely scrape against it before it audibly pops out of his mouth. You whine, instinctively jolting away before pushing yourself closer to him. He doesn't object, licking a slow stripe from your bud to your entrance.

"Please. Please..." You don't know what you're begging for, you just know that you want more.

Not only does he take pride in the fact, but he delivers. His tongue prods your hole, lapping up the fruit of his labour. He's barely begun and you're already lost in his touch. You can feel yourself going limp, succumbing to the pleasure. It takes no time for your orgasm to brew, he knows you're close. Your eager mewls give you away. The thought of tasting your release sends a rush of excitement straight between his legs.

You grind against his tongue and he can't help himself from picturing how good you'd look taking him from behind, just like this. It gives him a new, utterly sinful idea. He lets you ride his face for a little bit longer. You're almost there, but just as quickly as Spencer brings you your orgasm, he snatches it away. And you damn near yell when he does, twisting your head with a displeased frown.

"Baby! Baby, I'm so close. Please–"

He cuts you off with a firm spank, kneeling directly behind you. It doesn't hurt in the slightest, but the sting shocks you enough for you to drop limp, again. He watches you roll your hips, arch deepening as you hum. It's a weak attempt to build some friction. Lust takes him over. If he could pick one, single moment from his entire life to be etched into his brain, it would be this one. More vividly than it already has.

"I told you," he grabs himself from the base, stroking up to his tip and wiping away his pre-cum, "only good girls get to cum."

You whimper when he drags his hardened cock through your folds. That whimper turns into a string of more pathetic whines when he repeats a motion a few more times. He fixates on your clit, rubbing the tip against your extremely fragile bud.

"You have to prove that you're my good girl."

You could honestly cum from this, but he won't let you. Prick. You push your weight onto your arms, turning your head again. Your hair is a mess, eyes wide, brows pleading–you look almost ruined.

"Do you..." You begin to speak, inhaling slowly, tone uncertain. As if you don't know if what you have to offer is sufficient. "Do you want me to suck you off?"

He wants to ruin you. Completely.

"Oh, baby. That's very tempting." He lets go of himself, both hands caressing your skin from thigh to cheek. "But you look so good like this."

You unintentionally whine your hips as he spreads you like he's inspecting the mess he's caused. His tongue swipes his lips in satisfaction.

"Then how?" Your bashfulness has more blood rushing down to his already painfully hard cock.

"Hmmm." He bites his lip, pretending to contemplate, like he hasn't known exactly what he's wanted since he put you in this position. Spencer grabs a fistful of your hair at the nape of your neck, just gently guiding your back to his chest. You follow his direction blindly and tilt your head at his command. He nips at the skin below your ear and then you hear his voice–a beautiful combination of gravelly and sweet–whisper to you. "Do you have any idea how pretty you are? Grinding your pretty cunt on me? I could watch you forever."

You pull away from his loose grip to meet his eyes. There's a noticeable lack of brown in his irises, pupils almost completely dark. You don't know whether to be concerned or flattered. He doesn't give you time to think too much about it, steadily lowering you down into your previous position.

"Spence, I'm not sure if I know what you mean." You mumble, hesitantly.

That's when you feel him line himself up with your entrance.

"Give me a show, won't you?"

Six words that stir in your stomach. Goosebumps rise everywhere.

"What?"

"You heard me."

You hesitate. You've never been in this position before, literally. On your knees, bent over with him kneeling behind you. You look back at him, his eyes locking with yours and he's mesmerised. Certain. He tilts his head. Like he expects you to act up. And he's ready to put you right back in your place. Then you remember how you got here. How badly you wanted to make him lose his mind. The stupid bet.

"Will you let me cum after?"

Spencer smirks like he's holding back a chuckle and gives you a light nod. You pout. It's playful. The pout you utilise when you want something.

"Promise?"

He huffs, playfully rolling his eyes.

"Yes. I will make you cum."

You give him the sweetest smile you know to muster and then lean forward, resting your head on the bed and sticking your ass up as far out as you can. His attention returns to where he's patiently waiting for your bodies to connect. You roll your hips again, slowly sinking down on him.

Fuck.

You can't escape the fluttery feeling from every inch of him you take. He throws his head back, hands rushing to grip your skin. Both of you moan loudly, almost primally. By the time he bottoms out, you swear his cock is pulsating from how hard he is.

"God, you feel amazing."

It takes you a few seconds to adjust, breathing deeply to ground yourself. He eases his hold on your flesh and that's when you raise your hips again, maintaining a slow, steady pace. You have to use the back of your hand to muffle your sounds, trying to stay focused on fulfilling his request. He wants a show. You'll give him a show.

You wiggle your hips when you reach the tip, swiftly sink back down and then up. Spencer hisses, hands squeezing you tightly from behind. He can't take his eyes off you, entirely under your spell. He relishes the sight of his cock disappearing in you and the warmth of your walls. You're hot, sweaty, sticky and it's driving him crazy. Only when a strained moan escapes you does he realise that you're holding back.

He doesn't appreciate it.

"Stop that. Let me hear you." He pleads almost out of air. It's polite.

You don't adhere to his request, opting to increase the speed and fluidity of your movements instead. He groans as you clench around him, annoyed at how he's unable to fully enjoy himself because of your restraint.

"Cut it out." He spanks you again only achieving a small squeak before you shake your head defiantly. His breathing is heavy and you can sense his glare. "Can't behave for more than a few minutes."

The snark on your tongue is replaced by a loud moan as his hips impulsively snap into you until his length is impossibly deep inside. You shriek, not expecting him to pull your knees straight out from under you, pinning you flat on your stomach. In that same motion, he lifts your ass just enough for him to comfortably thrust in and out.

You barely get a chance to blink and he's pounding into you. The sheets can't ground you. Every mewl and moan you withheld from him leaves you tenfold.

"That's it, scream for me. Just like that. Oh, baby, yes like that." His grunts lace with your voice, and the sound of skin slapping fills the room. You try to rebel once more, burying your head further against the bed. "No, oh, no."

Spencer pauses for a brief second, roughly grabbing you by your arms and pulling you upright. He pins them in place behind your back, his hold just above your elbows like they're handlebars.

"Hey–ah–Spencer!"

"That–my name–is the only coherent sound I want from you." He slips inside you again, barely giving you time to adjust and then ramping up to a brutal pace. You're on fire, it's like he's reaching every part of you. You can't tell whose moans are louder. He's drilling you at an impossible speed, stretching you open. He yanks you flush against his chest, hands rushing to cup your breasts. Your back stays arched, paralysed from intense pleasure.

"Oh–fuc–uh–Ah! Ah!" Your head falls back and you're basically just yelling.

You're back at the edge of your orgasm before you realise it. It's when you feel him tug your nipples that you know you're done for. He rolls the nubs between his fingers and you're panting like you've gone mad.

"Sp–Spencer, baby–"

"Yeah?" He's panting with you, his breath fanning across your neck.

"Gonna cum–fuck–I'm–so...fuck–"

"C'mon, use your words."

You'd bite back if your brain wasn't so scattered.

"Say it or you don't get to finish."

"Cum! I'm gonna cum! Now! Now! Please!"

Not that either of you has a choice. He's edged you for far too long, your release is inevitable at this point. He gathers as much when you limp in his arms, head lolling from side to side on his shoulder. As if you're trying to run from how overwhelming it is.

"Cum. Cum all over my cock."

That's all you need before the dam breaks. Your legs spasm as the pressure leaves your core, orgasm wracking through your limbs. By the time you come to, you're on your stomach again, Spencer's just watching you, soothingly rubbing your calves on either side of him. You muster any leftover energy to peek back at him. His whole body is flushed.

"How are you feeling? Feeling okay?" He mumbles, out of breath.

"Mhm." You nod, voice hoarse.

You attempt to shift and turn around but he stops you.

"No, don't turn around. You'll get it all over the sheets." You furrow your brows, confused. That's when the warmth on your back registers. "Stay there. I'll get a–"

"You didn't finish inside?" You look betrayed, almost hurt. He knows how much you love it when he cums inside you. You'd think he feels bad and he almost does, but the smirk on his face tells you otherwise.

"Good girls get what they want. Brats take what they're given."

Spoilers: None, you get what you see.

AN - Ermmmm...surprise? This was an entirely spur-of-the-moment decision. I started answering this ask and then started writing within the same answer and just never looked back. Still formatted it nicely for my peace of mind. Please note that this is not who I am (it might be) and this is not a reflection of my writing (it might be). I haven't written smut in sooo long please don't judge me rn.

Also, the title and gif selection were sending me. I really thought it was the funniest thing ever (it was not).

Thank you for reading!

463 notes · View notes

futuremrsreid · 14 days ago

Text

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 [𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟐]

➤ [Good Graces] ➤ [Ending 1 – Smut]

wc: 613 |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: emotional tension, mutual pining, heated kiss, soft intimacy, locked-room scenario, confessions, fluff with depth.

You weren’t sure how long the moment stretched. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime, maybe. His hands roamed your waist like he was mapping you out, memorizing each curve, each hitch in your breath. Every inch of you felt like it was on fire, nerves alight under his touch. Your back was still pressed to cold metal, but you barely noticed anymore—not with Spencer pressed flush against you like this.

Eventually, the kiss slowed. Softened. That frantic, desperate energy simmered down into something... warmer. Sweeter. His forehead dropped to yours, breath fanning across your lips.

"I didn’t mean to do that here," he admitted, voice low, almost sheepish. But he didn’t move away. Didn’t look sorry.

You huffed a laugh, heart still hammering. "Yeah, well, you’ve got terrible timing, genius."

His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again—that storm behind his gaze, tamed for once. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and then his hand came up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it," he said. "Every time we argue, it’s like... it’s like I want to slam a door and kiss you in the same breath."

Your chest clenched. You hated how much that sounded like you, too.

"Yeah," you said, softer now. "Same."

There was silence. Not awkward. Just... full. Charged.

You blinked, suddenly aware of how close he still was. Of how this might be a terrible idea. Of how it might also be the best one you’d ever had.

Spencer leaned in again, but this time, he didn’t kiss you. His nose brushed yours, slow and deliberate, and his voice was barely a whisper when he asked, "Can I come home with you tonight?"

You blinked, lips parted, then laughed—dry, breathless. "Spencer... we're literally locked in the file room."

He looked sheepish, glancing at the heavy door with its magnetic lock still blinking red. The emergency override had clicked on hours ago—an automatic building protocol no one had remembered to reset. You’d both been too stubborn to call for help. Too proud. Too petty.

Too in denial.

Until now.

"Right," he said softly. Then, a beat passed. "I meant metaphorically. For... when we're not trapped like crime scene exhibits."

You smirked, but it was softer now. Easier. "You want a metaphorical key to my apartment?"

He gave the smallest, most nervous nod. "I want... whatever this is."

And God, you felt it too. The shift. The aching tension gave way to something vulnerable and real. You nodded slowly, heart thudding loud enough to echo in the stillness of the room. "Yeah. You can come home with me."

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it forever. One hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining with a tentative gentleness that made your chest ache.

"Okay," he whispered.

You leaned back against the file cabinet with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a second, until Spencer tugged your joined hands and pressed a kiss—soft and sure—to your knuckles. And then another, higher, to your wrist.

"You’re such a sap," you mumbled, but the words were half-laugh, half-sigh.

"Don’t tell anyone," he murmured, inching closer.

The moment tilted sweetly again. This time, when his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was careful. Devotional. A promise folded into a kiss.

You stayed curled up together on the floor, your head on his shoulder, his fingers playing with yours. The air still smelled like old paper and dust, but you didn’t care.

And when his voice broke the silence again, low and amused, saying, "I guess this is our first official date, huh?"

You laughed.

And kissed him again.

107 notes · View notes

futuremrsreid · 15 days ago

Text

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 [𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏]

➤ [Good Graces] ➤ [Ending 2 – Fluff]

wc: 4.3k |F!Reader (Intern) x Spencer Reid (BAU) | cw: rough sex, semi-public setting, dominance/submission dynamics, overstimulation, consensual power play, possessiveness, hair-pulling, praise kink, degradation kink (use of “slut”), multiple orgasms, post-argument sexual tension, emotionally charged encounter, breath play (light), unprotected sex, workplace intimacy, reader is bratty/submissive.

Spencer pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Shut up, for once."

You would’ve argued. You really would have. But then he kissed you again, and suddenly, there was nothing left to say.

When he finally released you, his breath was ragged, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. The way he looked at you wasn’t calculating or hesitant. It was raw, irritated, charged with something so deeply frustrated you almost felt it buzzing against your skin.

His fingers still gripped your arms, grounding you. Or maybe grounding himself. “Do you have any idea,” he exhaled sharply through his nose, “how incredibly frustrating it is to like someone who is so—” he broke off, shaking his head. “You challenge me at every turn. You never listen. You push every single one of my buttons just to see how I’ll react. And worst of all, you enjoy it.”

Your lips parted, words balancing on the edge of your tongue, but Spencer’s fingers flexed against your arms. His control was hanging by a thread, and for the first time, you weren’t sure you wanted to cut it.

“You think it’s cute,” he muttered, almost to himself, “the way you mouth off, the way you get under my skin.” His head tilted slightly, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “But you don’t get it, do you?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, fingers twitching at your sides, but you held your ground. “Get what?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, then, with a slow deliberation that sent heat curling low in your stomach, he released your arms. He smoothed his hands down the front of his cardigan, as if reminding himself of who he was, of who you expected him to be. Then, just as quickly, he shattered that expectation with one command:

“Get on your knees.”

You blinked. For a second, your brain didn’t even register the words correctly, and you didn’t fully compute that they had come from Spencer Reid of all people. The Spencer who buttoned his cardigans to the top. Who corrected people’s grammar mid-sentence? Who didn’t swear unless he was in the middle of a breakdown?

Your breath hitched. “Spencer,” you hissed, glancing toward the corners of the ancient file room, “we’re in a federal building. There could be cameras—”

“There aren’t.” His voice was steady, sure. “This room hasn’t been updated in decades. The Bureau’s too preoccupied with budget allocations to install surveillance in a storage closet no one uses.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your spine. "Still," you tried, but the protest was weaker now. "Anyone could walk in."

Spencer took a single step forward, closing the space you had barely noticed existed between you. His fingers traced up your arm, barely a touch, but it made your breath stutter. His lips curled, amused but still threaded with that same irritation that had been burning in his gaze since he first kissed you.

The lock had clicked minutes ago. There was no getting out until someone let you. The reality of it hovered, unspoken, thickening the air between you.

"I don’t think you understand," Spencer said, voice dangerously smooth, "how many times I’ve thought about shutting you up like this."

Your mouth went dry. Your pulse pounded.

Before you could even think of another excuse, another reason why this shouldn’t—couldn’t—be happening, your knees buckled. And then you were sinking, breathless, onto the cold tile floor.

Spencer watched you the whole way down, his control hanging by a thread, and for the first time, you wanted to pull it loose.

You inhaled sharply, staring up at him, the weight of his command pressing down on you like a tangible force. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, but his hands? Steady. Measured. One of them reached out, fingers tilting your chin up so your wide, disbelieving eyes met his.

“Spencer,” you whispered, already knowing exactly what he wanted from you. But why give in so easily when pushing his buttons got you here in the first place? You blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “I mean… what do you even want me to do down here?”

His grip on your chin tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough to make your breath catch. His jaw clenched like he was wrestling with himself, with whatever was unraveling inside him. “Don’t e—” he cut himself off with a sharp inhale, eyes flickering with something wicked. And then he smiled. That smug, cheeky, infuriating smile you hated so much.

“Just unbuckle my pants, slut.”

Your breath hitched. Spencer Walter Reid just called you a slut.

Your stomach flipped, your core tightening at the sheer filthiness of it coming from him. It was shocking in the best way, the most exhilarating way, and the way his voice dipped into something almost guttural made you shudder.

Your hands moved, slow and testing, trailing up his legs before settling at his belt. The touch made him shiver—actually shiver—and you filed that knowledge away before pulling at the buckle. The clink of metal breaking apart in the silence sent heat rushing through you, and you took note of the happy little trail of curls leading below his waistband. You grinned, dragging your hands from his hips down to hook into his slacks, deliberately slow as you slid them lower.

“Don’t tease me,” Spencer exhaled sharply, his patience thinning as he kicked his pants off completely, his shoes following soon after.

You smirked up at him. “Come on, it’s not fair if you have all the fun.”

He ignored your taunt, already yanking off his jacket, then his tie, the buttons of his shirt slipping free in quick succession. It was so unlike him—so rushed, so desperate—that you could only stare as layer after layer was discarded until he stood bare before you.

Your brain short-circuited.

Spencer Reid was hiding that? That monstrous cock attached to his lanky, cardigan-wearing, statistical-fact-spewing body?

“Spencer,” you breathed, voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes darted up to his in pure shock.

His brows furrowed. “What?” Then, as if realizing, he let out a low chuckle.“Oh. Right. Did you know only 3.9% of men are actually above seven inches? That puts me in a statistically rare category. Now open that mouth back up.”

Before you could so much as process another thought, Spencer’s hands tangled in your hair, tugging your head back as he thrust forward, the blunt tip of his cock pressing against your parted lips. The sound that left you was borderline obscene, but it was drowned out by the deep groan Spencer let loose as he finally—finally—felt your mouth around him.

You barely had time to adjust before he pushed deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted. He was relentless, hips snapping forward in controlled, measured thrusts, just enough to make you gag without giving you the chance to pull away. Spencer was watching you, his hazel eyes blown dark with something dangerously possessive, and the sight alone had heat pooling low in your stomach.

“You dirty whore,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rougher than you’d ever heard it. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to see you like this?” He let out a strangled groan, his rhythm faltering for half a second before he forced himself back into control. “Teary-eyed, those pretty lips stretched around my cock, looking up at me like you were made for this.”

Your nails dug into his skin as his thrusts stuttered. He was close. You could feel the way his cock twitched against your tongue, the way his breath hitched, but still, he didn’t let up. Not until he had exactly what he wanted.

“Fuck—just like that, don’t stop.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked, his fingers flexing in your hair as his hips snapped forward one last time. He groaned low and deep, his release spilling hot down your throat in thick, pulsing waves. The muscles in his abdomen trembled, his body shuddering as he rode it out, drawing in ragged breaths between each aftershock.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to watch, his eyes dark and fixed on your mouth as you swallowed, waiting—no, demanding—until you had taken every last drop. Then, with a slow exhale, he bent down, his fingers tightening around your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

“Swallow like a good girl.” His thumb swiped over your lower lip, his own lips curling into something smug and satisfied as he caught the last trace of himself there, pushing it past your lips. "Atta girl."

Your cheeks flushed under his intense gaze, heat prickling over your skin as he finally released you, waving you up with a flick of his fingers. “Come on,” he murmured, watching as you stood. His eyes flicked over your clothes, the short skirt, the button-up blouse that was already rumpled. “Take everything off.”

The demand sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, but still, hesitation flickered for just a second. You weren’t insecure, but standing fully clothed in front of a very naked Spencer Reid had you second-guessing everything. It wasn’t that you felt insecure—you liked your body well enough, but compared to him, standing there, all angles and sharp lines and unfairly proportioned perfection, you felt almost…plain. Not that Spencer seemed to agree, if the way his gaze darkened was anything to go by.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you unbuttoned your blouse, letting it slip down your arms, then moved to your skirt, pushing it past your hips. The simple bra you wore made you cringe—if you’d known this would happen, you would’ve worn something prettier, something delicate, lace-trimmed with little bows. And then there was your thong, which was almost comically opposite, tiny and black, a thin scrap of fabric that left little to the imagination.

Spencer tilted his head, eyes dragging over you. “Why’d you stop?”

You swallowed hard as he stepped forward, fingers hooking under your bra strap and tugging it teasingly. “I said all of it.”

Your breath hitched when he yanked the fabric down, just enough to let your breasts spill free. A choked noise left you, but he caught it with a kiss to your shoulder, his hands skimming your body before expertly unclasping your bra with a single flick of his fingers. The fucker was showing off. You rolled your eyes, but the effect was lost when a shiver ran down your spine the moment his fingers skimmed over your bare skin.

His lips trailed down your sternum, warm and wet, pausing to suck a bruise onto the soft flesh of your breast before his tongue flicked over your nipple. Your back arched involuntarily, a broken whimper spilling from your lips as he palmed the other, rolling the hardened bud between his fingers.

He didn’t stop. His mouth traveled lower, kissing down the slope of your stomach until he was crouched before you, lips hovering just over your clothed heat. His fingers traced the waistband of your thong, toying with the lace. “You’re a lot of fun, you know that?”

Then he pushed the fabric aside and pressed his lips against your clit.

The gasp you let out wasn’t delicate—it was guttural, ragged, a sound that ripped from your throat like it was torn from the deepest part of you. His mouth was sinful, devastating, all suction and swirling tongue, relentless in the way only Spencer Reid could be when he was singularly focused. He licked like you were a complex equation he’d waited years to solve, every stroke of his tongue calibrated with terrifying precision, every flick a calculated blow to your dwindling composure.

Your hands fisted in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as your thighs began to tremble uncontrollably. You couldn’t even summon the strength to form words—just half-sobs and desperate moans that echoed between metal and paper. One of your heels skidded against the floor, ankle buckling, and he growled low as he readjusted, both hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd slip through his fingers.

"Spencer—fuck—I can’t—" Your voice cracked, high and breathless, as you tried to twist away from the pleasure blurring your thoughts. You weren’t running from him—you were running from the edge.

He groaned against you, the deep vibration traveling straight through your core like an aftershock. And you shattered. The orgasm came like a freight train—no build, no warning, just pure, blinding heat crashing through every nerve ending. Your knees buckled, body convulsing, fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

Still, he didn’t stop.

His grip tightened as he kept licking, working you through it with obscene, practiced precision. Your hips jerked against his face, body betraying you, wrung out and trembling—but still, he didn’t let up. He licked like he wanted to drown in you, to commit the shape and taste of your orgasm to memory. It was too much. Almost unbearable. But you didn’t beg him to stop. You couldn’t. You were unraveling, each nerve ending raw, frayed, and alive.

You were wrecked—and somehow, he still wasn’t done.

Your breath hitched sharply when the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric sliced through the haze. Cold air kissed your soaked skin, the absence of pressure where your thong used to be sending a new kind of thrill spiraling through you.

Your head dropped forward, blinking down in disbelief. Spencer sat back on his heels, holding the tattered remnants of lace between two fingers, his mouth and chin glistening. That same maddening half-smile curved his lips, cocky and amused, dark eyes glittering with mischief and heat.

“Spencer,” you breathed, incredulous, thighs still trembling.

He raised an eyebrow like he couldn’t possibly imagine what you were upset about. "What? It was in my way."

He shrugged. “What? It was obstructing my work.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the delirious laugh bubbling in your throat. "You’re insane."

“I’ll buy you another one,” he said simply, rising to his feet.

The shift was sudden—too sudden. One second, he was standing there, his mouth still slick with the aftermath of what he'd done to you, eyes half-lidded and wild, and the next, he’d spun you around like it took no effort at all. Your front hit the filing cabinet with a jarring clang, the cold steel biting into your overheated skin. The shock stole the breath right out of your lungs, the air whooshing from you in a grunt that was more startled than pained.

You blinked, disoriented, your palms splayed flat against the cool metal in a desperate attempt to stay upright. The drawers rattled from the force of it, the entire structure groaning beneath your weight. The cold surface did nothing to calm the fever scorching beneath your skin. Before you could fully catch your breath, he was there, pressing into you, all heat and muscle and intensity. His chest molded against your back, a furnace that made you shiver, and his cock—thick, rock-hard—slid against the swell of your ass in a way that made your knees knock together.

Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. All you could do was brace yourself and try not to collapse under the weight of it all.

"Wait—Spence—"

“Shh,” he breathed, the sound hot against the shell of your ear, one hand sliding between your thighs to line himself up. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just pushed forward, slow and deliberate, until the thick head of his cock breached you. Your breath hitched like you’d been sucker punched. The stretch was unreal—every inch a battle between pain and devastating pleasure. You weren't ready. You'd never be ready. But your body opened for him anyway, greedily, desperately.

Your forehead dropped to the cabinet with a dull thunk. “Jesus Christ,” you gasped, voice trembling. “You’re… huge.”

The groan he gave in response was guttural, low, and reverent, like you’d just handed him a Nobel Prize. “Statistically significant,” he murmured smugly. “Rare sample set. Very lucky subject.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh—half delirium, half exasperation. “Spencer, I swear to God—”

“Yeah?” he said, his voice dark and playful. “Swear to me then. Say my name.”

Then he drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You cried out, legs nearly giving out, your hands scrambling uselessly for purchase on the smooth, unforgiving metal. It was too much—he was too much. Your body felt split open, every nerve set alight. He pulled back and slammed into you again, harder, deeper, with the force of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to feel every inch of it.

“Spencer—fuck—oh my god—”

He grunted, his hand weaving into your hair and yanking your head back just enough to arch your spine. “You can take it. Look at you,” he panted. “Already so fucking full.”

You whimpered, shaking your head in disbelief. “I can’t—It’s too good, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, punctuating each word with a thrust that had your eyes rolling back. “You’re doing so well.”

Your body was already trembling again, too close to the edge, that second orgasm clawing its way up your spine far too soon. Your muscles fluttered around him, overwhelmed and overstimulated. “You’re gonna break me,” you whispered, more plea than warning.

“That’s the idea,” he murmured darkly, voice like smoke.

Then he really started to fuck you.

No mercy. No hesitation. Just raw, focused hunger. The filing cabinet groaned under your weight, metal rattling in protest with every unforgiving thrust. Your fingers clawed at the surface, nails scraping against steel, desperate for something to hold onto as he drove into you like a man possessed.

Each sound that tore from your throat was louder, more desperate than the last—whimpers, curses, half-sobs laced with his name, all of it spilling out in a string of broken pleas and praises. Through it all, Spencer was relentless. Steady. Consuming. His hands bruised your hips, holding you in place, making sure you took every last inch like you were made for it.

You could feel everything—every inch of him dragging along your walls, every brutal snap of his hips, every filthy whisper ghosted hot against your ear. "You're taking me so well," he murmured. "So fucking tight for me."

You were unraveling, nerve by nerve, and he was watching it—fascinated, delighted. "That's it," he breathed, adjusting the angle just slightly, sending you crashing into a fresh wave of sensation. You gasped, back arching, vision swimming.

"Spencer—" you choked, teetering. “I’m gonna come again—”

“Good,” he growled. “Come with me. Let me feel you.”

And when you did, he followed—his rhythm faltering only slightly as he pushed as deep as he could go, his body pressed hard against yours, breath stuttering with every pulse of release. You cried out, twitching around him, body wracked with aftershocks. He groaned into your shoulder, still moving, just enough to keep you locked in that space where pleasure danced right on the knife’s edge of pain.

You whimpered, hips jerking away, but his arm around your waist kept you there. “Sp-Spence—too much—”

“Just a second,” he muttered, voice a wrecked mess of want and affection. “Let me have it. Let me feel you like this.”

When he finally stilled, breathless and heavy, you sagged forward, spent. Your forehead dropped to the cabinet with a soft thunk. For a beat, the only sound in the room was the echo of your panting.

“So,” you panted, voice raspy but smug, “it’s not morning yet, which technically means there’s still time for seconds.”

He chuckled against your back. “Is that so?”

You grinned, rolling your hips back with renewed mischief. “I mean… unless you’re too tired.”

That was all it took.

In a flash, he’d spun you again, lifting you effortlessly onto the cabinet this time, his eyes dark and dangerous. “You think you get to make the rules now?”

You tried to play innocent, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Maybe?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Not a chance.”

You leaned back slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips, fingers daring to trail down your own body, teasing the slick between your thighs with lazy defiance. "Then maybe you should remind me who’s in charge."

Before your fingers could dip too low, his hand was there—gripping your wrist tight and pinning it above your head, expression shifting from amused to ravenous in a heartbeat.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dark silk, “don’t start what you can’t finish.”

And just like that, he was inside you again, no preamble, no warning—just a brutal, possessive thrust that knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. The overstimulation hit instantly, your body already raw and sensitive, and you cried out, squirming in his grasp.

“Spencer—” you whimpered, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, “I just— we just—”

“I know,” he growled, burying himself deeper. “I’m not done yet.”

This time, there was no buildup. No slow seduction. Just the sharp, overwhelming slide of him inside you, fucking you through your aftershocks with relentless, punishing intent. You were already too far gone, pleasure clashing with the sweet sting of too much, too soon.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but your body betrayed you, walls clenching around him with every thrust, the soreness only adding to the intensity. He was everywhere—inside you, over you, surrounding you.

“I can feel you fluttering,” he rasped, watching your face twist with pleasure. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You shook your head, breath ragged. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “Come with me. Again.”

You shattered with him, again. Bodies locked, muscles clenched, everything crashing down around you in a haze of heat and noise and breathless, desperate movement. His name tore from your lips one final time as your world fragmented.

And then, at last, he stilled.

Both of you were trembling, gasping, entirely spent. Your body sagged against his, boneless and overwhelmed.

He brushed a kiss against your temple, breath tickling your skin. “Still think you’re in charge?”

You groaned, half-laughing, half-whimpering. “Spencer… it’s still not morning.”

He pulled back just far enough to smirk down at you. “Then I guess we’ve still got time for thirds, but only if you ask nicely this time.”. Through it all, Spencer was relentless. Steady. Consuming. His hands bruised your hips, holding you in place, making sure you took every last inch like you were made for it.

"Spencer—" you choked, teetering. “I’m gonna come again—”

“Good,” he growled. “Come with me. Let me feel you.”

You whimpered, hips jerking away, but his arm around your waist kept you there. “Sp-Spence—too much—”

“Just a second,” he muttered, voice a wrecked mess of want and affection. “Let me have it. Let me feel you like this.”

When he finally stilled—breathless, heavy, trembling just enough for you to feel it—you sagged forward, boneless. Your forehead met the cabinet with a muted thunk, the cool surface grounding you in the aftermath.

For a moment, nothing. Just the shallow, echoing rhythm of two bodies relearning how to breathe.

Then, your voice—raspy, smug, entirely too pleased. "So… it’s not morning yet. Which means, technically, there’s still time for seconds."

He huffed a laugh against your spine. Low. Dangerous. “Is that so?”

You grinned, slow and wicked, and rolled your hips back with taunting grace. "Unless you’re tired."

That did it.

In one swift movement, he turned you, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and settled you on the counter with a thud that echoed like a warning. His gaze found yours—dark, unreadable, but hungry in a way that made your mouth go dry.

“You think you’re calling the shots now?” he murmured, close enough that his breath ghosted across your lips.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Innocent. Lying through your teeth. "Maybe?"

He leaned in, voice a growl wrapped in silk. “Not even close."

But then—just for a beat—his expression faltered. The air between you shifted, charged in a different way.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he muttered, voice low but no longer teasing. "About you being reckless. About you getting under my skin. But I was out of line."

You blinked, startled by the sudden gravity in his tone.

He swallowed hard. “And for calling you a slut. For being too rough. You didn’t deserve that. Any of it. I—”

You silenced him with your fingers at his lips, the shift in you sudden, sharp. Not angry. Not hurt. Just... electric.

“Don’t ruin it,” you whispered, but this time, there was heat laced in every syllable. “Unless you’re trying to beg now.”

His eyes darkened instantly, the apology burning away into something hungrier.

“Is that what this is?” you added, voice dipping low as you leaned in, teeth grazing his jaw. “You saying sorry… or asking permission?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because in the next breath, his mouth was on yours—hot, commanding, desperate—and his hands were already dragging you to the edge of the counter like he was starved for you all over again.

“Round two?” you gasped between kisses, dizzy from the force of him.

He growled against your skin. “Try round forever.”

230 notes · View notes

futuremrsreid · 15 days ago

Note

Hihi love your blog💕

Could you write something with Spencer x reader and smutty hahaha. Like he's overstimulating her for the first time

If not thats okay. If you do, thankyouuu💞💞

𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥 (𝘚.𝘙)

wc : 1.5k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, overstimulation kink (7 orgasms), dominant!Spencer, mirror play, tears during sex (from intensity), possessive language, emotional vulnerability, implied aftercare, light degradation and praise, Spencer being reverent and obsessive

The idea came to him in the middle of a case—quiet, unassuming, yet all-consuming. Spencer Reid, meticulous and brilliant, had a mind that rarely rested. Lately, his thoughts had been drifting, not to criminal profiles or forensic evidence but to the way you sounded when you moaned his name. The way your thighs trembled. The way your body responded like it was made just for him.

He couldn’t shake it. Not through the jet ride, where he sat too still and too silent, his thumb twitching over the edge of a closed file. Not through the paperwork, where his handwriting slanted too fast, scrawled like a man trying to outrun something. Not even when Hotch barked his name across the conference table, startling him so sharply he dropped his pen.

The thought had embedded itself deep—like barbed wire wrapped around a live wire. Dangerous. Electric. The memory of your last night together wasn’t just vivid—it was visceral. The way your fingers had fisted the sheets, how your voice cracked when you gasped his name. How your thighs had trembled under his touch. And it wasn’t just the memory—it was the hunger for more. For deeper, longer, harder. To see how far he could take you. To see where your breaking point really was.

By the end of the day, Spencer’s patience was shot. Every sound felt too loud, every light too bright. He left without saying goodbye.

The drive to your apartment was a blur of headlights and white-knuckled silence. His hands stayed glued to the steering wheel, jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with purpose.

You didn’t ask questions.

You knew that look. You’d seen it before when he solved an impossible case or recited statistics with a fevered kind of focus. But this was different. There was something darker threaded through his veins tonight—something hungry. Something primal.

By the time the front door slammed behind you, your heart was pounding. Not from fear—but from anticipation. From the ache low in your belly that had been growing since the moment you met his eyes across the BAU bullpen, and he didn’t look away.

And now, here you were.

Naked and trembling on all fours at the edge of your bed, staring into the full-length mirror he’d angled perfectly to reflect the two of you. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths behind you. He was still fully clothed—slacks, white shirt rolled at the sleeves, belt undone but still looped through, like he hadn’t even bothered with the pretense of undressing. Like he needed to stay grounded in control.

“Look at yourself,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. Almost worshipful.

You did.

Your hair was a mess. Lips parted. Eyes gone glassy, heat blooming down your spine. Spencer’s hips were pressed flush to your ass, his cock buried deep inside you, unmoving for now, like he was savoring the feeling of just being there—inside you, around you, consuming you.

His hand braced at your lower back, thumb tracing a gentle circle into your skin. The other gripped your hip, not hard, not soft, just steady. Possessive.

"You’re perfect like this," he said, a breathless tremor in his voice now. "Fuck. I can’t believe I get to do this."

He pulled out slow—deliberately slow—and thrust back in with a force that made you jolt, your hands scrambling against the sheets, eyes wide as you gasped.

"Spencer—"

"Shh," he whispered, his body folding over yours until his chest kissed your back, lips brushing your ear. "We’re not stopping until I’ve memorized every single sound you make."

You whimpered, the sensation overwhelming and exquisite. It was the pause before the plunge, the breath before the scream. And then—

He moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Relentless. Like he had something to prove, not just to you, but to himself. Like he was rewriting every equation in his mind with the way your body reacted to him.

The first orgasm snuck up on you. Sudden. Devastating. You hadn’t even realized it was coming until it was too late—until your thighs clenched, your voice cracked, and his name spilled from your lips in a half-sob of pleasure.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you time to breathe.

"That’s one," he said, dark amusement curling around the syllables. "Let’s see how many more you can give me."

Your body trembled, twitching from overstimulation, but he didn’t let up. He shifted his angle, adjusted his grip, and started again. Slower this time. Crueler. Every movement dragged deliberately, calculated with the kind of obsessive precision only Spencer Reid could possess—like he was testing a theory, refining a hypothesis with your body as his subject, your pleasure as his final proof.

Two.

The second hit harder than the first. It tore through you like a lightning strike—violent and bright, consuming every muscle, every thought. Your body seized, legs locking tight as the tension snapped again. Your voice caught in your throat in a strangled cry, your head thrown back, your knuckles white as they gripped the sheets. He didn't stop. He didn't even pause. Just adjusted his rhythm slightly and kept going like it wasn’t enough. Like it was never going to be enough.

Three.

This one crept in slower. Deeper. It built with a maddening patience, crawling up your spine, nesting in the back of your skull like static before crashing over you. Your limbs went jelly-soft, your mouth falling open in a silent moan as your fingers scrabbled uselessly against the mattress, seeking something solid in the haze of sensation. Eyes rolled back, vision blurred, but his voice broke through.

"You're doing so well," Spencer whispered, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "But I know you can give me more. I know you can."

Four.

Your hips jerked involuntarily, your body betraying you with how fast it built. You cried out his name again, this time ragged and helpless, like a plea for mercy you already knew wouldn’t be granted. The tears came freely now—streaking hot down your cheeks as he gripped your thighs tighter, forcing you back onto him. Deeper. Slower. Crueler. The mirror in front of you had long since become a blur of flushed skin and tears and sweat-slicked desperation.

"Spencer—" you begged, voice cracking apart in your throat.

His answer came like a prayer: low, reverent, terrifying in its devotion. "I’ve barely even started."

Five.

This one hurt. Not in pain, but in magnitude. It cracked something open inside you, reducing you to nothing but nerve endings and instinct. You came undone like glass under pressure, splintering with a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your body trembled violently beneath him, wracked with waves of sensitivity, the world spinning off-kilter. You were past reason, past thought. Every inch of you buzzed, overstimulated to the point of delirium. And still, he didn’t stop.

"That's it," he breathed, kissing between your shoulder blades. "Let me see everything. Give it to me. I want it all."

Six.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t form a single word. It hit like a shockwave—your body seizing again in full-body spasms, muscles clenching hard enough to ache. Sweat slicked your back, gluing you to him where he leaned in, voice murmuring something low and frantic against your skin. You couldn’t understand the words. Couldn’t process anything beyond the roar in your ears and the crushing weight of sensation flooding you.

The world went white for a moment. Your vision blurred, and your consciousness flickered like a faulty lightbulb. You might have sobbed. You might have begged. He never stopped.

Seven.

This time was different. Tender. But that only made it worse. He slowed his thrusts, made them gentle, languid—but your body was so raw, so responsive, that every brush of friction sent you closer to the edge. You were already there, hovering, and the smallest shift sent you spiraling. Your seventh orgasm tore through you like the crescendo to a symphony of torment and worship, built from everything that had come before it. Every tremor stacked, every sound echoed, every plea recorded in the steam-fogged mirror.

You shattered.

By the time he finally stopped, your body was a ruin of itself—spent, pliant, and humming with aftershocks. Broken open and lovingly destroyed. You collapsed forward with a sob, but he caught you before you could fall, wrapping his arms around you like a lifeline, grounding you.

He kissed your shoulder. Your neck. Your cheek. Slow and reverent. Like each kiss was a vow, a tether pulling you back to earth.

"Too much?" he asked gently, his voice low and shaken. He brushed your damp hair back, cupping your cheek, tilting your face toward the mirror.

You looked—eyes glassy, mascara smeared, lips swollen and parted. Flushed. Trembling. You barely recognized yourself.

You couldn’t speak. Your voice had long since left you. You could only nod, weakly.

Spencer let out a breath, trembling with it, as though he’d been holding back just as much as you had. He kissed you again—slower this time, softer, like he needed the contact to tether himself too. His forehead rested against yours.

"You were perfect," he whispered. "I’ve never seen anything so beautiful."

And just before the world faded to black—your body still echoing with every high, every gasp, every whispered demand—you felt it: his arms still around you, holding you steady. Like a sanctuary.

Like you were sacred.

Raw.

Endless.

And holy.

580 notes · View notes

futuremrsreid · 15 days ago

Text

overheard — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: a girl flirts with spencer, leading him to tell her that he has a girlfriend, not realizing that garcia is right behind him. content warnings: secret relationship , they're at a bar , girl hitting on spencer a/n: hiii !! can u tell i love the secret relationship trope by now ? bc i do also theres a small tiny pride and prejudice reference if anyone catches it :')

“Do you want anything to drink?” Spencer asked, his voice gentle as his hand rested on your thigh beneath the table. His fingers squeezed slightly.

The two of you sat in a dimly lit booth at the bar, a casual night out with the team.

You turned your head slightly, considering. “I’ll take a soda,” you said with a soft smile.

Spencer nodded, his thumb brushing over your thigh absentmindedly before he reluctantly pulled away, pushing himself up from the booth. You could see it—the slight hesitation.

The urge to press a kiss to your temple before he left was almost unbearable. It would be so easy—too easy—to forget where you were, who was around. But he caught himself just in time, swallowing down the impulse with a tight-lipped smile instead.

Your eyes met his knowingly, before turning back to JJ and Garcia.

Spencer made his way to the bar, his hands flexing open and closed at his sides as if chasing the phantom sensation of your warmth. He exhaled slowly.

The bar was busy, and it took a moment to catch a bartender’s attention. As he waited, his gaze flickered to the side, and that’s when he noticed her—a woman nursing an almost-empty glass, her eyes fixed on him.

Spencer tensed, his fingers tapping against the counter.He quickly averted his gaze, directing it back toward the bar, subtly shifting his weight in discomfort.

Finally, a bartender stepped in front of him. “What can I get you?”

Spencer blinked, clearing his throat. “Uh—two sodas, please.”

The bartender nodded. As Spencer waited, his eyes drifted back to you. You were giggling at something JJ had said, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and the sight sent a warmth through his chest. He smiled softly to himself before turning his attention back to the bartender—who was now deeply engaged in a conversation with another customer.

Spencer exhaled slowly, realizing he might be stuck here for a while. His fingers tapped lightly against the counter.

That’s when someone suddenly slid into the empty barstool beside him. He turned his head slightly, only to see the woman from earlier—the one he had accidentally made eye contact with.

“Hi,” she greeted, flashing him a wide smile.

“Hi?” Spencer responded, his tone more questioning than anything else.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” she remarked, taking a slow sip from her drink, her gaze lingering on him through long lashes.

Spencer hesitated, his brain momentarily scrambling for a polite but distant response. “Uh… yeah, I don’t come here often,” he finally said, shifting uncomfortably. He glanced at the bartender again, who was now fully engrossed in his conversation and seemingly in no rush to get him the sodas.

“You should,” the woman said, her smile widening.

Spencer swallowed, his shoulders tensing. Social cues weren’t exactly his strong suit, but even he could pick up on this one.

The way she leaned in slightly, the way her eyes remained locked on him—it was clear she wasn’t just making small talk.

His fingers flexed at his side, an unconscious reaction to the absence of your touch. He didn’t like this. Because the only person he wanted to be sitting next to right now was still at the booth, completely unaware of this interaction.

Her hand drifted closer to his on the counter, fingers brushing just barely against his own. Spencer immediately pulled his hand back, hoping she’d take the hint.

But she was too drunk to register it as rejection—if anything, she barely seemed to notice.

He exhaled through his nose, his patience thinning. His eyes flicked back toward you, hoping—praying—you’d look over so he could silently plead for an out. But you were still deep in conversation, completely unaware of his growing discomfort.

“What's your name?” the woman asked, her voice slightly slurred, her smile lazy as she leaned in a little closer.

Spencer hesitated, tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently. “I, uh—I’m Spencer,” he mumbled, keeping his voice polite but distant.

He didn’t return the question.

He wasn’t entirely sure how to extract himself from the conversation without causing a scene. Direct confrontation wasn’t really his style—he much preferred logical exits.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much logic in dealing with an overly persistent drunk woman at a bar.

Thankfully, just then, the bartender finally stopped talking and turned toward him. Spencer wasted no time making himself known.

“Hi, excuse me,” he said. His urgency must have been apparent because the bartender immediately nodded.

“Right, sorry about that,” he said, quickly grabbing two sodas and setting them on the counter.

“Thanks,” Spencer muttered, relieved. He grabbed the drinks, ready to make a quick escape, but just as he turned, he felt it—her hand wrapping lightly around his own.

His entire body tensed. His eyes shot down to where her fingers clung to his, and then slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“You’re cute,” she giggled, her grip lingering.

Spencer’s breath hitched in his throat, an overwhelming discomfort settling in his chest, as he removed his hand from her grip. He had officially had enough. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even think twice.

“Look, I’m just here to grab two sodas for me and my girlfriend,” he blurted, shifting the drinks slightly to emphasize his point.

Spencer always felt a warmth in his chest when he said that word—girlfriend. Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe it. But right now, that feeling didn’t even have a chance to settle, because the moment the words left his mouth, a loud, dramatic gasp sounded from behind him.

His stomach dropped.

No… No, no, no…

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if that would somehow reverse time or make what just happened disappear. But deep down, he already knew.

He turned around hesitantly, almost like he was afraid of what he’d see. And there she was.

Penelope Garcia.

Mouth open, eyes impossibly wide, practically vibrating with the weight of this newfound information.

“Garcia, wait—no—” Spencer started, panic rising in his voice.

But it was too late. She gasped again, spun on her heel, and bolted toward the table.

Spencer stood frozen, still clutching the two sodas, staring after her in absolute horror. He didn’t even care that the woman at the bar had pouted and walked away—his attention was solely on the impending disaster.

At the booth, you were mid-conversation when you suddenly heard someone shout your name. Startled, you turned, only to find Garcia standing in front of you, hands on her hips, eyes ablaze with betrayal.

“How dare you?” she demanded.

You blinked, glancing at JJ, who looked just as confused as you. “What—?”

But you didn’t even get to finish the sentence.

“How could you not tell me you are dating our boy genius?” she exclaimed, her voice full of dramatics, as if you had just personally wounded her.

“What?” JJ blurted, her straw slipping from her lips and falling into her drink.

“Sweetheart, repeat what you just said,” Derek said, grinning so wide, clearly enjoying every second of this. Rossi, sitting beside him, raised an intrigued eyebrow.

And then, from behind Garcia, Spencer slowly came into view.

He stopped a few feet away, standing awkwardly with the sodas still in his hands, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

He was red. His ears, his cheeks—blushing terribly, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Oh. My. God,” Garcia whisper-yelled, her hands flying up to her mouth as realization fully settled in. “It’s true! Oh, my God! How long?”

Derek was cackling. JJ still looked like she was buffering. Rossi sipped his drink, clearly entertained.

Spencer let out a long, slow sigh.

“Well,” he muttered, avoiding everyone’s eyes, “so much for keeping it a secret.”

Spencer carefully maneuvered around Garcia, who was still watching him like a hawk, her arms crossed as if she were about to interrogate him. He set the sodas down on the table before cautiously sliding into the booth next to you, his movements stiff with embarrassment.

“What on earth did you say?” you hissed under your breath, leaning in slightly as the entire team erupted into overlapping chatter around you.

“Nothing!” Spencer insisted, though his voice cracked slightly. He swallowed, shifting awkwardly. “I just… a girl was flirting with me, and I told her I already had a girlfriend. And, uh… Garcia overheard.” His voice got quieter toward the end.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh, though the situation was anything but funny to Spencer.

“I cannot believe this,” JJ muttered, shaking her head in amused disbelief. She swirled her drink in her hand, blinking between the two of you as if processing new information she should have known long ago.

You shifted in your seat, feeling increasingly self-conscious under all their stares. Garcia was practically vibrating with energy as she whispered animatedly to Derek, who was grinning ear to ear, clearly loving every second of this. Rossi, meanwhile, simply stared blankly, his expression unreadable, and JJ—well, she was definitely staring, her slightly tipsy gaze moving between you and Spencer as if still coming to terms with reality.

You turned to Spencer, who was fixated on the glass in front of him, his fingers toying with the condensation as he tried to pretend he wasn’t still very red.

Sighing, you nudged him gently with your knee under the table. “You know… it’s fine,” you murmured.

Spencer looked up at you, eyes cautious.

“Not having to hide anymore,” you clarified, your lips twitching slightly. “It sounds nice.”

Spencer blinked at you for a second before something in his shoulders loosened. His lips parted slightly, then curved into a small, shy smile.

“It does,” he admitted, nodding slightly, his curls bouncing with the motion.

Without really thinking, you reached out and lightly brushed your fingers through his hair, the soft curls slipping between them. “Now I can touch you,” you teased.

Spencer’s smile widened, his blush deepening—but this time, there was something more relaxed about it. He wasn’t panicked anymore.

The moment was sweet. Soft.

And then—

“Oh my god, they're touching!”

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futuremrsreid · 19 days ago

Note

thinking about headcanons where hotch is interviewing reader to help with a case and she just points towards spence and is like i’ll tell the brown eyed delight over there everything even my social security number can he interview me pls? ahahah and it’s just super flirty reader with spence and even leaves him her phone number at the end… which purr i would do that to boyband spence as well 😫🙏🏼

you’re just a witness, so hotch expects this to be a routine conversation.

“We just need to ask you a few questions about what you saw.”

you nod, but then you see spencer standing in the corner.

you lean back in your chair, cross your arms, and smirk.

“I’ll tell him everything.” you say. hotch blinks. “Excuse me?”

you point directly at Spencer. spencer chokes on air.

hotch closes his eyes like he’s asking for patience from above.

“Dr. Reid can conduct the interview.” because frankly, hotch does not have the patience for this today.

spencer is still buffering. he awkwardly sits down across from you, fumbling to get his notepad out.

“U-Um, so, uh, can you state your full name for the record?”

you just lean forward, smirk playing on your lips.

“Of course. Anything for you.”

you answer his questions, sure. But you make sure to absolutely rattle him while you do.

“D-Do you have any connections to the suspect?”

“No, but I would like a connection to you.”

spencer’s face is getting redder and redder. his ears are burning. hotch is standing in the corner wishing he was anywhere else.

spencer is trying to stay professional. trying to get through the interview. but every time he so much as looks at you, you’re smirking at him.

the interview is finally over, and spencer is frazzled beyond belief. you take his notepad, write something down, and slide it back to him.

he blinks at it. “What’s this?”

“My number,” you say, standing up. “For official FBI business, of course.”

spencer stares at the number. “Oh—uh—thank you?”

spencer is still staring at the paper when hotch sighs and says,

“Reid, let’s go.”

morgan probably finds out almost immediately.

“So, pretty boy, flirty suspect left you her number?”

“Sh-She was just being friendly! It wasn’t—it wasn’t serious—”

“Uh-huh.”

Garcia hears about it next and demands to see your number.

“I love her already,” she declares.

spencer spends literal hours staring at your number, panicking. he overthinks every possible scenario.

the next morning, spencer is so obviously distracted.

he jumps when his phone vibrates. he keeps checking it when he thinks no one is looking.

garcia snatches his phone and reads your message.

“‘Miss me yet?’ OH MY GOD.”

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futuremrsreid · 24 days ago

Text

NASTY DOG • S.REID

SUMMARY: when Spencer finds himself back in his hometown on a case, he never expected to run into you, his Highschool sweetheart.

PAIRING: fem!reader x perv!spencer

tags: reader is a bombshell, reader wears heels, reader canonly has big breasts, Spencer cannot stop fiending over reader, he needs a face full of boobs

a/n: perv Spencer solves all my problems 😵‍💫 not proof read and I’m currently high as a kite

w/c: 3.0K

DR SPENCER REID had a problem. A big one. And it wasn’t his IQ, eidetic memory, or statistical knowledge of serial killers.

It was you.

You, with your radiant smile, your effortless charm, and a body that could make grown men weak in the knees. The worst part? You had no idea.

And that drove him absolutely insane.

You were oblivious to the effect you had on people, strutting into the BAU in heels that made your legs look just a little bit longer, wearing dresses that clung in all the right places. It wasn’t intentional—you just liked to feel cute—but Spencer? Spencer suffered.

He tried to be a gentleman. He really did. But then you’d absentmindedly play with the chain around your neck, biting your lip in concentration as you studied a file, and suddenly, his mind wasn’t on the case anymore.

It was on you. Your lips. Your fingers. Your throat.

The way your perfume lingered whenever you passed him, floral and sweet, was enough to short-circuit his brain. You’d lean over his desk, oblivious to how your cleavage was right there, and ask something completely innocent.

“Hey, Spence, can you help me explain this profile again? The LAPD is a little confused.”

His throat would go dry. His hands clenched under the desk, willing himself not to let his gaze drop. Not to let his mind wander to things it definitely shouldn’t.

But his thoughts always betrayed him.

And God help him when you stretched, arms above your head, making your shirt ride up just a little, exposing the soft skin of your stomach. Or when you bent over to pick up a fallen pen, giving him an unholy view of your curves.

Spencer wasn’t proud of it. The way his thoughts turned filthy in a matter of seconds. The way he sometimes found himself staying late in the office just so he could sit in the chair you had occupied, inhaling the lingering scent of your perfume like a desperate man.

The way he memorized the little noises you made when you were frustrated, so he could imagine how they’d sound in… other contexts.

He was down bad.

And the worst part? You had no clue.

You giggled at his jokes, touched his arm casually, leaned close when he talked—probably thinking he was too sweet, too innocent to ever have impure thoughts.

You couldn’t be more wrong.

One day, you caught him staring—really staring—as you licked a bit of icing off your thumb after a slice of cake Garcia brought in. Your brows furrowed.

“You okay, Spence?”

His jaw clenched. He tore his gaze away and nodded stiffly. “Mhm.”

Spencer was unraveling.

The moment you caught him staring, really staring, at you licking icing off your thumb, he knew he was doomed.

He’d been careful before. Kept his thoughts contained, maintained the illusion of control. But that moment? That single, fleeting second when your brows furrowed in concern, your lips still slightly parted, your thumb glistening? It had cracked something inside him.

And now, everything was worse.

Everything about you was a test, and Spencer was failing.

Like now.

You were sitting on the edge of his desk, swinging your legs slightly, the soft click of your heels against the wood filling the space between you. The team had just wrapped up a case, and everyone was unwinding in their own way—Morgan and Garcia were engaged in some playful banter, JJ and Emily were chatting quietly, and you?

You had made yourself comfortable next to him.

“So,” you mused, tapping a manicured nail against the case file in front of him. “Explain this whole… psychics magic thing to me again? I swear, sometimes I think your brain runs on another frequency.”

Spencer swallowed, his hands tightening into fists in his lap. He could explain it. It was an easy enough request.

But you were so close.

Close enough that if he turned his head just a little, his lips would nearly brush against your shoulder. Close enough that your perfume was clouding his thoughts, floral and sweet, a scent he’d come to associate only with you.

And then you did it again.

You bit your lip in thought, eyes scanning the file, completely oblivious to the way Spencer’s gaze dropped like a magnet, drawn to the soft, plump curve of your mouth.

He had to force himself to look away, focusing on a spot anywhere that wasn’t you.

“Right,” he started, voice tight. “Well first of all the reaction—”

But then your fingers brushed against his.

It was nothing. A fleeting touch. You were just shifting, adjusting, existing in your usual, unconscious way.

But to Spencer? It was an electric shock straight to his spine.

He inhaled sharply, shifting in his chair, pretending to be deeply invested in the case file when, in reality, he hadn’t registered a single word on the page.

“Spence?” Your voice was soft, teasing. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

No.

Not even remotely.

Because now, your fingers were still touching his.

His pulse was a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He needed to move. Needed to put distance between you before he did something stupid.

But then you tilted your head, your hair cascading over your shoulder, and that was when he noticed it.

Your necklace.

That damn, delicate chain you always fidgeted with. The one that had driven him insane more times than he could count.

And now? Now it had slipped down slightly, the pendant resting against the hollow of your throat, drawing his attention there.

Spencer clenched his jaw.

He could not be thinking about your throat. He could not be wondering how it would feel if he pressed his lips there, how your pulse would flutter beneath his mouth—

“Spence?”

His head snapped up.

You were staring at him, brows raised, a small, knowing smile on your lips.

Oh, no.

You knew.

Or at least, you suspected something.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, yanking his hand away as if your touch burned. “I should—uh—get some tea.”

Lame. So unbelievably lame.

But you just giggled. “You don’t even drink green tea .”

Spencer muttered something unintelligible and practically fled to the break room, gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white.

This was getting out of hand.

He had always been good at controlling his impulses. He had trained himself to push past distractions, to focus, to keep his thoughts in check.

But you were proving to be an impossible equation.

It only got worse when the storm hit.

The team had been planning to leave early that evening, but the universe had other plans. A sudden downpour, heavy and relentless, had trapped everyone in the office. Morgan had grumbled about the drive home, Emily had sighed dramatically about her soaked shoes, and you?

You had sighed, looking out the window with a soft pout, clearly disappointed.

Spencer had to look away before he did something stupid, like stare at your lips again.

Eventually, the team had scattered, each person waiting out the rain in their own way. Garcia had dragged JJ off to help her with something, Morgan had disappeared down the hall, and somehow—somehow—Spencer had ended up alone in the bullpen.

With you.

You were perched on his desk again, scrolling through your phone, completely at ease.

Spencer, on the other hand, was about to lose his mind.

You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a small hum, and his gaze betrayed him again, dropping to where your shirt rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of soft skin.

He needed help.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you mused, looking up from your phone.

Spencer blinked. “Uh. Just thinking.”

You smiled. “About what?”

You.

He coughed. “Uh. The, um. Rain. It’s—uh—very hard- I mean uhm heavy..?”

A beat of silence.

Then you laughed.

A real, soft, sweet laugh that made his stomach flip in the most inconvenient way.

“Wow, Spence. You’re really on a roll with the small talk tonight.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t—I’m just—”

And then you did it. The final straw.

You scooted closer, your knees brushing against his, tilting your head ever so slightly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

And that was it.

Something snapped.

He didn’t think. He didn’t analyze. He just acted.

One second, he was struggling for words, drowning in the scent of your perfume. The next?

His lips were on yours.

Soft. Hesitant. Like he was waiting for you to pull away, to laugh, to tell him he’d completely misread the situation.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you melted into him.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and suddenly, hesitation was gone. His hands found your waist, gripping tight like he was terrified you’d disappear.

And when you let out the softest little noise against his lips?

Spencer was done for.

By the time you pulled away, both of you were breathless, your eyes wide, lips slightly swollen.

“Wow,” you whispered.

Spencer let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Wow.”

A slow, teasing smile spread across your lips. “So that’s what’s been distracting you.”

He groaned, dropping his head against your shoulder, and you laughed, wrapping your arms around him like you’d been waiting for this moment just as much as he had.

Even now that you were dating, Spencer Reid still had a problem.

It was worse, really. Because now that he was allowed to touch you, kiss you, and hold you close, the temptation had only become harder to resist.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you. He did, more than he could put into words. But Spencer, being Spencer, was always just a little too shy, a little too embarrassed to fully admit how much you affected him.

Like right now, for example.

You were sitting on the couch in his apartment, your legs draped over his lap as you typed on your phone. Spencer sat beside you, trying desperately to act normal, though his mind was anything but.

He was so close to you. Too close, really. The scent of your perfume lingered around him, sweet and intoxicating, and every time you shifted, the soft curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers itched to touch you, to run his hands over the smooth fabric of your clothes, but his brain screamed at him to keep his distance.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, attempting to focus on something other than the way your skin seemed to glow under the soft light of his apartment. “Just thinking.”

You paused and glanced at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “About what?”

Spencer’s heart raced as his mind blanked. Don’t look at her, he begged himself. He could feel his gaze drifting toward you, the curve of your body so impossibly close. “The case from yesterday,” he managed to croak out.

You seemed to sense the tension, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Sure, Spence,” you teased, “the case. But you seem… distracted.” You leaned forward slightly, your legs shifting in his lap as you adjusted yourself. Spencer’s throat went dry. His heart pounded.

He wanted to touch you so badly. He wanted to let himself just be with you—really be with you. But the thoughts swirling in his mind were overwhelming. He didn’t know if he could handle it. You were so beautiful, so confident, and here he was, the shy, awkward genius, struggling just to sit beside you.

“Sorry,” he muttered again, unable to help himself. “I’m just… not good at this.”

You tilted your head in that familiar, concerned way, and Spencer knew it was now or never. He couldn’t keep bottling everything up. “At what?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Being close,” he admitted softly, “being… with you.”

You blinked, a soft understanding crossing your features. “Spence, you don’t need to be embarrassed. We’re together. You can let go.”

Letting out a breath, Spencer closed his eyes, feeling the overwhelming warmth of your words. He shifted slightly, too aware of the heat between you, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you shifted again, this time with a casualness that took him by surprise. You leaned back slightly, looking at him with those soft eyes of yours that made him feel like the world had faded away.

“Come here,” you said gently, pulling him closer. Spencer’s stomach twisted with nerves as you guided him down to your chest. The way your body moved against his made it almost impossible to concentrate. He was on the edge of losing control, but you were just so warm.

And before he could stop himself, he lowered his head to rest against your chest, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat calming him, making him feel more relaxed than he had in weeks. He let out a shaky sigh, feeling a mix of relief and discomfort flood his senses.

Your fingers gently combed through his hair, and Spencer couldn’t stop the tiny hum of pleasure that escaped his throat. He was so close to you now, so deeply buried in the softness of your chest, and all he could think about was how he was finally allowed to feel you like this.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. The tension that had held him rigid before melted away under the comfort of your embrace.

You smiled softly, running your fingers through his hair again. “I’m glad you’re relaxing, Spence. You deserve it.”

He wanted to stay like this forever. In this moment, there was no case to worry about, no evil lurking in the world. Just the two of you, together, as you held him close. He closed his eyes, his body relaxing into yours.

The temptation to touch you, to feel every inch of your body under his fingertips, was nearly unbearable. He kept his hands at his sides, gripping the fabric of his pants, trying not to act on the thoughts swirling in his head. But the sensation of your soft chest beneath his cheek, the faint scent of your perfume filling his lungs—everything about this was too much.

As if sensing his internal struggle, you shifted slightly, and your hand slid gently over his back, drawing lazy circles against his skin. It was a simple gesture, yet it sent a jolt of heat through Spencer’s body.

“Spence,” you murmured, your voice tender. “You can touch me. It’s okay.”

He immediately froze, unsure whether he should listen to you or not. He felt a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over him. What if I touch her wrong? What if he crossed a line he wasn’t ready to cross?

But then, your hands found his, guiding them to your waist as you softly cupped his face, bringing his gaze back to yours. The softness of your touch, the way your hands moved over his body so effortlessly, made him feel like he was losing control in the best way possible.

Spencer swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. “I don’t know if I can… I don’t want to make it weird,” he admitted, his voice cracking as he spoke.

You smiled at him, your lips curving up in a gentle, loving way. “Spence, it’s already a little weird,” you teased, “but that’s what makes it fun. We’re figuring this out together.”

He gave you a nervous laugh, a small chuckle that held all his uncertainty. And then, before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips gently to your chest, right where your heart beat beneath your shirt. He felt the warmth of your body against his lips, and the contact made him dizzy with sensation.

When he pulled back, he saw the softness in your eyes, the affection. You didn’t push him away. You didn’t judge him. You just… let him be.

“Spence,” you whispered again, a hint of amusement in your voice. “You’re so cute

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