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reidrum · 21 hours ago

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you held my hand it and it was not enough lia parfaitblogs you come back onto my wifi and hurt me like that what is the reason. about to become the fifty fourth star death this century nbd.

astronomy ❀ s. reid x reader

in which nothing can live forever, and you would be naive to believe that something as minor as this relationship will be exempt from that fate.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: s10 spencer reid. maeve as a plot point. argument yay. spencer says some mean things (#needthat). all around unhappiness. stars and light and the sun. lack of communication. reader my avoidant attachment queen. i’m holding your hand throughout 🫂 word count: 2.7k a/n: a late happy mercury retrograde. sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth for a hot minute. here's how my brains been feeling. i don't really know what this is. it was written amidst a dissociative episode. hopefully future me figures it out.

"your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." (fyodor dostoevsky)

A melodic hum of air whirs in this apartment. Keeping dust particles from settling on too many surfaces, swirling around your heads. Tiny, and unseen, but there. You familiarise yourself with the thought of them being there. They tickle your skin when you sit down in the armchair nobody ever really resides in now, and you find comfort in knowing there is more that exists invisibly than just your own feelings.

He does not say anything to you as you tuck your feet beneath yourself, and it hurts, but a large part of you doesn't want him to anyways. He will only say things that will liquidise your brain into thinking he cares more than he does, and you have had too long of a day to act like he is not using bare palms to crush your heart. Too heavy of a week to let him bypass your walls once again.

A foreign voice tells the air you need to talk, and you distantly recognise it as your own. You had rehearsed the very sentence in your car a thousand times. Once it got past your lips, this would all become easier to discuss.

It isn't.

You're focussed on the steam that lifts from a cup of coffee he had probably made seconds before you knocked on his door. An impromptu visit he did not ask you for, but you hope he understands your awful guest manners once this is all over.

"Talk about what?" he answers the question you don't even remember asking, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him tense when a shuddering breath leaves your lips.

You wonder if he's shocked when you tell him you want to end things.

It's storming outside. The rain pelting against the window mirrors your heavy heart, but you aren't too naive to believe it is storming in your name. Though, there are few pleasures in life you still enjoy these days, and perhaps pretending the universe is centring around you for just this one night isn't selfish.

"You want to end things," he repeats your words back to you. They don't sound right. Like a language Earth's never discovered. Two weeks ago you wouldn't have ever dreamed uttering these words.

Two weeks ago, you were incandescent. Light bounced off your skin, the rays of sunlight creating a halo around you that would leave anyone breathless. Spencer Reid would never be an outlier in that demographic.

You'd sat in a very similar position to how you are now, but your head was in the space between his jawline and his shoulder, and your hands were woven within his. Thumbs stroked the skin, and he'd bitten back a comment about how soft you felt.

Unfinished — but definitely touched — Thai food sat atop the coffee table in front of your bodies, and the tenth Doctor Who episode in a row was playing on the television. He'd discovered your weakness for his widened eyes and hands-on coercion, and used and abused the power ever since.

He stared down at you, and you could feel him without the need to look up. You should've. Perhaps, if you'd crawled out of the comfort being physically entwined with Spencer Reid on his living room couch provided, you would've noticed that beneath his intense gaze on the sunlight encircling your body, he was thinking about the dead.

You didn't, though. You had laughed as he quoted lines as they were said of the episode he'd no doubt seen a thousand times, shoving his shoulder and calling him a nerd with the stupidest grin on your face, and the sweetest flutter of your heart.

He said, "Nerd is a noun to describe someone who is an expert in one particular thing. I am an expert in a lot more than one."

And you replied, "Oh, of course. My mistake. What else are you an expert in, Spencer?"

Your skin would tingle, because he'd take the invitation for what it was, and his lips would brush against your ear as he whispered, "You, for starters."

And you'd get whiplash from how easy he was to go from the biggest dork on the planet to the very reason you researched early onset heart attacks.

One week ago, you were cracking.

Instead of the halo glow that settled around your body, it'd fractured. Sticks of light throwing out in every direction, but still reflecting back the hope you had for this crumbling relationship.

Knives pelted into your edges with every new piece of information you learnt.

A book you'd never paid mind to, now opened on the front page, a dedication to his name, accompanied by another name you'd only heard in passing whispers. The written down addresses of the nearest pay phones from his apartment, a phone number circled three times in the corner of the page. Written down for no reason. You knew he didn't need it, really. The slow withdrawals of telling you about his life the further into it he gets. Not mentioning more about a past relationship than that it'd ended tragically.

The more dots you connected, the closer your personal implosion neared.

You'd apologised to him, saying you didn't want him to relive anything that would return his mind somewhere darker than you can ever fathom.

"I have you, now. I can't ever get there again even if I tried to," he said. You stupidly took his words with full intent, head reeling and heart racing all over again.

You smiled, and kissed him. He tasted of coffee and content. He kissed you back with more force than you had left in you, and you'd gone down like a sinking ship. Falling back against his couch cushions, fingers entwined in his hair.

Each new day was another loss to cut. Four days ago, it was his hands refusing to touch you intimately. Even when you'd moved them for him, pleading him with your own body. Three days ago, it was his honesty. You'd grown desperate.

Questioning if he was okay and receiving a wordless hum in response. If he wanted to order food, and getting a disgruntled non-answer. Sitting with a foot between your two bodies this time, albeit with your feet in his lap, so maybe you were just as close as you were last week by principle. Finally, seeing if he actually wanted you there, with him, and him taking more than one second to give you his,

"Yes. Obviously."

You lack energy when you are trying so desperately to stay alive, so you did not question why he had to think about his answer, unsure if you needed him to tell you, regardless. His mind was increasingly becoming preoccupied with the girl behind his book dedication. Behind the payphone addresses, and the thrice times circled phone number. He was disintegrating before your eyes, and your relationship was slipping through the cracks.

"Why?" he asks you, and you're forced to stop reliving every single moment that brought you here. You will again tomorrow, anyways. The day after that, too. You will probably live through the end of this relationship a thousand times before you begin to heal. A thousand, to mirror every single shard of your heart lain out before him.

Your voice hurts to use when you reply. "Because you don't love me, Spencer."

You're grateful he doesn't scramble to disprove your claims. You're sure it would hurt even more to hear him force a lie.

He does, however, look confused. By you. Not your words, though. You know they register fully because the confusion doesn't come until you meet his eyes, and he really takes you in. For the first time since you met him, you see the truth behind his gaze. A disgusting reality that he is not staring at you with love, or even a hint of recognition.

No, to him, you are a stranger. Somebody he does not know, sitting in his unused armchair across the living room, telling him words you don't really want to be saying. You don't get that luxury of choice, though.

"Your silence is answer enough," you murmur, and you force your limbs to react to your brain's signals, feet pressed firmly on the floor as you stand.

"Hey, wait," he stops you from moving without even a lick of firmness. You grow sick, knowing he will always have some subconscious hold on you that you'll never not respond to. "Why do you say that? Have I done something to make you feel that way?"

Yes, you want to scream. Yes, you have, and I'm begging you to tell me I'm wrong and that you do love me. Instead, you're jumping through hoops to turn this into an unnecessary conversation.

However, "I'm just becoming... aware. Of certain things. That would mean us ending things is the best thing to do," is what you do say.

"Like what?" he quips.

"Things."

Air blows out his nose, frustratedly. "That's not an answer."

Light bulbs burn out when the filament — the three wires in its centre — breaks down, and ceases to produce electricity. Burning out after an average of a thousand hours per lightbulb, because nothing can live forever. Nothing can live forever, for the sun will eventually burn out. Not in this lifetime, and definitely not in the next five, or ten, or twenty. The hydrogen will eventually deplete, and it will die the way fifty-two stars die each century. Nothing can live forever, and you would be naive to believe that something as minor as this relationship will be exempt from that fate.

"What does it matter, Spencer?" you whisper. A pathetic tone for response, but you think you'll choke on anything louder.

"You matter," he argues. Words are bullets, and he seems to have perfect aim.

"Not to you, I don't," you stumble over your feet as you try to head towards his door. You've said what you needed to say. You've ended things. You can go, and this can all be over.

"Yes, you do," he's standing too. He got closer to you at some point. You don't really remember.

"You don't even know me!"

You're crying, you think. Staring at him, and he's blurry, which must mean your eyes are full of water. Ridiculous, because he is very clearly not. Too emotional for this conversation to drag out any longer, and yet he has the power to keep you constrained to it like a prison as long as he keeps talking.

"You're shutting me out as a form of defence for something," he says. The words are calm, but he's taken on a higher pitch in his voice, which tells you this is affecting him. Or maybe he's pretending. "I don't know what. You won't tell me. That's your prerogative, I guess."

"You don't love me," you repeat the words from earlier with less conviction. You believe them less, yes, but still trust your instincts enough for them to hurt.

"I don't understand why you think that," he replies, a hand dragging down his face. "I don't. All the knowledge in the world, and I cannot think of any logical reason behind you believing that."

"Who's Maeve?"

The silence that follows is deafening. His head snaps up and his hands fall limp by his sides, your vision clearing in an instant. You know, deep down, who Maeve is. The tragic ending to an even more tragic relationship has her name printed all over it.

"That's why you think I don't love you." It isn't a question, and he almost sounds like he's ridiculing you for coming to such a conclusion.

Your panic rises. "I saw the book, and the addresses, and the—"

"—Maeve is dead!" Your heart sinks, as, for the first time in your life, you see Spencer Reid exhibit anger. No, not anger. He is not angry. Not with you, at least. He's hurt. "I am never going to get over her because she is dead. I watched a bullet go into her head. I mourned her, and I told myself I would never let myself get that close to somebody again. Yet, here you stand."

You stay silent. You don't know if he's finished speaking. If he is, he doesn't let you know. He doesn't prompt you for a response. He continues before you even start to think of something to say back.

"I didn't plan on letting you into my life like this. When I met you, you were not supposed to be this important to me. Is that why you think I don't love you? Because you saw me and got attached at first sight, and had to work for me to give you attention?" Your chest aches. "Was it because I distanced myself from you for weeks in the beginning? Every coffee date, more spread out than the last. Not letting you into my space until you were my girlfriend? No sex for months?"

"You're angry," you state the obvious, and his eyebrows shoot up. A deprecating laugh leaves his lips. Not to deprecate himself, though. No, you.

"You somehow played a role in getting me out of the self-loathing pit I fell into after Maeve died, and now you're telling me I don't love you—Yes, I'm angry! We were fine two weeks ago. I loved you the same way I did two weeks ago as I do right now. I'm frustrated, because I don't understand how you can possibly believe my feelings for you have changed so drastically!"

"The books are new. And the addresses. And the phone number," you say, almost desperately.

"No. They're not. I have had that copy of that book for two years. Those addresses have been printed in there for longer. Everything you are finding are results of you noticing more about my apartment, which happens when you are in a space often enough. You will pick up on things you didn't notice the first time you were here. Or the second. Or maybe even the tenth. I have not hidden the fact that I had a girlfriend two years ago from you. Just how it ended." You don't have any energy to fight back, despite how badly you want to. You suppose, deep down, you know you deserve this. His bulleted words and cold voice. Even his sarcasm, as he drawls, "I hope you can forgive me for not making you privy to my ex-girlfriend's death."

"Spencer," you take a step forward, and he stiffens, so you halt.

Now, you feel stupid. Scrutinised under his gaze, knowing how ridiculous he probably now views you as. Starting an argument over something you should've just asked him about. Driving yourself crazy, letting every single element still fuelling your mind run dry, when you could've just said something.

"Is this going to be a one time thing?" he asks you, carefully levelling his voice. To hide how he really feels, or to make you feel worse, you don't know. "Or should I live in fear of you jumping to conclusions every time something from my past gets brought up?"

It isn't a nice assumption to make, but it's fair. You give him that. Still, your gut twists uncomfortably, each organ stuttering in their role of keeping you alive for only a second. Just enough for you to feel sick, and stumble backwards.

"I... I don't know," you provide him with honesty. "I'm sorry," you add, quietly. A poor attempt at making this situation any better. A bandaid over a bullet hole.

"I know," and you're sure he does. There's bound to be regret painted on your face, mixing wonderfully with fear of where this relationship is going to go now.

You don't even want to ask him, but you're sure if he doesn't force you to, you'll start throwing up at his feet. "Do you want me to go?"

A shuddering breath is his response. You take it for what it is, and nod your head with the most sincere smile you can conjure up. You barely have anything to collect before you leave. Just your ruined mind, and new astronomical statistics.

Fifty-two star deaths this century just became fifty-three.

your reblogs and replies are always welcome ♡

#fic rec #lia 🪐#that fuckass book my god #🚬

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reidrum · 3 days ago

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hi i’m feeling like really uninspired so i’m opening requests if yall have any it can be any genre fluff or angst or smut or prompt or anything just something anything please 🙏🏽

#spencer reid x reader

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reidrum · 3 days ago

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bimbo receptionist my beloved!!!!!!!!!!! i’m gonna scream i love them i love the way you write them i love the way spencer loves i love love it all

Spencer’s chest aches in a way he can’t pinpoint, a vulnerability spreading through him that he rarely allows himself to feel. He’s not used to people taking such gentle care of his anxieties, treating his quirks as something precious rather than burdensome. A small, quiet part of him wonders if he deserves this kind of thoughtfulness, this careful, intentional love you offer without hesitation.

like no baby loving you is so easy !!! i will sob they wrap my heart in the warmest blanket that i feel you personally heated up for me thank you

Sugar, Spice, Spencer's Advice - S.R

everyone expects spencer reid to fall for purely intellectual types, but what they don't know is your ability to remember his rambling lessons and your diligent googled research makes him feel irrationally turned on

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader warnings: established relationship, some suggestive content, brief mention of food-play (non-graphic, discussion only), spencer being protective, fluff af, spencer's negative outlook on sugar/food (super brief), teasing/banter, flustered spence wc: 1.4k request: here!

You’re happily licking at your ice cream cone, eyes soft with uncomplicated happiness, and Spencer thinks he’s becoming entirely too familiar with this feeling. It’s habitual. To observe you is like revisiting his favorite passage in a beloved book, each time discovering nuances he’s missed before.

He’d given in the instant your expression had turned imploring — big, pleading eyes, soft pout — your most effective weapon. Spencer has abandoned all pretense that he can resist your nightly sugar-driven rituals.

He’d pondered briefly the psychological undercurrents of your craving, but each theory usually ends up dissolving when he’s confronted by the smile you give him when he caves.

His attention drifts back just as your feet land on the dashboard. Spencer half-smiles at the sight of those slip-ons, your comfy choice through the entire day of painfully predictable romance movies. He was pretty sure he lost the plot somewhere around hour two — another mistaken identity plot twist, seriously? — but keeping track of said plot wasn’t really the point anyway.

He’d watch paint dry if it meant hearing you laugh like that, but thankfully you usually pick slightly better entertainment. Usually.

Spencer reaches over instinctively, his hand finding its place on your thigh, patting twice for good measure.

“Hey, feet off the dash, please,” he says. “Airbags deploy faster than you think, and personally, I’m pretty attached to the current arrangement of your features.”

His mind trips over the calculation against the embarrassment of sounding like an overbearing parent. He’s not even your husband yet. Yet.

But you immediately drop your feet without complaint, settling into a position that looks decidedly safer. Spencer breathes a little easier. He gives your thigh a grateful squeeze, his thumb brushing back and forth just once in a wordless thank you.

You tuck your legs beneath you, body angled toward him, elbow planted on the center console, cheek resting in your palm.

“My face appreciates you looking out for it,” you tease gently. “Always looking out for me actually. Is there anything else I do that’s, like, secretly super dangerous?”

Spencer’s eyes catch yours, and he lets out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Come here,” he murmurs, lifting his hand from your thigh to sweep his thumb along the edge of your mouth, collecting the vanilla ice cream that’s smeared there. “As far as dangerous decisions go, I’d say your habit of leaving candles burning unattended ranks pretty high. One of these days you’re going to burn the whole place down, sweetheart.”

“But you said most fires from candles happen because of flammable stuff near them, not just leaving them burning,” you remind him sweetly, nose wrinkling with affection. “So really, as long as I keep things away from my candles, I’m totally safe. And I always listen to you about that.”

His heart flutters with messy pride and affection that makes him feel embarrassingly sentimental. Sure, conversations about Marcel Proust or string theory aren’t exactly your cup of tea (he’s pretty sure you’d turn your nose up at the mere thought), but there’s this distinctly genuine and wonderful way you navigate the world.

You absorb everything he says — half-formed ideas, scattered facts, fleeting memories — in a way that weirdly puts eidetic memories to shame.

It’s dizzying, actually, the way you’re smiling at him right now, effortlessly beautiful and clearly unaware that he’s suddenly acutely conscious of how his pulse is pounding.

He loves you, he knows he does, deeply, and apparently by the way his face flushes hot and his breathing quickens, he’s more turned on by your quiet brilliance than he ever expected.

“Okay, so candles are covered,” he says with mock seriousness, “but what about all my advice on not talking to strangers or, I don’t know, not accepting free candy from mysterious vans? Are those making the cut too?”

“Come on, Spencer, you taught me better than that,” you say proudly. “I know all about risk assessment now, if someone seems sketchy or pushes too hard, it’s probably a danger sign. And,” you add with a satisfied smile, “that’s why you’re the only one allowed to take me for sweets. Want a bite?”

Spencer eyes the melting ice cream warily, the overly sweet scent doing nothing to tempt him, it’s essentially frozen sugar, after all, objectively terrible for him. The mental list of reasons to politely decline is endless.

But the knowledge that your lips have just been there sets off a chain reaction, desire eclipsing logic. Suddenly, he’s more than willing to abandon nutritional morals for the vague promise of an indirect kiss. Though, admittedly, he would much rather prefer the direct approach. But he’s fairly certain that running into a telephone pole would rank even higher risk wise than unattended candles or dashboard hazards.

So, instead, he ducks his head, taking a careful bite, instantly regretting it when the sticky sweet cold paints his cheek.

Your giggles ripple, making him smile sheepishly as you shift closer. He expects your thumb, mirroring his earlier gesture, but then your lips brush against his cheek, your tongue catching the vanilla drip. Every ounce of rationality deserts him into one helplessly smitten mess.

“You know, saliva actually cleans better than wiping,” you announce thoughtfully. “So, you’re welcome, Spence.”

He’s half certain he’s never mentioned anything about saliva enzymes, but then again, he’s so thoroughly distracted by you most of the time he might’ve. It sounds exactly the kind of oddly specific detail he’d share.

“Okay,” he manages, unable to suppress a smile. “Where exactly did you learn that one?”

“I googled it.” You tilt your head. “Like, I thought food-play might be fun to try with you?” You shrug lightly, expression utterly innocent as if discussing something far less suggestive. “But then all these articles said it can get kinda gross and messy, and honestly, Spencer, I realized you’d probably just stress about germs and clean-up, and there’s no way I’d enjoy it if you weren’t totally relaxed and happy.”

Of all the things he anticipated you might say tonight, casually mentioning food play research was not on the list. It lands like a dropped grenade, exploding into fragments of thoughts he cannot possibly hope to piece together.

His cheeks burn hot as images — sticky and indecent images — flood his mind without permission. Vanilla dripping slowly down your collarbone, lips parted in invitation, eyes sparkling with that innocent curiosity he adores.

But beneath this sudden rush of desire lies something even softer because he can almost see it — your earnest expression as you scroll through webpages, considering all the possible complications, all the ways he might react.

“You know, angel, next time just come straight to me, okay? I promise my answers are better, and less traumatizing, than whatever you’ll find online.”

“Well, don’t blame me when you start getting texts at two a.m. about my random questions.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you. “I think we both know that if my phone goes off at two a.m., you’re probably not looking for statistics.”

You smile at that.

“I mean, yeah, probably,” you concede. “But honestly, Spence, I did read this thing about late-night dopamine spikes or whatever and —,”

He doesn’t think. He can’t think. The moment the car is in park, his body moves on its own, leaning across the console, hands gently cupping your face as he silences your adorable scientific ramble. He’s never felt such urgency, such an intense, overwhelming need to kiss someone as he does right now. It’s impulsive, reckless, completely out of character, and yet he feels no regret. Only relief. Only you.

For once in his analytical life, Spencer lets instinct win, savoring your lips and the small, surprised sound you make against him. He hopes you hear in his kiss everything he can’t yet put into words.

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

#fic rec #maria 🌷

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reidrum · 3 days ago

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late night WITH MEEEE exactly no other reason he needs that much coffee i am the energizer bunny in bed with him !!!!!

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reidrum · 3 days ago

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i am actually the biggest sucker for religious and literary tones during sex as someone who cannot be more far removed from the bible ironically . this was SOOO . also i just love when two people need terrible outlets for their own pain and use each other for their mutual demise it is so poetic and hot honestly i eat it up everytime

𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!reader Category: smut 18+ MDNI, angst Summary: Attending Rossi's wedding while nursing the betrayal of your boyfriend, you find solace (and revenge) in the arms of Dr. Spencer Reid. Content: 7.7k porn with a plot. Mentions of smoking and drinking, reader wears a dress, heels, and make up, and cheats on her shitty bf, semi-public sex, oral (m and f receiving), softdom!Spencer, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, reader is called naughty girl and good girl, very slight degradation, lots of praise, big dick!Spencer, size kink, unprotected p in v, creampie, rumination and references to sin and Eve and religion in general, probably blasphemous, Jeid mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, this is kinda toxic but it's sexy I swear (I HOPE; yell at me nicely if i missed anything) A/N: this fic had been MARINATING for more than a month. Probably overwritten and self-indulgent, years of Catholic trauma rlly just spilled onto my docs ya know. Tried very very hard to make the smut worth it because there's so much build up and I'd hate for the smut to be meh. Lost the plot multiple times. Reached the point of i’m sick of this fic pls let it end but ultimately it's a piece that I’m actually proud of. Dedicated to user @notlongtolove for the yap fest and brainstorming, iykyk!!! Pls enjoy while I rejoice; this mammoth is finally over. Special request to leave a comment so I feel accomplished, pretty please tyyyy.

Rossi's wedding had been your opportunity to introduce your new boyfriend to the team. You've taken great pains to keep your relationship private, a feat that makes you proud because the amount of things that gets past Penelope Garcia is next to nothing. But somehow, in the past four months, you've managed. You've passed the threshold, the personal rule of three months of privacy, of keeping things on the down low, and you had been excited to stroll up to Rossi's fourth wedding in the arms of Cameron, your boyfriend of nearly five months.

Unfortunately, you'd caught another woman's underwear in his car nearly a week before the day of the wedding. He still hasn't admitted to his betrayal, no matter how many times you've pleaded and talked to him. You already know, anyway. It's easy enough to tell from his body language. The twitch of his lips he does whenever he's nervous, the way he overuses the phrase come on, every single one of his tells point to his infidelity. You've used every trick in the profiler handbook— interrogation, an attempt to seduce, anger— none has worked.

Your pathetic boyfriend would only repeat that he loves you so much, why are you acting like this?

So you're a depressing cloud on Rossi's big day. You hide it behind a big smile, which would normally be unconvincing, but everyone is too wrapped up in the festivities to look too closely at your hastily erected facade.

And it’s worked, for the most part. You know it’s not because of your acting skills, but more because there’s too much going on to pay attention to you. And disappearing as part of the crowd allows you to observe and stew in your betrayal, fingertips tingling with the desire to get even somehow.

You wish you could say he’d tempted you. Pursued you with gentle brushes of his hands on the exposed skin of your back, bewitched you with his dimpled smile, so inhumanly beautiful you just couldn’t say no. How could you resist temptation when it is being presented to you by someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself?

Because Spencer Reid has always been something akin to divinity, at least to you. As the BAU's newest recruit— appointed and transferred by the infamous Linda Barnes herself—you've had to fight tooth and nail to earn the team's trust.

Now, Linda Barnes is gone, you have a spot on the team, and Spencer Reid remains elusive.

His reputation preceded him, of course, one of the smartest active agents, incarcerated for something he didn't do. He's kind in the moments you've spent with him, with a bumbling earnestness that you've found endearing.

He's also incredibly beautiful.

So who could blame you if you did give in to his advances? People stronger than you have succumbed, after all, and you, in your vulnerable, lovelorn glory, would not have been responsible if you decided to take a bite from the forbidden apple, right? Giving in to temptation is the lesser sin, more forgivable, would absolve you of guilt especially after the betrayal you've gone through.

Except Spencer Reid hadn’t pursued you. The meeting had been accidental, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You’d seen him leave towards the end of the ceremony. Of course you did, you had been watching him all night. Sometime towards the end of the ceremony, while the minister was talking about the importance of second chances, he’d slipped away.

You had been the one to go after him. In your defense, you’ve been itching to get your hands on a cigarette since you got here. Weddings have always made you giddy, excited. It’s a celebration of love, after all, a declaration of two people’s commitment to each other. In sickness and health. But Cameron's infidelity weighs heavily upon your shoulders, and though you've borne more than this—you're a BAU agent, after all, you face horrors on a daily basis—it's still difficult to set aside the burn when you're surrounded by happy couples.

So you’d put your focus on Dr. Reid: handsome in his suit, but something about him seemed distracted. Perhaps he'd been banking upon the wedding as a distraction, just like you had been. Everyone is too busy with the happy couple to pay attention to two lonely souls.

But he's wrong. You've got your eye on him, and you see something in his amber irises that reflect your own.

Loneliness.

Why is Spencer Reid lonely?

It’s the intrigue that ultimately leads you out into the hallways. And when you stumble upon his brooding form, your excuse is truthful, “I'm trying to find the bathroom.”

He kindly escorts you to the correct wing, making small talk. Something about wedding dresses not being white historically. You smile and nod, thanking him graciously as you slip into the ladies room. When you leave the bathroom after basically inhaling a stick of cigarette, he’s still lingering outside. Waiting by the wall, smiling upon your return.

“Oh,” you return his smile, “You’re still here.”

“Figured we could walk back together.” his nose wrinkled a little as you stepped closer, the smell of your cigarette apparently not sufficiently disguised.

You're smile becomes sheepish, shaking your head, “I thought I was being slick by spraying perfume, but apparently not.”

He laughs. It reminds you of the church bells that rang for the wedding. Rich and lilting.

“Not to judge, but why the need for a smoke break?”

“Why should there be a reason?”

“You've told me you only smoke when you're stressed out.” Fuck. “Why are you stressed out?”

“Just having a bad day.”

It's the wrong answer, because his gaze zeroes in on you, oozing with an intense curiosity. “On Rossi's wedding?”

“Not because of it,” You laugh airily, but in the quiet of the hallway, it's much more difficult to pretend that everything is okay. Two can play at this game though. “Why are you out here?”

He averts his gaze to his shoes, brows furrowing in a way that makes you blood spike. He’s hiding something.

“I just needed some fresh air.” he pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lifting his gaze from the floor and dragging it through your form, taking in your appearance in the cocktail dress you’ve donned for the wedding. His voice is strangled when he speaks again,, “You look lovely. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”

“Thank you. You look very dashing too.” A pause stretches between you. In that quiet moment, it seems like the universe has presented the perfect way of retaliation for you. The nicotine had made you bold, audacious. And if you’d read him correctly, then he’s in need of relief as much as you are, the kind of relief a simple cigarette wouldn’t fix. You step closer, looking straight into his eyes, “Truth be told, I’m not in any hurry to go back.”

You see his jaw clench, the beautiful brain of his going a thousand miles per minute, likely computing every possible meaning of your words. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you decide to help him out, taking another step forward and tilting your head up.

When you kissed him, he didn’t even hesitate to kiss you back. Mouth parting, fingers tightly clenched at your waist, pulling you closer and closer until space felt like a foreign concept altogether. He is an insistent kisser, leaning his whole weight into you as his lips opened and sucked at yours.

The dark corner isn’t ideal, but it was the closest space at your disposal. Neither of you are willing to spend more time looking for somewhere to hide, not when you could spend that time running your hands and lips in places undiscovered. Your lips across the strong angle of his jaw, his stubble tickling your skin. Spencer tonguing the space beneath your ear, fragrant with traces of your perfume. Your hand massaging him into an erection through the fabric of his pants.

He lets out the prettiest moan when you drop to your knees in front of him.

You don’t miss the irony of it as you tugged and undid his belt and zipper, fully conscious of the act you’re about to commit. Kneeling in a chapel, for all the wrong reasons.

“Are you sure?” the words spill from his lips so sweetly, as if he isn't standing before you with his erection only inches from your face. Long and thick and already leaking precum at the tip.

You take him into your mouth as an answer, condemning yourself to your fate. Spencer is beautiful like the devil, and you’re Eve succumbing to the first sin.

Two wrongs do not make a right. You know this. Everyone does. A lesson as old as time itself, written in languages you can’t comprehend. Even mathematics dictates that adding two negative integers does not cancel them out—the negative value merely increases. You should not retaliate on your boyfriend by committing the very sin that hurt you in the first place. By all accounts, nothing good should come from it.

Yet here you are, on your knees for a man as pretty as the devil himself. A man very much not your boyfriend.

Even fucking worse, your coworker.

Tucked in some dark corner—not even given the dignity of a dusty closet. That at least would have given you complete privacy. No, you’re on your knees in some seemingly abandoned hallway, half hidden by a combination of the dim lights, and ostentatious pillars, and him. His lean body shields you from general view as your lips stretched around his throbbing length.

You learn that he is a contradiction. A large hand gathers your perfectly styled curls, holding them at the crown of your head. Gentle, careful. The other rests just beneath your jaw, holding your head still as he slowly pushes his hips forward. Your nails grip his pants as your mouth stretches around his girth. The fabric wrinkles under your clutches as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, then begins to push beyond it.

Only half of his length in and you're already choking.

Wide, panicked eyes dart up to meet his deceptively honeyed ones. You consider pulling back, just to catch your breath but you can’t; his hands are holding you steady. Oddly enough, the look in his eyes helps you relax. There’s something inherently trustworthy about those ochre irises, despite the fact that his pupils have blown up so much and nearly eclipsed them. Maybe you’re too used to indifference from Cameron, too used to sex being so clinical and borderline perfunctory, that the unbridled lust in his gaze excites you instead of scare you away.

Still, it doesn’t help the little choking issue you’re currently having.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. You blink back the tears that have gathered at your lashes, still maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer sighs, pulls his cock out. Mercy. It's not something you deserve, but you take advantage of the moment wisely, following his instructions and breathing through your nose.

The stench of sin is musky and stale. You fill your lungs with it all the same, just as he rams his cock back down your throat and fills your mouth. He hisses when you gag around him lightly, but doesn’t stop. You realize that you’d probably chase after him if he does anyway.

His thumb caresses your cheek, “That’s it, good girl. You can take it.”

Well fuck.

It’s a little too much, balancing on your knees like this while he uses your mouth and throat, but you push through because he says you can. You fancied yourself the seductress, but somehow, the tides have turned and you’re little more than putty in his hands.

His cock glides in and out of your mouth with ease, painting chapped red marks from your lipstick along the veined length with every push of his hips. Finding your balance, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, stroking up what you can't fit into your mouth. After a few clumsy attempts, you manage to match the rhythm of his hips.

What a pretty figure you make, on your knees, looking up at him with fluttering lashes. You moan around his length, sending vibrations up his spine, and are rewarded by his mouth falling open, a wordless expression of pleasure. He continues to fuck your mouth, never breaking eye contact as he eases his cock deeper with each thrust. Tears gather at your lash line every time he goes down your throat.

You’re sure your throat is distending in order to accommodate his girth, and it makes your own pussy clench at the idea. What would it be like to have such a large cock inside your walls, filling you? It makes you moan again, and Spencer’s hand tightens at your hair. His pace quickens, and you hollow your cheeks, urging him to continue.

You hear his undoing before you feel it, strained groans tumbling from trembling lips, before his hips thrust forward and suddenly your nose is pressed to his crotch, and there’s an explosion at the back of your throat. He holds you there, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your ruined mouth as he blows his load deep in your throat.

Yeah, he definitely needed that.

You swallow what you can, but that’s difficult when there’s a huge cock obstructing your throat.

It ends up being a mess, combination of your saliva and his cum dripping out of your mouth and onto the floor. How fitting. In the back of your mind, you’re just happy that only a few drops landed on your dress. Easy enough to clean. Miraculously. Your conscience, however, is an entirely different story.

Still, some part of you can’t even begin to feel bad. Cameron had cheated first, he’d broken the bounds of your relationship first.

Sure, this is still wrong. You have no moral ascendency to stand on, but who cares about any of that when Spencer Reid is kneeling before you with gentle hands and even gentler eyes?

“Are you all right?” he murmurs, his voice slow and sensual like dripping honey.

Somehow, your voice does not betray you, coming out clear and far more confident than you’re actually feeling. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He smiles, thumbs wiping away some of the residue off your lips, “Are you sure? You look a little dazed.”

You laugh, “I mean, yeah, but I just need to catch my breath.”

He takes your hand, helps you stand back up. “I think another trip to the bathroom is in order.” he says as he guides you to the bathroom again.

When you get there, you are a wreck of the highest order, curls dishevelled despite his attempts to be careful, lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your chin is still a little moist from the drool and cum that had dripped down. Tear tracks drag down your cheeks, but thankfully your eye makeup and foundation are only a little smudged. Nothing a little dab of a napkin won’t fix.

You fix what you can—quick spray of perfume, reapplication of lipstick. Hands steady as you work. You aren't sure if this is a sign of guilt, or lack of it. You don't really care. He's gone when you leave the bathroom now, and the soft, treacherous side of your heart fills with disappointment. You remind yourself that it's better this way, less conspicuous, if he returns to the wedding before you.

Still, swallowing his load with an obstructed throat somehow had been easier than swallowing the bitter disappointment that builds in the back of your tongue.

The ceremony is just about to end when you return to the makeshift chapel, people standing and clapping as David and Krystall Rossi share the sweetest kisses. A celebration of love and second chances. After what you've done with Spencer, you know this is out of your cards now. You've fallen far beyond redemption, shot the remnants of your relationship with Cameron after kneeling in service of another man.

You catch sight of Spencer, standing in the midst of other agents. Clapping like everyone else, but his eyes are trained upon something else. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow his gaze, trying to approximate what he's looking at.

Or rather— whom.

If you're correct, then he's looking at someone.

Oh.

Blonde hair, a slim frame in a beautiful red dress that perfectly accentuates the long, muscled lines of her arms and legs. Beside her, a man with salt and pepper hair and kind blue eyes. His arm at her waist. Your coworker and her husband. JJ and Will.

Oh.

Your gaze returns to Spencer, and despite your attempts not to dig deep, not to learn why he's looking so forlorn, it’s easy to put the pieces together. Whether or not this is a full blown affair isn’t important; all you know is he wants her, and she's married to another man.

Is this connected to the previous case? You recall the last case, the hostage situation in LA. He and JJ had been in there for a long time, but neither really shared what exactly happened. Nobody knows except for the two of them, the unsub, and the victims. You aren’t about to pull rank and ask traumatized people about the drama between your coworkers. You’re better than that.

Are you?

Yes. You don’t hold much sacred, but your job is important. It is above you. You aren’t about to jeopardize it over some workplace drama.

But still, the curiosity gnaws at you no matter how much you attempt to tamp it down. Does he have feelings for JJ? Does she, for him? She couldn’t possibly; she has a husband, two beautiful kids. Easy enough to deduce that it’s probably Spencer, then, who is pining after her.

As though he feels your stare, Spencer looks over at you. Hurriedly, you avert your eyes, heart pounding faster than you would like it to.

Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth?

The thought knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you banish it to the deepest crevices of your mind. It shouldn't matter.

It doesn't. It doesn't.

You don’t have any room to judge, anyway. You’ve dragged Spencer into your own messy relationship by sucking him off in the middle of the wedding. A relationship he doesn’t even know about. So, with a smile, you clap for the new couple, and follow the crowd to the reception.

Joy and excitement are nearly palpable in the room. A small, intimate crowd of smiling faces surrounded by the tastefully extravagant decor, obviously paid for by the wealthy groom. The air is filled with that soft, electric energy that often occurs when people are happy and sufficiently buzzed with some drinks.

The only thing on your mind is him.

How can it not be, when you can still remember the little tryst you'd had prior. The weight of him in your mouth, the fetid mess of skin and cum and the lingering nicotine.

It passes by in a blur. The food is delicious, you gush to Portia, you look so beautiful; congratulations, to the new couple. None of it is fake, but you are possessed by a single, irrevocable urge to watch Spencer. That glance at JJ has intrigued you more than you should be. What sort of web had you stumbled upon? And instead of trying to get out, you're eager to spin more.

Bringing the champagne flute to your lips, you pretend to sip, allowing the glass to obscure some parts of your face while you continue to watch them. They’ve met up at the bar now, deep in conversation, hands clasped together in a way that’s far too intimate to be just friends. You can't tear your eyes away as JJ leaves, returning to the embrace of her husband, and you watch with an almost sick sense of fascination as Spencer lingers by the bar. Longing, pure and unmistakable, is etched upon every line on his face.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving, gliding across the floor until you're beside him. He startles, brows lifting as he gazes at you. Your name slips through his lips with an exhale.

“You don't have to act like I'm a ghost, Spencer.” your lips quirk up in a teasing grin as the bartender refills your glass of champagne.

He looks chagrined, the implications of your words hitting him like a brick. “I’m not, you just seemed like you were having fun with Garcia.” he says, leaning on the counter. His eyes travel down the length of you again.

“You’re right, but you were looking a little lonely,” you take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbly drink fizzle in your mouth and wash away the taste of him. “So, what was that with JJ?”

He sputters, eyes wide as his gaze darts back to your blonde coworker—now currently wrapped up in her husband’s arms.

“Nothing!”

“Holding hands when you’re a known germaphobe doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“I’m not that bad,” he protests, shaking his head, “I’d hold your hand too, but that’s besides the point.”

“It is,” you agree, tilting your head innocently, as your voice lowers, “Just wanted to know who you were imaging in place of me.”

He looks horrified to be reminded of your little quickie from before, “No one. It’s not—I wasn’t using you to—god, it’s not like that.”

“I’m not judging you if it was,” It’s true. It’s exactly what you’re doing with him, using him to forget about Cameron, to get back at him. Poor Spencer just doesn’t know about your secrets. Your amused look only makes him fluster even more.

“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”

“Listen, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, fighting the urge to rest a reassuring hand on his forearm. The words are true anyway; you don’t wish to unearth whatever secrets he wants to keep buried. You have your own, anyway; it’s only fair he’s allowed his secrecy. Your reasons for approaching him are entirely different, and perhaps a little self serving. But you’ve already condemned yourself to being the bearer of temptation, you might as well take full advantage of it.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you grin as you lift the recently refilled glass to your lips, “You know I have a room for the night… in case you want to blow off more steam.”

The invitation makes his eyes darken in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “You’re—we shouldn’t.”

“Who would know?” you quirk a brow in response, “Besides, it’s pretty much tradition for people to hook up at a wedding. Why shouldn’t it be us?” Please, say yes.

“We’re coworkers.”

“We’re adults.” you deliberately don’t say single adults, “It’s fine. Listen, I booked a room because I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, so if you want, it’s 309B. Completely up to you.” with a smile, you leave him at the bar and Spencer Reid is forced to watch a woman walk away from him for the second time.

That night, there's knocking at your hotel door—three sharp, no nonsense knocks that seem to mean business—echoes in your room minutes before midnight. You don’t bother looking through the peephole to confirm who’s on the other side. The moment you open the door, there’s not a lot of build up.

He’s shed his suit jacket; wearing only the white button down, slightly rumpled from the day’s events. His crown of light brown curls, carefully pushed back earlier, had fallen all over his forehead, messy tendrils tumbling across his face.

He takes one look at you—still in your lavender dress, but devoid of makeup and no more heels to add inches to your height. In the dimness of the room, you are diminutive, stripped of the ethereal mystique you bore from earlier. Human.

God, he wants you.

Not even as someone to help him forget about JJ. No, he wants you in your entirety, to possess you even for one night.

He kisses you again, but there’s no rush to his movements now. The previous rendezvous had been hasty in every sense of the word, made within minutes in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need all while staying safely hidden and inconspicuous.

Now, you have the entire night. He intends to make full use of it. He kicks the door closed behind him, one hand reaching back to lock it as the other tilts your face up so he can kiss you deeper. Your own arms snake around his neck, hands burying into those messy curls. There’s no more public reception to worry about; you can tug and twist and mess with it as much as you want.

Spencer groans into your mouth, hands tight at your hips, before pulling back slightly, “Jump.” he mumbles against your lips.

Your body reacts as if it’s wired to obey him, launching off the balls of your feet. His hands help to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his hips.

“You smell so good,” He whispers as he noses through your neck, before his teeth close around your earlobe. You giggle, urging him on by craning your neck to the side. His teeth tug on your earlobe playfully as he crosses the room to your bed. He toes off his shoes and lays you down carefully, his body hovering above yours while his kisses travel down your neck. Soft and sloppy and wet, they mark you like a brand.

Long, eager fingers hike your dress up, bunching it up your thighs, past your hips, and you hear him groan when your bare pussy is exposed to his darkened gaze.

“No panties?” he runs a finger up your folds, gathering your slick, “Don’t tell me you’re been going around like this all day?”

“Maybe I have,” you grin, legs parting even more to accommodate him. You haven’t—you’d just been touching yourself to the thought of him as you waited, but you’re not about to tell him that.

“Naughty girl,” he mumbles, one long finger pushing past your entrance and curling into you, “And so wet, too. You get off on being this dirty, or am I just lucky?”

A breathy laugh escapes your lips, “Which one would you prefer?” you ask, because tonight, you’re not yourself. Not really. You’re whoever he needs to be, the same way he’s exactly what you need right now. A body to which you can lose yourself.

“I’d like to think this is all just for me,” he adds another finger, the pace languorous and teasing.

“It is,” you gasp as he curls his fingers, then withdraws. Torturously slow, he fucks you with two lengthy fingers, hitting the spot inside you with ease. Your toes curl into the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, “Faster.”

“So needy,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he takes you in. There’s something addictive in the way you look in this moment, spread out beneath him like something unreal and sublime.

Your hips buck up. Something volatile simmers beneath your skin, desperate for more, “Please.”

Spencer chuckles as he watches you, fingers stilling inside your fluttering walls. Hovering above you with soft brown curls framing his face, he looks every bit an angel come to life. The laughter continues, his lips twisting into a sneer as you push your hips up desperately.

“So, so needy.” he repeats, but he acquiesces to your plea. More than that, he sinks a third finger inside you and speeds up. A cry of surprise and pleasure falls from your lips, head thrown back as he works his fingers inside you, “Oh, you’re taking it so well.”

Shame unfurls in your chest. What are you doing? Begging another man to fuck you with his fingers? Enjoying it? Is this truly what you’ve come to?

It’s not something you can dwell on, as Spencer begins to curl his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit. It circles the nub slowly, adding a layer of stimulation that has your thighs trembling. With a squeal, you writhe, moving to close your legs as the sensations become red-hot, building up closer and closer to a crescendo.

Spencer tuts teasingly, one leg pressing down on your thighs, and his other hand coming to grip your hip and hold you in place. “No, no, darling, I want to see you coming undone on my fingers.” he says, continuing to make come hither motions inside you.

“God—oh, I’m so—ah!” words trip over one another as you approach your climax, the world coming down into one point of focus. “Spencer!”

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, laying his body over you as his fingers help you through your orgasm, “There you go.”

You’re thankful for the weight of him; it is a grounding presence in the midst of all the flurry. You’ve come undone at the hands of another man—literally. Never mind that Cameron had betrayed your trust first; you are no better than him.

But if sin felt as good as Spencer Reid’s kisses, then you have no qualms indulging.

His lips are upon you again, traveling down your collarbone and nipping at the skin there. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, sensitive but still eager for more. He laughs against your skin with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.

“Are you always this needy?”

“No,” you’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit earlier. Thrown out of Eden, you’re already past the point of no return. Might as well succumb and have one hell of a time. “Only for you.”

He hums, pushing your dress up again. It gets caught somewhere around your chest and there’s a brief moment of awkward laughter as he tries to tug at it, force it up and off you.

“Zipper,” you gasp when your brain finally works. Lifting yourself up on your elbows allows him to slide his hands to your back, find the dangling piece of metal and ease it down. The dress loosens across your shoulders and chest, and he’s finally able to pull it off altogether.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, descending upon you once again, “So beautiful.”

His words have you preening, and you wonder how something so insignificant as the word beautiful could make you feel so heavy. You used to associate delight with weightlessness, floating and light, but everything about Spencer is lumbering and grounded especially after he came back from prison.

You feel his lips and tongue making their way down, kissing every inch of your body. He tugs your bra down, not even bothering to take it off completely, your breast spilling forth and free for his touch. He takes one nipple and sucks, while his thumb circles and gently tugs the other. Every single act has you gasping, and you wonder when and where the hell did Spencer Reid ever learn how to do this? You shouldn’t question it though.

When his mouth lands upon your hips, you jerk. “Spencer,” you gasp, looking down on him, but there’s no more teasing from him now, no hesitation. Before you can even formulate what to say next—you don’t have to, I’ve already cum, I’m still so sensitive—his mouth is at your core, tongue lapping up what remains of your previous orgasm and all evidence of your arousal.

“Fuck!” you are not responsible for your actions anymore, not responsible for the way your fingers find his russet curls and tug hard, the way your thighs try to clamp shut around his head. He chuckles against you, the sound sending tingling vibrations that travel from your pussy to the tips of your toes and fingers.

“Settle down,” laughter drips from his gentle admonishment, “Or I’ll stop.”

“Please don’t.” you’re past the point of shame and guilt, eager to beg and obey as much as he wants. The positions have turned since the tryst in the hallway. No longer are you on your knees for him, no longer the one servicing him and choking around his length, yet somehow you’re still at his mercy. “Don’t stop, please, so good.”

He laughs, and you feel something sliding past your entrance. You clench around it involuntarily, as if you can tell what it is from the mere feeling, but then his mouth wraps around your clit and you’re reeling into oblivion once again.

“Spencer!” you thrash against the pillows, overwhelmed and sensitive but still eager to take more, “Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!” you lose count of how many times you’ve uttered his name from your lips. It has simultaneously lost every meaning, yet retained all of it. An invocation of fervent desire from a lowly, undeserving sinner. Thankfully, your god is merciful and giving, because Spencer wraps his arms around your thighs to hold you down, sucks at your clit harshly and thrusts into you again—fingers, you now realize, all three spreading you open and curling deep inside you.

With everything going on, your climax comes as no surprise. You and Spencer are both expecting it, you’re so worked up after all. What makes you both pause is the fact that something gushes out of you as you arch off the bed and cry out his name.

His movement stills for a split second, before he continues and helps you through your orgasm, tongue lapping at the mess between your legs as your body is wracked with the aftershocks, trembling beneath him. After a few moments, he stops, resting his head at your hip.

Looking at him feels like a risk. Fear keeps your eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what you’ll find. More teasing? Disgust? Doesn’t seem like it, from the way his fingertips are trailing over your thighs. You lift your lids again, eyes meeting his own hazy ones. They are nearly black, but what pulls your attention are his lips and chin. Glistening with slickness.

Your slick.

“Oh god,” your words are half groan, half laugh when the reality hits you, “Did I really?”

He laughs again, light and tender. “I believe you did.”

“I’m sorry.” you mutter, feeling utterly mortified that you just squirted all over your coworker’s face.

Spencer’s expression is one of mischief, but his eyes gleam with something darker. “What for?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Another laugh, “But I wanna hear it,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hip bone, “Come on, darling, what are you sorry for?”

When you don’t answer, he nips at your skin playfully, slowly moving back to your center. Your pussy throbs both in anticipation and overstimulation.

“Spencer.”

“Mhm?”

“Too sensitive.” you try to squirm out of his grip. It only tightens, presses you deeper into the mattress.

A lick, teasing and light. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”

“Spencer!”

“Come on,” He's grinning, the bastard, “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I squirted in your face.”

He bites your inner thigh with more force than usual, “You shouldn't be.”

“Hm?”

“I loved it,” He murmurs, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue, “Wanna see you do it again.”

You shudder, though you’re unsure whether it’s from his moistened tongue, or his words. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he drags himself up, kissing along your body as he does so, “Think you can be a good girl and do it again for me?”

“I think that’s entirely dependent on how well you do.”

Soft, dewy lips curl into a smirk at your challenge, and suddenly he’s sin incarnate, a devil about to pounce. Once again, how are you to deny this man of anything? How could you resist temptation when someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself is looking at you as though you were the masterpiece? Liquid gold irises take you in, inspecting every inch of your body with unabashed want, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s fully clothed, cock straining through his pants, and you’re in nothing but your flimsy bra that’s been pulled down your chest it’s not even covering anything anymore.

You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but then his hands come up your sides, ghost over your ribs and your back until he finds the hook of your bra.

“Not really fair,” you say as the last strip of your clothing falls away, your chest heaving from the sheer weight of his gaze, “I want to see you too.” with that, you reach for him, deft fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t help, only continues to regard you with quiet intensity.

Once his clothes are off, he meets your lips again. His kisses are slower this time, an almost dreamy tangle of tongue and teeth, but his body is hot and slick with sweat even as he holds himself on his elbows above you. His cock rests upon your lower abdomen, its heft reminding you of how much your mouth had to stretch to accommodate him earlier. How the length and girth had all but blocked your airways as he thrusted into your throat.

You clench around nothing at the idea of that same cock filling your pussy.

His kisses move down your jaw, down the column of your throat, being careful not to suck too hard on the skin and leave marks. You never know when you might be called in for a case, and he doesn’t want any trouble.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance.

You grin and shake your head, “No, I want to see if you can make me squirt again, or if that last one was just beginner’s luck.”

Laughter. You’re beginning to find sex with Spencer enjoyable on more than just the physical aspect. He drags the tip of his cock over your folds, combining his precum and your arousal into a heady, natural lubrication. He’s big, you already know that, but right now, you’re so pleasure drunk that you have no problem opening up to him.

You can tell he’s being careful, pushing his tip in slowly, and your entrance flutters, stretches around him. There’s a slight burn, but it’s accompanied by awe, overtaken by pleasure. You marvel at how his cock sinks into your slick, velvety heat, the way every slight thrust makes your body conform to his own as he carves out a space for himself.

As if he belongs there.

As if you’re his.

Every single memory about your cheating boyfriend is expelled from your mind with every thrust of his hips. You moan and clench around him at the thought.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling. His cock is only halfway through, and you already look so fucked out, “Careful with that, darling, or this is gonna end sooner than we’d like.”

Your lower lip trembles, but you nod, spreading your thighs apart even further. “Sorry.”

He kisses that expression away, “Don’t be sorry,” two large hands hold your thighs in place, keeping you spread for him as he sinks in another inch. And then another. You’re so wet, and he’s done such a great job stretching you out that your walls engulf him easily.

“Oh god!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you. You hear a chuckle, before he retreats, pulls out almost all the way, and once again you’re clenching around his length as though you’re trying to convince him to stay buried inside you.

“Stop clenching.”

“Can’t help it!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” With a soft hiss, he thrusts back inside, still slow and steady. The curse makes you gasp; you’ve never heard him curse before, somehow it’s even more jarring than when he’s murmuring filth into your ears. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you, unblinking and focused, watching your every reaction. “You okay?”

“Fuck yes,” you gasp as his thrusts grow steady. The world seems to disappear around you, the only point of importance is where your bodies are coming together repeatedly. You reach up, hands seeking for something to ground you, and finding purchase at his tangled curls, “Oh god, yes!”

It’s funny, crying out for a god you don’t really believe in. Crying out for a god when you’re in the midst of sin, carnal pleasure and infidelity and who knows what else, you were never religious to begin with. You wonder if this is what religion is, this free fall, the blind surrender. But faith as you know it believes in something unseen, the conviction to the intangible and unexplained.

Spencer is very much here, and you can feel him between your thighs, his very existence present in the stretch of your walls around his cock, the soft curls you’ve woven around your fingers. He keeps his thrusts slow but deep, letting your walls feel every single vein and ridge on his cock.

“Spencer,” you moan, one hand falling to his face, soft palm on the stubble at his jaw, “Feels so good.”

“You too,” he turns his face, pressing his lips to the warmth of your hand. He’s very tender, his movements measured to ensure your comfort, “God, you’re taking me so well.”

Your walls tighten around him in response.

Something seems to ignite in his brain, his hand catching your wrist, pulling it from his face and pinning it to the bed. “You like that, my pretty girl? Like knowing you’re doing a good job for me?”

Fuck. The same rush of heat from when he’d had you on your knees fills your stomach. The heat that compels you to do whatever he wants, take whatever he’ll give in order to hear more of his praise. Like a devoted servant, at the service of a benevolent god.

“Yes,” you gasp, hooking one leg around his hips, while the other is bent at an angle, foot pressed to the mattress in order to allow you some leverage to meet his thrusts. It’s sloppy at first, your body not entirely in your control right now.

“That’s it, my darling, you can do it.” he mutters encouragingly, pausing to allow you to join in this tangled, exhilarating dance. When you’ve gotten steadier, he resumes his thrusts, and you’re finally able to buck your hips up to meet them.

The action sends his entire length buried deep inside you, something he’s been very careful to avoid in fear of hurting you. But instead, you let out a cry of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Yes!”

“Right there?” he grunts. You’ve never heard him before, voice low and strained as he slams his hips into yours, again and again. The mattress begins to creak from the force of his actions.

“Mhm hmm!” You meet him thrust for thrust, the impact hitting spots deep inside you that you’ve never felt before. Toes curling in on themselves, one hand buried in his hair, the other pinned by his strong grip, “Oh, god, Spencer, yes!”

He loosens his grip on your wrist, intertwines your fingers together, “Good girl. Look at you, so pretty while you take me.”

No words come from your mouth, only his name, repeated over and over that it begins to sound made up, unreal. Perhaps he is divine. Nothing human can make you feel this way, surely.

He shifts, his free arm wrapping around your hips to elevate you slightly, and the new angle has you keening, every single muscle in your body tightly wound and white-hot as he pounds into you. It’s obscene how easily your body accepts every single inch of him, the way your pussy flutters and yields to the throbbing length of his cock.

“My god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and that’s it, those words have you screaming so loud he starts to laugh and kiss you just to swallow the sound. You’re shuddering beneath him, crying, the pleasure coiling and building until it bursts and snaps, cascading over you with such fervor he has to wrap both his arms around your limp body to help you calm down.

Somehow, your hazy mind registers the wetness between your thighs, the loud, nearly pornographic squelching of his body plunging into yours. He’d done his goal; he’s made you squirt again. You are boneless in his arms as he fucks you through your orgasm, and chases his own. You only regain agency when he tenses, groaning into your ear.

“Gonna cum,” he says, moving his hips to drag his length out. He’s so long you’re able to wrap your legs around his waist before he’s pulled his cock out all the way.

“No, please, do it inside.”

His body stutters, head falling to the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you, not even bothering to argue or ask you if you’re sure. He thrusts into your sensitive pussy erratically, mouth open and groaning into your neck, “Oh my god, oh my — ah!”

Spencer holds onto you, breathing heavily into your ear as you both come down from your high. You feel simultaneously weightless and heavy, melting into your mattress with sweet, glassy eyes.

“That was incredible,” you whisper against his hair. He’s already half asleep on top of you, mumbling incoherently against your shoulder. You don’t bother to move, letting his still hard cock stay buried inside your pussy as you both drift off into dreamland.

Morning comes with a delicious ache in your lower belly. Spencer has you tucked to his chest, his arm around your waist. The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sweat and sex, but also oddly light with the knowledge of a new day. You shift in his arms, yawning as you will your body to wake up and shake off the sluggish feeling clinging to your bones.

He wakes slowly, groaning into your hair, “Morning.” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you reply, but before either of you can say any more, your phone rings. Mindlessly, you reach for it, not even bothering to hide the screen from Spencer, who’s nosing at your temple sweetly.

Cameron ❤️

Your heart sinks. Before you can hit the ignore button, Spencer turns his head, still half asleep as he catches sight of your screen. The name, the heart emoji, the multiple missed calls shakes off every single sleepy cell in his body.

“Who’s Cameron?”

more size kink fics in the BUD Chronicles. Forehead smooches to the many people who witnessed the conception of this fic and patiently listened and helped me as I crashed out and went screaming crying throwing up, hey nachos, @mggslover (who also proofread ty) @beenreidingaboutyou @reidingandallthat @burymagdalene and @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat good god there's so many, my need for reassurance is actually extremely bothersome and embarrassing but ily guys.

#fic rec #erika 🔮

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reidrum · 3 days ago

Text

i’m SICKKKKK oh i’m so sick it’s so ridiculous need him in a way so concerning to god and feminism

Drip by Drip - S. Reid x Reader

In which the nine long days spent apart ends in a harmonious reunion of a needy shower spent together.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: plain smut. (18+ pls pls) I didn't even write 70k words of plot before like I usually do. tags: softdom!Spencer, shower sex, age gap (or could also not be...) pinv, a possessive vibe, fingering, handjob, making out, multiple things being very wet...playing with your tits, creampie, finger sucking, praise, & desperation! wc: 3.3k a/n: More of this. I had a lot of fun writing this even though I kind of felt really dirty to the point of religious guilt as a non-religious person so I hope you guys like it! <3

Your body finally relaxes after what feels like the longest day you’ve had all week once Spencer's shower stream washes over you.

Nine days. Nine brutally slow days of watching over Spencer’s apartment- or torturing yourself by being reminded of his belongings for over a week.

When he first left, you’d been naive. Spencer hasn’t been away for over a week since you’ve started dating. The first time he was gone for three days you felt like you were going to faint. You wish you still had those champagne problems as you’re washing yourself for the trillionth time alone in Spencer’s shower.

The past 24 hours have been especially hard. You were woken up at 5:00 am with Spencer calling you before he had to get ready in the hotel and go out to do whatever had taken up so much of his time in Boise, Idaho.

First, good news: He thinks there is a break in the case, and should be getting home later.

Second, great news: Spencer has conveniently woken up with a hard on that's throbbing helplessly against his stomach.

Which sounds like a heavenly wake-up call. But in the FBI he has to be adaptable to the quickest changes in plans.

Five minutes into purring into your side of the phone while touching yourself to Spencer’s groans, another charming individual begins to call Spencer as well. His boss.

So, tucking himself into the band of his underwear, Spencer leaves again. You could’ve finished yourself off, but self pity got the best of you as you drift off to sleep.

A painfully slow and hard day at work followed, rude people and small mishaps on your part that were blown out of proportion to make you feel worse. A crappy self made dinner that took longer to cook than to eat.

But in Spencer’s shower, you’re able to unwind, happy in knowing you can spend the end of a bad day in your lover's space. Regardless of if he’s here or not. Which is another problem, you haven’t heard from him since he was panting on the phone earlier– so it’s safe to say he probably will not be coming back today because of the rush in which he had to hang up earlier.

Over the water pattering against tiles, you do not hear the key jingle and door shut that signifies Spencer’s long-awaited return. Head down and eyes closed, most of your senses are just focused on trying to unwind.

Spencer, placing his bag down in the kitchen, can hear the shower going and immediately saunters over. Not having a plan, but just to show that he’s finally back. He can’t fathom being home right now without alerting you.

Slowly, as if not to scare you too badly, he probably will though, he slips in through the bathroom door, places his toiletry bag down on the sink.

You’re a bit unfocused, but not completely to the point of missing this. Out of your peripheral vision you see the slightest movement and your head whips to the side. Spencer. You could fucking melt.

Through the steam that has built up, you can make out his slouched figure and contrasting pleased smile. You can’t help yourself, with soft dripping skin you swing his shower door open to greet him.

“Spencer,” you whisper out in shock, trailing water onto his bathroom floor. “Oh my God.”

“Hi my baby-” He reaches out to swipe away some droplets on your face, but doesn’t finish. You’re pulling him into a tight, wet hug.

Arms slung fiercely around his neck, he barely buffers in returning your hug with his jacket-clad arms around your waist.

In the back of your mind you’re aware that the water on your breasts and stomach are soaking through his undershirt. That your clean hair is dropping water onto the shoulder of his jacket. You’re also aware how expensive a suit is.

The harsh disparity from the cool air sticking to your wet skin from the hot (frankly, too hot) shower you were in previously is pebbling your nipples against his now soaked-through button up, your skin is covered in goosebumps that he’s swiping away with his thumb.

A low hum into your ear as he’s trailing his thumb nail against the sensitive part of your inner waist, “Angel girl,” a deep sigh, “I missed you so much.”

Your arms tighten around him, forehead landing on his wet shoulder, you could cry. You could laugh maniacally. Either way, you feel cemented against his frame, the only warmth being produced near you since stepping out of the shower.

A small indent in your lower stomach is being formed from his belt digging into your pliable skin. You feel like a fresh heap of soft clay ready to be moved and constructed into anything Spencer’s hands can make of you. You feel utterly his.

You pull away slightly, uncomfortable from where his buckle was pressing against your belly. Pulling one hand away you trace it with a fingernail, Spencer and you both looking down at it between your bodies. Both noticing the drastically different attire.

A chuckle slips from your lips without thinking, “you branded me, look.”

Spencer’s thumb stops rubbing circles into your side, a shiver rolls down your spine. Daring to look up at him, you’re met with his dark eyes resembling magic 8 balls. An underlying fortune there too: Outlook Good.

Warm hands are soon softly gripping your cheeks as you’re being pulled into a burning kiss. His lips against yours after all this time, you moan immediately. Dry and soft and pillowy he’s swallowing you and pulling you flush against him, buckle be damned.

Water from your hairline is rolling over your cheeks and soaking the cuffs of Spencer’s sleeves. You haven’t pulled away far enough, but you can bet that the white button up he’s wearing is see through.

You’re freezing, the air from the bathroom is torturous, your skin on high alert. It’s making you push yourself onto Spencer so hard he stumbles back. He grabs your ass to steady you both for a moment and you bite harshly onto his bottom lip.

“God, my girl,” Spencer shivers against you when he feels your cold hands seek warmth under his shirt, “My perfect girl, I can’t believe how much I missed you.” He places a kiss onto the top of your head.

Speaking into his shoulder, “I missed you too, I feel crazy. Such a bad day.”

Both of his hands slowly trail up your waist till they meet the side of your boobs, you pull your lips in to conceal a whiny moan.

“I’m sorry I left you hanging earlier, did you finish?”

“N-no, went back to bed.”

He groans against your head. Placing his hands firmly on your hips to push you away slightly, taking a long good look at your naked frame. You feel exposed, embarrassed, and hot. Looking back at him, his perfect suit, deliciously tainted by your wet body print, chest visible through the wetness.

One of his thumbs wanders from your hip, back to the small indent of his buckle, rubbing it back and forth. This time you can’t help but whine.

The tension is tangible and painful. Your hands feel stuck to your sides before you snap out of it, pulling him close by the tie before you try to remove it with slippery hands.

Tight and hard to undo because of the wet nature of his garments frustrates you as you try to untangle Spencer from his tie. Him being clothed feels utterly unbearable. Through half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, he watches you struggle with the tie.

“Here- honey, let me.” Spencer's removal of the tie, his fingers taking it off rather steadily compared to your shaking ones. Though the excitement zipping through him equals yours.

You latch onto him again, completely devoted to his presence, there’s no way in hell you’re letting that much distance and that much time separate you again. Tugging one side of the collar of his jacket you slip it off of him, he grabs your wrist.

“I’m here, I’m here,” A wet kiss to your begging mouth, “Get warm in that shower, you’re trembling. I’ll be there in 30 seconds. Can you wait that long for me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Knew it. Good girl.”

With that, your stomach plummets and you spin on your heels back to the shower. It’s almost orgasmic in itself to find yourself under the hot water pressure again.

The door is almost completely steamed up now, you can hardly make Spencer out through it. You can only see movement and more of his tanned skin being exposed through a murky lens.

You can’t help it, greedy fingers come down to rub a few circles onto your clit as he finishes undressing and approaches you. The weight and stress of the nine days going straight to your clit to be absolved.

The door swings open, mercy.

You don’t feel polite enough to stop the rubbing, Spencer doesn’t seem to mind, mumbling “Jesus.” under his breath before meeting you with a kiss under the shower head.

His tongue rolls slowly against yours, making your toes curl in on themselves where you stand. Fingers picking up against yourself you moan into his open mouth, he pulls his face back to watch you.

A kiss against your throat makes you whimper and pull your head to the side for another one to be placed.

With Spencer’s rock hard dick against his stomach in your line of vision you wince while removing your hand from yourself, your hips instinctively kicking up to chase where your hand is now grabbing the base of Spencer.

He hums low, a bead of precum leaking out to be washed away by the stream. You glide your hand quickly, a desperate attempt to hear more of his moans vibrate against your skin.

“Slowly, baby-” He gasps as you circle his head.

You can’t let up, you barely feel in control of your body. Your head is spinning, you just can’t believe he’s with you.

Finally, a louder moan is cut from Spencer’s lungs as his hips slowly fuck against the fast pace of your fist. The tip of his dick barely ever encases in your hand as he does so, only able to feel the sensation of bottoming out when he’s inside you.

While you’re distracted, moaning brokenly into the suffocating air and pumping your hand against Spencer’s throbbing length, Spencer trails down to pet your clit again for you.

“Fuck, I missed you. I miss touching you like this, the way I can feel your heartbeat in it, baby-” He draws out the last word in disbelief. You felt the thrumming against your own fingertips earlier, so by now you’re sure it’s fluttering against his hand in an obscene way.

His middle finger circles your entrance. Your heart is in your throat.

“Please-” You sob out, being teased right now would end you forever.

“Mhm. I am.”

Taking his time feeling against your spongy walls where his thumb continues its circles against your bundle of nerves, your hand against his cock grows sloppy.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the muggy air making you deliciously light headed against his ministrations.

The second finger brings a delightful stretch, your head falls back against the wall as you whine. It’s been a while. You harness some sort of defiance that refuses to fuck yourself when he’s gone. The week of nothing stretching you out causing for a tight suction around his two fingers as he fucks into you.

“Tight, baby. It’s been too long. I left you too long, my poor thing.”

Though your hand slowed against his cock, you’re still trying to keep up simulation for him, not wanting to be a cruel tease when he’s working against you so perfectly. Spencer pulls that hand away eventually though. Without explanation, you know he was about to cum. His stomach always flexes and twitches when he’s using all his willpower to hold back.

“Need it. Need you-” You gasp against his lips. Totally overzealous. Spencer knows the way you’re tight around him, you’re going to need a third finger to take him without your common whiny complaints.

Teeth knocking together, he continues to tongue kiss you. He wants to expedite this process of feeling you around his cock just as much as you do, he just has more willpower than you. You can mumble and beg and plead till tears well up in your eyes. His stomach swirls with a burning passion because of it, but he has no capability to hurt you.

So you get another long finger inside you.

You let out a high pitched whimper- proving yourself wrong immediately. You needed to be stretched out this way. Damn his perceptiveness.

Your eyes roll back and your hips roll against the fingers rubbing against that sweet spot in you that shakes your thighs.

“You gotta keep yourself open for me when I’m gone, love.” He whispers brokenly into the thick air around you.

“Can’t. Only you.” You grumble back.

Spencer can’t get into the health benefits of taking care of yourself this way, especially in the long periods when he’s away. He can tell you’re bordering speechlessness and he’s dizzy enough to follow your technique of just letting out pretty moans.

A tiny trail of white essence pools around his fingers and he nearly keels over. You’re definitely ready to take him now. Seeing the ways he makes you feel good in the mess you make always drives him to the brink of insanity.

“Taking them out now. Gonna give you what you want. Feel ok?” He whispers into your ear before nibbling the lobe softly before parting to analyze your face.

“Feel reallyy good, Spence.” You smile a dazed grin at him, eyelids fluttering shut. Bringing the fingers that were just inside you to his lips he sucks them off and bites down on his fingers a bit too hard at the divine taste.

“Do you want to turn around for me, angel?”

Spencer’s trying to think of the best way to do this. His shower is nice, but isn’t the biggest shower in the world, he lives in an apartment in D.C. after all. He’s gonna have to fuck you from behind.

“Yeah, course.” You shift slowly, forearms out to brace yourself against the cold wall. Sticking your butt out playfully, he grips it softly, lines his cock against you.

“You feel okay? Ready?” He plants a kiss on your shoulder, you turn your head to make eye contact, you and Spencer usually can’t go too long without looking into each other's faces.

“Feel okay, really want you baby.”

Your head stays tilted to the side and your temple rests against the wall as he nudges his head against you.

Opening you up just enough, the stretch of all of him after a considerable amount of time has you keening.

The hand not gripping your waist moves up to cup one of your tits, rolling the sensitive nipple between his fingers.

“Fuck-” you whimper out meekly.

Letting him all the way in, he squeezes your breast for purchase. Looking at how he’s fully settled inside you, Spencer begins peppering soft kisses over your shoulder and spine, calming you and himself down.

Using the wall as leverage you slowly move yourself back against him, notifying Spencer you’re ready to be taken.

Gasping, he pulls almost all the way out to slowly fuck himself in again before settling on a good, unyielding pace. The feeling of your warm skin under his hands, warm cunt around his dick and warm water falling against his back is making him feel like he’s on a cloud. Completely blissed out having you in his arms again.

You groan (rather unladylike while getting fucked this way) and circle your hips against his thrusts. Spencer peers up at you, making sure your face isn’t holding any tension that could be read as something hurting. Instead you just open your mouth, ready for a finger.

Begrudgingly, he takes his hand off your breast to place his thumb down on your tongue, you moan happily and smile around him as your teeth scrape him lightly when he finds a delicious spot in you to pound at.

Overwhelmed, he has to look up at the ceiling. He’s been so pent up that letting his hips move in autopilot against you, the quiet sopping sound of you two together over the water falling, the base of his spine tingles.

“Still okay?”

He asks at your closed eyes, you gurgle out an uh-huh against his thumb, drool rolling down your chin to be forgotten in the shower.

“Kay- good.” He kisses your cheek.

Feeling his orgasm beginning to build, Spencer takes his hand from your waist to move to the front of your hips where your clit is exposed.

A trembling bite is met against his thumb as he uses three fingers against you in relentless circles. Keeps his hips going the same pace.

“Spence- you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Ha- trying to, doll.” His eyebrows furrow- trying to hold back long enough so he can fuck you through your orgasm, though the tone of your voice is making that increasingly hard.

Your head lolls back against his shoulders and with a few “ah, ah, ah’s” you’re coming hard all over him.

“Good, yeah. You’re okay, feel so good f’me.” He whimpers as you begin to pull his orgasm from him. His hips still against you at your deepest point as you let out a tiny mewl at the stimulation. Tongue pushing out his thumb to moan freely.

He rocks himself inside you while holding your hips up, making sure no slips occur in his bathroom today. Spencer keeps grinding and rubbing your clit until you’re both shaky with overstimulation, and till you mutter out a “can’t-”. He doesn't argue with that.

The shower water is beginning to chill as he watches his cum slide down your thighs into the basin. Spencer is rubbing your arms soothingly up and down till he pulls you against him.

“You wanna get out, pretty?”

“Cold.” You shudder.

Your legs feel like jelly when he’s wrapping a towel around your shoulders and ushering you into his bedroom. Another towel tied lowly on his waist he pulls an FBI hoodie over your raised arms and boxers up your legs. His own robe pulled off the door to drape over himself.

The tender attention you receive no matter what type of sex you and Spencer have always heats your cheeks with delight. A tender pressure is being massaged into your thighs with the lotion you brought over from your own apartment, and your eyes flutter shut as he mumbles something along the lines of “princess.. blah blah blah…” to you.

“Please never be away from me that long again. I really missed you, Spencer.”

All warmed up and soft from his pampering, you lie against his rising and falling chest.

“I know. I did too. It’s strange, I feel like when I’m with you, you act as my circadian rhythm. You ground me and keep me in check, I know when to wake up when you do. I sleep better, eat better. When we’re apart I struggle with that. You’re a resounding part of my day.”

You nuzzle against his chest, preening at his words.

“I love you so much.”

“My baby, I love you too.”

Squished together tightly in a way that’s breeding an almost uncomfortable warmth, you and Spencer fall asleep. Hearts mirroring each other in matching soft and measured beats, the 216 painful hours apart start healing with every drum in your chests.

#fic rec

910 notes · View notes

reidrum · 3 days ago

Note

personally there is no amount of forewarning i could have received that would have prepared me for this actually! yet somehow the line that was my undoing was

You hummed woefully, “Not yet, I missed the light.”

. the light!!!!!!!!!! that’s been taken metaphorically and literally from her oh my god please stop hurting me like this margot i cannot take it i am just a girl it’s not fair at all

omg consider this a request to bury reader again lol. imagine having to go through that again…imagine SPENCER knowing you’re experiencing it again…….margot pLS IM BEGGING🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🙏🙏

black hole | s.r.

in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: spoilery content warning at the end of the post. lol. claustrophobia, being buried alive, death. reader does NOT die, spencer reid crashout, kids/pregnancy, blood, hospitals, spencer's addiction, being drugged, the replicator, i probably missed something!!!! word count: 5.35k a/n: guys can u believe my first fic on here was buried alive. and here we are. doing it again?

Spencer was surrounded by people who cared about him, and yet, the only person he genuinely wanted to see was nowhere to be found. He’d sent you home from the office, passing the car keys along and swiping the incomplete files from your desk.

You’d kissed his cheek the same way you’d done it thousands of times before, and he’d taken it for granted. He should’ve turned his head to kiss your lips. He should’ve left the files to finish tomorrow and gone home with you. He shouldn’t be looking over his shoulder right now, searching for something that wasn’t coming. You weren’t coming.

He’d sent you home, only to find himself standing in your kitchen hours later, surrounded by evidence of a struggle. There had been blood smeared across the floor, a nauseating pattern that, in his professional opinion, looked like someone had been dragged. Without enough time to DNA test the blood, he couldn’t be sure, but once the crime scene unit had typed the blood and it came back as your type, he felt comfortable in his assumption. You had been taken.

Abducted right from the home that the two of you had created for each other, a safe haven to retreat to when the world felt too cramped, too dark.

Remnants of fear lingered in every corner of the house, skylights built into the ceiling for optimum light and nightlights in every room. Spencer had designed the house for you, and Derek arranged the construction. To the average bystander, the open floor plan looked like a modernization of the original structure. To you, each wall was placed purposefully so that you’d never feel like they were closing in on you.

The first person he called was Alex. Part of him wondered if he’d chosen her because she was the only member of the team who hadn’t been around to witness this the first time. The first time Spencer had been standing in a room and had been told you were missing; it felt as though time had completely stopped. This time, it felt like a jackknife to the chest, stabbing him continuously until his legs went out from under him, leaving him gasping on the phone to his friend. The rational side of his brain tried to tell him it was because Blake lived closest, but the irrational portion of Spencer Reid was the only part of him that ever had second thoughts.

That irrational side of him was the side that was in love with you, and he couldn’t justify the probability of this happening again. The math couldn’t be completed, and Spencer was once again left in fragments, nothing more than a shattered mirror that bore the reflection of someone who had it all.

Now, back at the BAU, he stared at the confidential FBI folder that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter by your abductor. It had been dusted, only to find no sign of fingerprints. The evidence was laid out on the roundtable; each page, each horrifying photo served as a memory of what had happened to you two years ago. Left on top of the folder was a piece of paper torn from the journal your therapist had instructed you to keep. Scrawled in unfamiliar penmanship, the note read: He who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

He wasn’t concerned with the origin of the quote; he’d recognize Michel de Montaigne as surely as he would his own work. No, Spencer’s concern laid solely with the implications of the quote, and there was only one outcome he could come to. After all, suffering and your name were synonymous in his mind, even after all of this time.

You kept your eyes closed, grounding yourself just as your therapist had taught you in your hundreds of sessions. Soon enough, Spencer would wake up to your soft whimpers, and he’d coax you out of your paralysis. His hands would find their way to your shoulders, skimming his palms over the cotton of your sleep shirt, and he’d pull you up.

Any minute, Spencer would use the fader to illuminate your bedroom, providing you with the light that you needed as proof that everything was going to be fine. You’d anticipated this; the second anniversary of you being buried alive was just around the corner, and with it, the trauma bubbled to the surface. Even still, you found yourself frowning at the things your senses picked up—the smell of the dirt, the hard surface you were lying on, and the eerie silence of your surroundings. It took you a moment to realize that Spencer wasn’t cooing your name, trying to get you out of your nightmare without scaring you too much.

Clenching your fists, you found yourself missing the familiar pressure of your wedding ring on your left hand, and you told yourself that this had to be a dream. Since you’d gotten it, you only ever took it off if it was absolutely necessary. You’d missed the band so much that you’d gotten a cheaper one to replace it while you had the two pieces soldered together.

You took a deep breath, immediately overwhelmed by the rich earth that flooded your senses, the scent so pungent that you could almost taste it. Against your better judgment, you opened your eyes, letting the lids flutter open while you tried to adjust to the all too familiar darkness. A wave of nausea ran through you, churning your stomach while you tried to swallow it down—not wanting to lay in a puddle of your own sick. “No,” you breathed, having half a mind to sit up and look around, but as your eyes adjusted, you estimated there were only a few inches from the tip of your nose to the roof of your enclosure.

Tentatively, you felt around, grazing your fingertips across the interior surface of your newfound prison. Opposed to the smooth silk of the casket, you were met with a rough wooden surface that grated against your skin, tugging and pulling at the ridges of your fingerprints while you tried to bury your panic.

Denial only got a person so far, and there was nowhere else for you to go except to accept it. This was happening to you again.

This time, it seemed as though you were trapped within the confines of a wooden box, a collection of old two-by-fours haphazardly connected with various nails and screws. You could smell the age of the wood, damp and mildew only served to nauseate you further when mixed with the smell of the dirt.

He’d been put in time-out. Not that Hotch would ever use such layman’s terminology to describe the action taken but being told to sit in the roundtable room and stay there until they knew something felt like a child’s punishment. A flash out of the corner of his eyes signaled that JJ and Rossi had returned from checking the house, meaning Spencer had some explaining to do.

“What did you see?” Hotch asked as soon as they walked into the room. Spencer turned his head to gaze out the windows, watching the cacophony of the joint task force as it entered the next hour. He avoided JJ’s curious eyes, knowing that she knew.

Rossi’s leather boot tapped at the worn carpet in the doorway. “There was a cup of what looked like water on the kitchen counter,” he responded, nodding at the rest of the team as they all filed into the room. “The crime scene techs took a sample of it for testing. The field test came back positive for narcotics, but we won’t have an exact makeup until it comes back from the lab.”

A test that you didn’t have time for, but Spencer felt it was unnecessary. Hearing what they knew from the scene was enough to turn his stomach inside out, the kind of information that gets delivered and then all of a sudden, your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. He’d subconsciously tuned out any other news to protect himself while he looked at the data on the form that Rossi had given him. For a long time, Spencer had accepted that his brain was one that worked with figures and reason, but looking at the numbers in front of him—nothing processed. Every number seemed foreign to him, and nothing made any sense to him.

He stood up suddenly, sending his office chair flying behind him, the aged wheels clattering within themselves as he looked around. Horrified looks were sent to him from everyone in the room. It only took one glance at your picture on the screen for him to grab the paper from the polished wood table. “I have to… I need to…” He rambled aimlessly, staring at the paper while he blindly tried to find his way out of the roundtable room and down the ramp.

Practically bolting out of the bullpen, Spencer sought the fresh air that the campus would bring, but Hotch had told him to stay put, so he settled for the more or less abandoned interview room that neighbored Morgan’s office. The room sat unused most of the time, a fine layer of dust coating everything in plain sight.

Gracelessly pulling at the strap of his watch, he flung it across the room, each faint tick of the seconds a haunting reminder that you were rapidly running out of air. He lowered himself to the ground, sitting down before his legs had a chance to give out beneath him. If he had shut down the first time, he was nothing more than a shell of himself right now, merely a pile of skin and bones that concealed organs—like a heart that was breaking. Pulsatile tinnitus made it seem like his heart was pounding in every area of his body, causing him to pull his legs to his chest, condensing himself so he didn’t take up so much space.

A soft knocking saved him from his own pit of despair, a familiar curtain of brown hair on narrow shoulders greeted his eyes, and the soft smile that Blake gave him dripped with pity. “Do you mind?” She asked rhetorically, gesturing to a chair in front of him before taking a seat. “What is it?”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, too stressed to deduce the meaning of her question. “What is what?” Dropping his hands, he thumbed the hem of his slacks, fiddling with a loose thread to occupy his busy mind. He tried to act as if there weren’t tornado sirens going off in his head, cluing him to an impending storm—one where he was bound to be swept up.

“There’s more to this thank you’re letting on,” Blake nudged the toe of her boot against Spencer’s sneaker. “Hotch wouldn’t have taken you out of the field if there weren’t exigent circumstances.”

Sometimes, he had to remind himself that even though she hadn’t been a profiler for very long, Alex had plenty of experience in the bureau. She had a knack for reading people and reaching conclusions, and, at this moment, Spencer despised her for it. He turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, the displacement of his face causing one of his eyes to close. “She’s pregnant,” he confessed, the weight of the secret crumbling from the air around him.

He shut his other eye to avoid the look of shock that had inevitably taken place on Alex’s face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; you were supposed to be able to wait three more weeks until the second trimester and be able to tell everyone. It was supposed to be a joyous moment, not a secret choked out when there were no other options. “Hotch knows?”

Blinded by his eyelids, Spencer nodded. Hotch was the first person he’d told once that little plus sign popped up. Before you’d told any friends and family, Spencer knew he had to tell Hotch about the baby; he had to keep you safe. What a waste that had been.

Just last week, you’d gone to see the baby for the first time, the sonogram had been gleefully posted on your refrigerator that same day. He knew the chances that JJ and Rossi hadn’t seen it were next to none, so really, there was no more secret to keep.

You were just barely nine weeks along, the last few days had been spent debating whether or not you wanted to do a blood test to find out the sex, and now you might never know. He’d thought you’d be better off at home. He’d thought getting away from the office at a normal time would be healthy for you, but instead his well-meaning gesture had placed you under the radar of someone who wanted to hurt you. What was worse was this person undoubtedly knew who you were and what you were afraid of, they’d probably been watching you for a while.

Guilt burrowed deep inside of his gut when he lifted his eyelids, looking at the paper he’d taken from the roundtable room. Mixed in with whatever they’d given you to knock you out had been an unlisted narcotic. The field test hadn’t been precise enough to name the drug, but in the end, Spencer found he didn’t really care about the specifics. He only cared about what he knew. Narcotics were known to cause miscarriages, and when you combined that with whatever had knocked you out—GHB, Rohypnol, whatever—it only killed more hope. It brought Spencer to a place of desolation.

He was miserable as he handed the paper off to Blake, vaguely aware of the people passing by in the hallway, rubbernecking near the door to try and get a glimpse of him. “Did the UnSub just take whatever was left over in your medicine cabinet and give it to her?”

The question was innocent enough. Maybe in another lifetime, you’d have a few pills left over from various hospital trips, but that wasn’t the case in this timeline. “We don’t keep narcotics in the house,” he answered a tad too quickly.

Interrupting his thought process, JJ poked her head into the interrogation room, “Uh, Hotch wants everyone in the roundtable room.” Her sorrowful blue eyes pierced through Spencer, with him sitting on the floor, everyone felt so much bigger than him. “The Replicator sent us a message.”

You gasped a sob, trying to rein in your emotions so you wouldn’t use as much of your limited air supply, but with every passing moment, you found it that much more difficult to hold yourself together. Reaching up a hand, you pressed your palm at the ceiling above you, pushing up at the roof of your enclosure to no avail. Paranoia was beginning to creep in, telling you that the things you were hearing were the worms in the soil preparing to return you to the earth.

Swiping your hand on the wood, you repeated the motion until you were clawing at the rotting material, attempting to burrow yourself out of confinement. The split grains tugged and pulled at your fingertips, leaving splinters to interrupt the fine lines of your prints. You were on the verge of throwing a tantrum, kicking and scratching at your confines, until one of the boards broke, bringing you to a screeching halt.

You’d kicked one of the boards loose, breaking it and leaving the void to fill with dirt. Lowering your shaky hands, you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regulate your breathing through techniques you’d learned over the years. You’d spent countless hours in therapy trying to help your claustrophobia, but you’d used that time to navigate things like elevator rides and tiny bathroom stalls. You never thought you would need to prepare for this to happen to you a second time.

You couldn’t halt the tears when they finally came. Part of you knew that crying would use up what little oxygen you had at a fast rate, but the other part of you, the despondent part, didn’t have the energy to care. You tried for a moment, covering your mouth with your bleeding palm to contain the volume of air you were taking in, to no avail. You had finally lost control, and the fuzzy feeling in your brain was only exacerbated by the scent of the dirt that coated your hands.

It just wasn’t fair. Subconsciously, you knew the concept of fairness should’ve been something you’d given up on years ago, but as the air surrounding you grew stale, it was all you could think about. The idea that you’d spent your morning with Spencer trying to prove to you that your bump was showing, giggling while using the false name you’d assigned to your unborn child as you insisted you were just bloated.

Slowly, you dragged your bleeding fingertips down your torso, leaving them resting hesitantly on your lower belly, the exact spot that Spencer had insisted was protruding just that morning. Bile rose in your throat as you feared what your day of turmoil meant for your baby. You had no idea how long you’d been in the ground, and you had no idea how much time you had left. Spencer would’ve figured it out—he had last time. One sleepless night, you’d made him explain tidal volume to you, and he’d let you comb your fingers through your hair while he told you the story of the last time he came to your rescue.

As you lay there, paranoid, wondering if you were imagining the pain in your head and stomach, it occurred to you that you never should have come back to the BAU the first time. The sleepless nights you’d spent combing through the trauma of your teammates, convincing yourself that what you’d been through was nothing in comparison to their scars, had been entirely unnecessary. You kept a tally of the flights of stairs you’d taken when one elevator ride would’ve sufficed, wearing the count as a badge of honor. You could count on one hand the number of elevator rides you’ve taken in the last two years—they were usually spent with your head in your hands and Spencer’s hand on your back.

You’d always compared yourself to Emily, who’d lost her life, and Hotch, who’d lost his love, and you decided that if they could return to the field after those events, then there was no reason for you to lag behind. You forced yourself to play a part you didn’t belong in, and you could never forgive yourself for it. It’s part of the reason you let your eyes fall shut when the air grows thin, wondering if there was any point in coming back to a life you weren’t mean to be living.

He'd run out of things to throw, eyeing the books that he’d left scattered on the ground, his watch still discarded somewhere in the interview room. His tie was loosened to the point that it was almost slipping off of his neck while he desperately tried to catch his breath. Each time he settled down, he remembered you were suffocating, and the cycle continued.

The Replicator had all but taken responsibility for your abduction, and the world around him had begun to spin. Quickly, everything began to make sense, repeating a crime that had been committed against you and using narcotics to knock you out.

His addiction had never been officially documented in any FBI files, but that didn’t stop Spencer from placing fault on himself. There were easier ways to incapacitate someone, and somehow, the Replicator had chosen the method that was likely to do the most harm. Spencer put his trembling hands over his head, knowing that if he’d never taken that vial off of Tobias Hankel’s corpse, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. His mind that had been previously praised for genius drew convoluted lines between the dots, making connections that he never should’ve considered.

In the doorway, Alex came to his rescue once more, holding a Kevlar vest in her hand while smiling at him kindly, “We found her.”

The distance between Quantico and the cemetery was no more than a blur to him. He had no idea when it had started to rain, but he found each pelt of a raindrop to be soothing, welcoming the constant drumming that occupied his minds, keeping him away from catastrophizing.

Rossi, Hotch, and Emily had arrived only moments before the second SUV, but they’d wasted no time in getting the cemetery staff to dig at the coordinates Penelope had found in the message sent by the Replicator. The rain made the soil move like sludge off of the makeshift casket that contained the love of his life, and he took his first step toward you when he saw the broken pieces of wood.

A familiar arm went out in front of him, blocking his path to you with a sense of fraternal protection, but Spencer tried to push Morgan away. He was the weaker of the two, exhausted by his own emotions as he shoved his way through to you. Distantly, he heard himself asking to be let through, but it wasn’t until the lid of the casket was popped that Blake spoke up for him, “Derek.”

Immediately, Derek’s arm dropped, releasing the hold he had on Spencer and allowing him to run to you. The sopping ground sept into his shoes as he ran, falling into the mud while Emily and Hotch precariously pulled you out of your enclosure. Morgan’s intention had been to shield Spencer from the harsh reality of your death, but even if you were gone, he still felt an otherworldly pull to you. After all, what was the point of promising ‘til death do us part if he wasn’t with you when you went?

Mud coated every spare inch of his clothes, but he couldn’t care less as he scrambled to take your hand in his, gently pressing his fingers to your wrist and waiting for something—anything. “Baby, please.” He couldn’t tell, the radial pulse could be undependable, so he moved his hand to your neck and crouched his head over your face, immediately comforted when he heard the faint whistle of air flowing through your nostrils.

Relief flooded his senses, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours and nodding profusely when Emily asked him if you were alive. His chest shook with a sob as he pulled back, tugging his FBI jacket off and laying it over you to try and warm you up, the rest of the team following suit while JJ and Hotch tried to flag down the ambulance. He tuned out the frantic discussion of the team and the loud blare of the emergency vehicles.

Shifting so he was sitting on the ground, he gingerly placed your head in his lap, using his fingertips to deftly wipe away the dirt and blood that covered your marred skin. He noted a scratch on your head, and a quick scan of your body didn’t show him any visible injuries, though your hands displayed a nauseating portrait of your time in the ground, torn apart with dozens of splinters. “I’ve got you,” he cooed to your unconscious body. He looked up to see a team of EMTs running towards you, decked out in rain gear and medical supplies, “She’s pregnant.”

His words elicited a stare from one of the rain-soaked paramedics, telling him he had reached the same conclusion that Spencer had already resolved himself to. “We’ve gotta get her out of this rain,” he said, loading you onto a spine board and lifting you to the gurney so they could easily roll you to the ambulance, leaving Spencer scrambling to catch up with you. He practically threw himself into the ambulance, refusing to separate himself from you.

Spencer squeezed your hand, hoping you’d squeeze back, staying as far back as he could from the paramedics while keeping his fingers intertwined with yours.

Nothing hurt when you came to, but you could feel the familiar pressure of a bandage around your leg. Sensation traveled up to your hands, each of your fingertips precariously wrapped with cause, initiating the healing of your cuts from when you’d tried to scratch your way to freedom. Slowly, you took a deep breath, letting the antiseptic air of the hospital flood your senses.

Through your eyelids, you could see that the room around you was bright, and a soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—Spencer was here. You felt him now, the soft touch of his hand on your arm, the imprint of a hand you knew as well as your own. The warmth of his palm served as a brief distraction before your brain registered a dull ache in your stomach, and somehow, you just knew. A low keening sound slipped from your throat, more from the compressed escape of air than a complaint of any pain you felt.

“I love you,” Spencer whispered gently, his voice hoarse with emotion, “So, so much.” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your battered knuckles. “Oh, honey,” he sighed, gently squeezing your hand, minding your wounds.

He was so gentle with you—he always had been. His fingertips drifted over your arm with an attention to detail that rivaled a medical doctor, minding the IV in your arm when he moved past it. You tried to mumble an I love you in return, but the words came out unintelligibly.

Spencer’s ministrations came to a halting stop at this first sign of life, “Hey,” he cooed, “What was that?” You felt the side of your mattress dip as he took a seat on your bedside, he hushed you gently, dragging a knuckle up and down your cheek while silently pleading for you to speak.

He was testing you, that much you knew. He wanted to know if being deprived of air had cost you your ability to speak. You shook your head at him, denying the implication as you cleared your throat determinedly, “I love you, too.” Your voice was gravelly, likely from all of the screaming you had done in the tomb, but it was there, and it was coherent.

The hospital sheets scratched at your skin while you tried to coax yourself into opening your eyes, the promise of seeing Spencer providing an incentive. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at his sorrowful eyes. Even so, he smiled at you softly, just happy to see you awake, “There’s my girl.”

The tear tracks on his face were like daggers to your heart, bringing with them a terrible reminder of whatever fear he felt when you had gone missing. You blinked additional sleep out of your eyes, focusing on him and his exhaustion, “How long?” You asked, watching him reach over for a glass of water, guiding the straw to your mouth.

He waited until you’d taken a few sips before answering your questions, “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He said, setting the cup to the side—close enough that you could grab it on your own if need be.

You made a face—two days was a long time—and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows while you tried to find the right words to say. “How’s…. Am I…?” You stumbled through the question, tears welling in your waterline before you even had the chance to ask. Swallowing thickly, you could only hope Spencer understood when you were getting at before you had to force the words out.

Your husband shook his head softly, “There’s no heartbeat.” His voice was tight, but he maintained his position as a pillar for you to lean on, keeping your hand in his just in case you needed additional support.

It didn’t hurt, not right now. You were sure the grief would hit you at some point in the near future when the sun hit your face just right or a blue car passed you by. Some inexplicable harbinger of grief would enter and exit your life just as quickly as your child had. “Okay,” you breathed, gazing at Spencer, hoping your eyes would have the ability to convey how you felt.

“They haven’t pinpointed a cause; it could’ve been any number of things, but it’s not… Are you in any pain?” He cut himself off to check in on you; he studied your expression with a stoicism that rivaled your boss.

You shook your head, “No.” The achiness you felt wasn’t strong enough to fully qualify as pain, and anything that was there, your body had already gotten used to. You were sure there was something in your IV that was assisting the numbness in your limbs.

Spencer raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “Would you tell me if you were?” He asked you, giving you a look that reminded you he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Will you just… not tell anyone I woke up yet?” You shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “I’m not ready.” You needed time to prepare for the prying eyes and barrage of questions that were bound to come with the BAU.

His head bobbed, “Anything. Anything you want,” he promised, dragging his knuckle up and down your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into his touch, prompting him to cup the cold skin in his warm palm. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted to.”

You hummed woefully, “Not yet. I missed the light.” Besides that, you wanted to enjoy your sedated mind before it became overwhelmed with a flurry of emotions. Right now, you felt peace, and you deserved to have that kind of silence. Surely the dam would break, but as long as you could hold it off, you just wanted to lay in bed with Spencer. “’m cold,” you mumbled thoughtlessly, thinking of it as a throwaway comment before you remembered who you married.

Spencer had a pile of blankets to his left, and he deftly pulled the top one from the pile and got to work placing it over you. “Is this better?” He asked, timidly tucking the blanket under your side and making sure you were well-covered.

Wincing, you slid your hand beneath the blanket and lifted the side, creating an opening for him to slip into. Your silent invitation was accepted when Spencer kicked his shoes off and joined you in the crowded hospital bed, “Much better.” You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, “Spence?”

“What is it, honey?” He asked, skimming the pad of his thumb over your side, his large hand splayed against your back.

Clenching your left hand into a fist, you sighed, trying to ignore the tears that were pricking your eyes. “Did you find my ring?” You remembered missing it in the ground, but you’d forgotten until just now, your finger once again intolerably bare.

A gentle kiss was pressed to the crown of your head, “Yes.” He twisted back, plucking the familiar ring off of your bedside table and returning it to its rightful home on your ring finger. “It was on the back of your sink in the bathroom,” he explained, twisting the band so the gem was facing out.

Small, sad tears trickled from your ducts. You sniffled, and Spencer’s grip on you changed—not tighter, but firmer as if he had anticipated this moment. The moment when what you had been avoiding finally caught up with you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you. You didn’t even have to ask for him to rub small circles on your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As it had been for years now, Spencer was the only reason you felt safe enough to let your eyes fall shut, and even the darkness of sleep didn’t seem so intimidating when you knew you had him near.

spoiler content warning: miscarriage

#fic rec #margot 🫀

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