#( reid )

[harpsinfinity]

Fantastic.

Fantastic.

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes--"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, her arms a flurry of motion, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a huff, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of motion and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did--like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was--the shift. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up--the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice--wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean—maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second—wide-eyed panic—but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak. His grin was insufferably smug, the kind that practically begged for something to be thrown at him. 

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part--it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that soft ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile—the one that always made you a little breathless—spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

The words hit you like they always did--soft enough, but with the force of a thousand butterflies taking flight in your chest. You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy--your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over--but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it--your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @r-3dlips @m-indkiller @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @reiderrambles @averyhotchner @hbwrelic @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @doigettokeepyou @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @c-losur3 @theylovemelody @alahnizamolo @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @spiderladyleah @estragos @khxna @spencerssoup @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @aecd27 @persephonestears @moonyxstars @xxmooxmooxx @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @jungchloee @she-wont-miss @duchesz @i2rapunzel @historicallyqueer

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[elliet1ou]

matthew gray gubler as russell in the great buck howard

[lostingubler]

oh she loves him so much

[jettreccomendsfics]

HOLY-

im so obsessed

i love!!!

pt 2?

california gurls - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader's beach partying gets interrupted by the fbi... she finds a way to make it fun when she realizes a cute doctor is around and so is her jeep

genre: smut wc: 2133 warnings: early seasons spencer, subbish!spencer, he whimpers, reader wears a bikini, mentioned rapist and murderer, mentions of harassment, reader has been with asshole men, reader has a jeep, car sex, unprotected sex, reader is on birth control, brief nipple play a/n: based off california gurls by katy perry!!

California is absolutely a cliché. Sunkissed skin, bikinis, Daisy Dukes. The golden coast holds parties–like this one–scantily clad girls and slurring morons that look exactly how every other frat boy looks. Here you are, representing that very image. With your red bikini and sand-covered feet, you’re the epitome of a California girl.

In the corner of your eye are palm trees, under which are several tanning ladies. Boys are practically drooling, necks craned to get a peek. Speakers play pop that seems to move everyone–including you. Bodies splash in sparkling blue, hips rock to the rhythm. The music booms. That is until it comes to an abrupt stop.

You look over to see a group of men in sunglasses approaching, one of them evidently responsible for the music-murdering due to his apologetic shrug. He’s obviously not that sorry. Male voices seem offended by it.

The one that turned off the fun stands tall, a black man that–if you didn’t know any better–you’d say was from around here. Another is shorter and older. The one you find most interesting, however, is tall and scrawny, with hair curling around his ears and a permanent nervous smile. To be completely honest, it’s cute. If you could see beneath his sunglasses, you’re sure you’d find overwhelmed eyes bouncing between each tanned body.

The big one–the black one–lifts credentials from his belt.

“Listen, we’re with the FBI. There’s been a string of rapes and murders in the area and we have reason to believe that the UnSub has been here. He might even be one of you.”

Someone–you’re not sure who–raises a hand and asks, “UnSub?”

“Unknown Subject. Bad guy. Perp. You get the idea.” He takes off his eyewear and hooks it in his shirt. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan. This here is Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi and,” he points to the cute one, “Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Dr. Spencer Reid awkwardly waves before crossing his arms, lips pressed in a tight line. You wonder what kind of doctor he is and if you should pretend to faint.

“We’ll be asking you questions one by one,” Rossi explains.

Quickly, without even a moment to think, you’re split into groups. One for each agent. To your absolute joy, you’re waiting your turn to get evaluated by the only one labeled doctor. You get closer and can hear the helpless way he asks his questions. With the girls, it’s awkward like he doesn’t know how to talk to girls wearing so little. With the guys, he seems to be keeping a distance. He analyses them–for good reason–but he also seems nervous because he knows the type. He knows the difference between them. To be more precise, he knows how they treat guys like him.

You’re the last in the long line.

When you get to Spencer, you’re pleased when his eyes flick over you before he swallows.

“Hey,” he starts with a tight grin, “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.” You tell him your name. He smiles that same awkward smile.

“Uh, right, so… the guy we’re looking for is socially skilled, arrogant, easily aggravated, and will most likely be bold with the way he talks to women, becoming hostile when turned down.”

It’s not in the least appropriate but, in-between gawking at him, you laugh. “Unfortunately, that sounds like every guy out here.”

His perfect brown eyebrows pull together. “Really?”

You nod. Now, up close, your eyes trace his figure, taking in the grey shirt, blue tie and the gun on his hip. It’s weirdly attractive. You wonder when you started being attracted to authority.

“I guess guys around here aren’t gentlemen,” you shrug.

“And girls actually date them?”

Something about the shock in his eyes and the scowl on his lips makes you swoon. “Guess so.”

“What about–uh–harassment? Is there any of that?” Spencer looks down at you.

Shrugging, you sigh, “sometimes. Usually just frat boys. Nothing extreme. Sometimes the gross ones might try too hard. We’ve all been there.”

His lips part and he nods at your answer. Surprisingly, those pretty brown eyes trickle down your body, mapping out each and every curve with a purpose, as if to memorize. The idea of him locking you away only to take back out when he’s alone turns you on more than you’d care to admit. It’s flattering to think you’re that interesting.

It could also be wishful thinking.

But that could be tested.

More specifically, that could be tested by one sentence. That sentence being, “do you want to go to my car? It’s cooler in there. You know?”

After what could only ever be described as a brain short-circuit, Spencer clears his throat and hums a squeaky, “yeah.”

A delighted smile forms on your face as you nod, taking a few steps back to your Jeep. You unlock it, opening the door and leaning over to put the key in the ignition. Spencer’s eyes fall on your ass in the tight, red fabric. You hear him clear his throat behind you before you straighten up. But he’s much closer to you than anticipated.

Chest-to-chest, you look up at him, eyes wide and cheeks burning hot not because of the sun. A rough swallow and then a quick glance to your breasts proves that maybe the attraction isn’t unrequited. He wets his lips and you’re sure you can’t hold back.

Inappropriately, sloppily, and with force, your lips crash together. You hold yourself up only with your hands on the back of his head. And it’s not like you expected any less with lips like his, but he’s an amazing kisser. It’s messy, sure, but it’s hot, your teeth clumsily clacking together every time your mouths open. Only, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying it as much as he wants to be.

“This isn’t–” he huffs into your mouth, hands finding your shoulders. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Although you know it’s true–he’s supposed to be questioning you not sticking his tongue down your throat–you really don’t care. “Why not?”

“I–I’m not here to–” He takes a frustrated breath. “I’m not here for this… reason.”

You almost wish he wasn’t so perfect but it kind of made it better. When your lips press against his this time, he moans and you’re right back where you started. You think he doesn’t really want to say no. He just knows he should.

You look up at him, your eyes wide and doe-like. Like a little girl capable of begging for a lollipop, you frown. “Please?”

A rough gulp. An exhale. A nod.

Lips reconnect and you’re soon enough in the front seat, on his lap, fingers curling in his gelled hair and cheeks bright red. The door haphazardly shut, you hold onto the handle for balance. Your hips start moving in circles as his tongue dives into your mouth. The prettiest whine falls from him as his hands finally move to your bare waist. One of those hands drift down to the string of your bottoms.

He breaks the kiss and his sickeningly deer-like eyes find yours. “C–Can I?” Spencer mutters carefully. His eyes shine, sparkles of lust floating over the hazel.

“Yeah,” you breathe shakily. Bobbing your head, you lean back as little as you can while still giving him room. But, what you weren’t expecting was him not taking off the fabric. Instead of untying the string and letting it fall down to show off your already wet center, he slides the inadequate polyester to the side, revealing your core.

The way his steady–but honestly heavy–breathing hitches and turns whiny makes you clench. Like handling the finest porcelain, his index and middle finger drag between your folds before reaching a settlement on your ready clit.

A long, pleased sigh leaves you as your hips resume their messy pattern of rocking. He can’t choose between watching you slide across his fingers or your lips part in ecstasy. The feeling of him touching you is heaven but you want something else. At this very moment, you’d crawl, bare, to the ends of the earth for him to please you the way you want.

Oddly steady fingers find his belt. The clanging it makes flips your stomach. You pull his pants down just enough to reach into his purple boxers. A whimper slips out of his mouth as you take him out.

He’s big, pale and pink at the tip. Thin but the perfect length, however. His nails dig into your waist.

You press your forehead against his and slide your hand up and down his length. “I don’t have–uh–any condoms in here but I’m on birth control and I’m clean.”

Spencer’s lips part, an uneven whimper leaving them. “I’m clean, too.”

You release him and position yourself. The tip of his cock brushes through you before you set him at your entrance. His grip on your waist never lets up as you start to lower.

An embarrassingly loud moan slips out of you. You take him to the hilt. Inch by inch until he’s reaching so deep you can’t think. To hide how disgustingly far you’re being stretched, your mouth meets his messily. He takes in your bottom lip and devours it. It’s when you can’t stop yourself that you pull back and put your heads together.

You lift yourself up until only the last inch of him is still inside. You’re sure you’ll have perfect indents left on your skin from his fingernails. You slam your hips back down quicker than you should.

His panicked voice rings high-pitched in the hot car, “i–it’s been a while, I might not last–”

Part of you is glad because you know you won’t either. “That’s okay. That’s–that’s really okay,” you pant.

You revel in the way he whimpers with each movement of your hips. You revel in how pink his cheeks are and the way his eyes can’t stay off your chest no matter how hard they try. You revel even more in how wide they go when you pull the string of your top and let it fall. One of his hands you take, bringing it up. He rolls the sensitive flesh between his fingers as you start a rhythm.

You’re unrelenting, body moving quick because you can’t get enough of how good it feels to have him so deep. It’s bad for you to be feeling him twitch inside you. It makes you lightheaded.

Spencer’s neediness comes in the form of him thrusting up to meet you every time. With one rough thrust, his cock hits your innermost point forcefully and you whine, bringing his lips back to yours. Tongues sloppily collide with no grace. Moans are exchanged while you roll your hips back and forth. In a momentary rush of confidence, his hands move to your hips.

And then your ass.

He’s uncertain why he would do such a thing because now he’s fighting back his orgasm, his length throbbing against your cervix.

Luckily, you’re in the same place. Your walls flutter each time he brushes your sweet spot. Each time he mutters an expletive.

It seems he’s the one to break first, however.

“I don’t think I can–”

You mumble breathlessly, “me, neither, it’s okay.”

Sweat runs down your chest as you pant out desperate moans with each intake of needed oxygen. That knot builds in your gut–a feeling that’s rarely due to a man. You suppose he’s a separate being than the regular assholes around. When his fingers find your clit again, you’re sure. Spencer’s whimpering turns into heavy exhales and you take that as your cue to swiftly tell him not to pull out.

Droopy eyes meet his before you firmly mutter, “inside.”

He sighs shakily and nods.

A few more times of his cock hitting your cervix has both of your orgasms hurtling towards you. Your forehead falls onto his shoulder. His hips slam into yours and you’re coming instantly. Your walls clench around him, triggering his own release effortlessly. His cum drips down your thighs, creating a sure mess.

Words–swears–that make no sense fall from your swollen and parted lips.

“Oh, my God,” Spencer whispers–mostly to himself.

Eyes blown wide and legs cramping, you concur with a soft, “yeah.”

Hesitantly and with great despair, he mutters, “I should really get back to my team…” What follows is a guilty gulp.

You nod and maneuver yourself off of him. You ignore the irritating sensation of the emptiness after being so full. The only thing wrong is that, in moving, you accidentally honk the horn with your ass. Twice.

Half mortified and half amused, you giggle. Your cheeks flush red.

You believe it’s appropriate to assume that his team definitely knows what–or rather who–he spent his paid time doing.

[roryculkinluvr]

i need to play with his hair 😇

[solardrop]

love bites

spencer reid x reader

summary: a drabble where spencer won't give you a hickey on the neck tags: fluff some suggestiveness. no smut but its implied so ill say 18+. inaccurate medical discussions. talks about veins and arteries and strokes. i think this can be read as gender-neutral? word count: ~0.9k a/n: something short and sweet from my drafts I decided to pull out of hell so it's very rough around the edges but I still think the concept is cute! I was watching tiktok and a very qualified and well-trusted source said this can happen so obviously its a real statistic that spencer reid would believe. Let me live ok. Not proofread!!

“People actually underestimate the dangers of certain erotic activities like love bites. There have actually been some well-documented cases of people dying as the result of hickeys. There was one case in Mexico about a 17-year-old boy dying of a stroke caused by a blood clot in his artery from a hickey his girlfriend gave him”

You blink slowly at the man you were sitting on, baffled by the absolute nonsense pouring out of his mouth. 

“Spencer, you do realize you’ve left marks on me before?”

“Never your neck,”

“Yes you have-” you pull back to think. You bashfully recall the few times you two have been intimate. Marks littered across your thighs, chest, and ass; hell even a few on your shoulder blades. But for the life of you, you can’t recall the sharp sting of his teeth marring you anywhere above your collarbone.

“Ok fine, but you have bitten me on my thighs a lot.” you recall, “I remember when you got shot in your leg and damn near bled out. So is my femoral artery not a concern of yours doctor?”

He looks away with a coy smile. HIs cheeks redden as he stutters to put his words together. 

“Your femoral artery is a bit deeper in your body than your carotid is in your neck. The skin on your body is actually about two times thicker than..”

Spencer begins to ramble about delicate nature of the neck, firing off related statistics and study facts without missing a beat. You listen carefully, still amazed by overflowing well of knowledge your boyfriend could be all the time.He looked confident like this. His eyes would brighten and every trivial connection he could make to another topic would have his lips twisting with mirth. 

This time, with the topic at hand, you find your focus locked on his neck. His adam apple bobs with every syllable out of his mouth. The pale skin of his collarbone exposed beneath his frumpled collar teased you from your high vantage point. The skin was pristine, not a blemish or scratch in sight. You pause. Have you never given him a hickey on his neck?! You run through the cataloge of your most intimate moments all over again realizing the clear absence in your relationship. 

“... so you aren’t in much danger with your femoral artery for superficial injuries like a brui-oh—!” 

His words are cut short by the graze of your teeth at the base of his neck. You don’t bite down yet. If this was something he wanted to back out of, you’d let him. You wait for him to react, kissing the pulse point that picked up pace since the first touch of your lips to the delicate skin.

You continue to mouth as his neck. Licking at tender spots behind his ear earn you little moans, followed by sharp gasps when your teeth follow in their wake. You move to pull away after a moment. He didn’t throw you off and scream attempted murder when you started, but he also hasn’t been begging you from more either. You’ve teased hm enough for one day, kisses and lovebites on his sweet lips and elsewhere were more than enough for you anyways. But before you could pull away a firm hand at the back of your head presses you back into the crook of his neck. His other hand wraps tighter around your waist, sliding you closer to him, every inch of your body pressed against his. Got him.

“Please..” he whispers. 

“Hm..?”

Spencer’s voice starts with a crack, he takes a moment to clear his throat before he continues, “You can… You can leave a mark”

“But Spencer!,” you mock a startled gasp, “Your precious and delicate carotid!”

“I think just this once is fine..” he murmurs, “and I trust you”

You beam at his honesty, ending his suffering to press your lips to his neck again. You remain gentle. Running your lips along his skin, sofly grazing him with your teeth now and again. His breath hitches above you when your teeth graze that spot behind his jaw once more. You focus your attention there. Kissing and licking and blowing until you sink your teeth down into the flesh. 

A choked groan bubbles from his throat, the sound egging you on. You suck the spot into your mouth, careful to not be too aggressive— while you didn’t totally believe hickey strokes were that much of a danger, you still dont want to fuck around and find your way into that embarrassing statistic. 

When youre pleased with the variety of sounds you pull out of your love, you sit up to admire your work. Spencer looked at you in a daze, eyes cloudy and bottom lip pulled so tight between his teeth you’re sure he’d have a bruise there too later. Your eyes drop to the love bite at his neck, the skin deepening in color the longer you look at it. You tap the spot gently with your pointer finger beaming at the wince it earns you. 

“Feeling any signs of stroke or a heart attack doctor?” you tease.

“No, but we’ll need to run a few more trials to have a real experiment here.” you cackle at his sly wording when he pulls you off his lap abruptly, pinning you below his body instead. 

“We may also need additional test subjects for this research to be truly viable.,” Before you could fully process his meaning he attaches his lips to your neck with a smile.

[mrs-weasley-reid]

MADE HIS MARK

Spencer Reid x bau!reader

Synopsis: a shivery trip to a liquor cellar turned into a steamy secret between friends and a not-so-subtle reveal between a small herd of colleagues. Word Count: 5k+ WARNING: SMUT. please, please, MDNI !!! penetration (piv). unprotected sex (but fr wrap it up!!!). fingering (a lil bit). obsessed!spencer (bc why not?). ex friends with benefits to lovers. a pinch of angst if you squint. cursing. troublemaker spencer reid and reader. not proofread!! A/N: heavily influenced by the song Dress by Taylor Swift. I love me a TS song. I'm obsessed, and I saw the opportunity. Also, this is my first Spencer Reid smut fic. Be nice, and tell me what you think!

  The sharp brush of spring and little kisses from the evening air prompt you to savor the shivery feeling on your skin.

  You take a deep breath before sliding your heels off, dangling them in your hand as you trail down the maze of a hallway in Rossi’s lavish home. Your dress is now a product of a shoddy decision. 

  All you knew was how presentable and wedding-appropriate it was, but you never realized why you would wear such a dress barely sewn for the crisp evening weather in May.

  “Hiding from everyone?”

  A smile instantly layers over your painted lips before you can even raise your gaze ahead. There’s this tickle of warmth that sparks inside of you the moment you hear his voice. Hands shaking in an intense subconscious buzz of excitement. Thrilling.

  No other than Dr. Spencer Reid is ten feet away from you, standing lazily against the wall. His hair is messy from all the magic tricks he tore out to Jack and Henry and, funnily enough, Penelope, too.

  Bright gleam shines on your face, flashing a saccharine smile you can only muster when the receiver is him. You shake your head.

  "Are you?"

  One hand in his pocket. Spencer shyly nods, “I ran out of magic tricks, and Jack figured out one of my tricks halfway through my little show.” He explains without persuasion, staring into space with playful horrid written all over his face.

  You steal the half-full glass from his other hand, cringing at the taste of sparkling cider. “One sip won’t kill you, you know…” You say, shoving the glass back into his hand.

  Spencer laughs, “You’d love to see me drunk, don’t you?” He quips, a sheepish smile growing with each syllable.

  “Very much so,” You nod, making a beeline to the kitchen to find some kind of beverage that’ll knock you out ‘til the next day.

  He follows you like a tail. Your senses feel his warmth, his breath fanning against your exposed back. The feeling of his tall presence behind leaves your breath hitching between inhales and exhales, and you’d love more than his figure on your trail. You ache for something more than the image of him in your wake. You need him merged with your soul, his body tightly pressed against yours. You crave something harsh.

  It’s wishful thinking.

  “What took you so long? Did you not notice I was gone?” He wonders.

  Or is it?

  “It’s cold out here, you know,” Spencer pouts in your peripheral. 

  You want your lips to wipe them off, then turn them into an O.

  “Aww, does pretty boy genius feel lonely?” You tease over your shoulder, tapping his chest with the back of your hand. Your brows jump, twisting on your heels to face him. “I’ll be damned,” You exclaim, pushing your palm against his pec with more pressure.

  It's been so long since you touched him with more than an accidental brush of your fingertips. His body stiffens under your light squeeze. And the thirst for more slowly dries the circumference of his throat.

  “Reid, when’d you get this fit? No wonder women are all over you.” Genuine curiosity takes over, looking up at him with fluttering lashes.

  Spencer scoffs, leaning down eye to eye with you, “I’ve always been hot.” He retorts with a straight face. The confidence radiates, and it does something in the pit of your stomach.

  A brief silence whooshes between your bodies, and the next thing you know, both of you are laughing ‘til your cores cramp.

  You gasp for air, head against his sternum, hand still placed over his pec. “Don’t ever say that in front of Morgan. He might get a stroke.” You begin walking once more, turning your back to him. 

  “I am! Don’t you agree?” You do. He banters a few feet away, keeping a safe distance—or so help the impulsive thoughts that are whirling around his mind. A playful grin works his facial muscles out, only hoping that you didn’t notice the way he takes in your scent like a bait set out for him.

  Spencer didn’t even need to run to catch up with you. His strides are five times longer than yours.

  You feel a soft fabric cover your shoulders, accompanied by a heavy arm that burns your skin in pure reflexive need. “I thought you were cold?” You ask, glancing to your left, where Spencer walks beside you.

  Spencer shrugs, “Rather feeling cold than you getting a cold tomorrow morning. The chances of me getting sick from being cold tonight versus you sneezing on me like a troll is 15 to 85 percent.” He replies calmly, earning a light smack from your hand.

  You roll your eyes, but your smile never travels far. It only happened once. And you both swore once was enough.

  The two of you became friends during your time in the Academy. You’ll never forget the first time you met him. The urge to shove a sock inside his yapping mouth over the repercussions of shaking someone’s hand. Most people say the two of you are best friends. Somehow, his intelligence didn’t set you apart. You tolerated his constant rambles, and he tolerated your random bursts of sass. 

  It's more than that though. The entanglement was more than two friends. More than innocent study sessions. More than a trip to the nearest shooting range.

  As two twenty-one-year-olds who's never felt the most sensual touch before, one minute of forced proximity and all hell broke loose. What seemed so platonic was sexually intimate behind closed doors.

  However, in lieu of staying attached to the hip, the two of you went your separate ways after graduation. You went to pursue each respective interest. You both said no hard feelings. And both believed things would never work anyway, because no one was willing to put in the work.

  The two of you reconnected when you joined the BAU team almost a year ago. Meeting him once again was nerve-wracking. With unresolved fallout and nonexistent communication, it scared you a bit. But you should’ve known Spencer Reid has always been different—good, different. The bond you had didn’t seem too damaged. If anything, it was merely locked in a vault and became stronger than ever before. You managed to be civil—become friends.

  And since then, you never ran out of ways to be in each other’s vicinity. Or he just always succeeded in keeping you interested in his antics. Or you’re just addicted to him more than you’d like to admit.

  But friends don't shake from mere self-control. Friends don't choke on breaths when the other touches them. Friends don't—

  “What percentage of alcohol will you get from Rossi’s cellar?” He curiously asks, his warmth keeping you from shivering.

  The damned dress.

  And his damned loose tie.

  You chuckle shakily, “You’d love to see me drunk, don’t you?” You mimic, throwing back the same antic he used not a few minutes ago. He rolls his eyes, and you open the door to the cellar. “I was tasked to choose the best whiskey ever made.” You announce, sinking deeper into confinement.

  “So you lost a bet.” Spencer laughs, following behind. He shakes his head when you nod yours. “You don’t even drink whiskey.” He smirks.

  “Go back out there, then,” You shoo him away, waving your hands. “I didn’t ask you to join me on my quest.” You add in a giggle, tying your hair up in a messy ponytail after setting your shoes on the table in the middle of the room.

  You don’t see the way he swallows at the sight of your nape. The same way you hadn't notice his self-restraint for the past year, for the entire evening, dipping his hands in his pockets to hide his clenched fists. Because if he doesn't, they just might crave the feeling of your skin against the texture of his palm.

  “And what if you can’t reach the best whiskey?”

  “I’m a federal agent, too, Reid. I’m smart enough to figure that out.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re similar to a hobbit.”

  The brows on your face lift over your forehead. "Excuse me?" Your mouth fall agape in disbelief, scoffing.

  Spencer shrugs, "You're excused."

  Amusement twitch the ends of your lips. "You sure you're not drunk?" Your eyes narrow, scanning him from head to toe.

  "I'm not." He defends. Scarlet skin glows underneath the soft light. Spencer averts his eyes, stealing a mouthful of a sigh from the chilly air. Okay, maybe he stole one glass of scotch from the unit chief, took a sip, and felt his body on fire, so now he's settled down for ciders the entire evening.

  You smirk, "Then, why are you being so clingy?" Arms cross over your chest. You raise a brow in question.

  Spencer rolls his eyes, silently clearing his throat. "Why not? There's no harm in hanging out with you." His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek.

  "There is when said friend is acting like a clingy boyfriend." You say, skimming through the shelves of liquor adorning the walls from ceiling to floor.

  “Right,” Spencer states blandly, finding himself a seat. “I’m just a friend. I can’t act any other way. I can’t even give you any affection, huh?” He deadpans, tracing the wood patterns on the table.

  Your eyebrows crease in the middle of reaching for a bottle. You slowly go up behind him and smack the back of his head without warning.

  “Ow!” He hisses. “What was that for?” Spencer complains, face scrunching in temporary pain.

  “For being weirder than usual.” You say, hitting his shoulder. ��Stop it.” You scold, finger-pointing over his chest.

  Spencer is not one to be petty. Never petty over the boys you mingle with for a short period. Never be petty over your tendencies to somehow land on the worst species of men. Since the two of you reconnected as colleagues, he's minded his business. Why now? And why the hell is your heart pounding obnoxiously?

  He theatrically rolls his eyes, “Am I wrong? Aren’t I just your friend?” There is something in his tone that you can't distinguish. His face is awkward and reserved, as always, but something is different.

  You know. You just love lying to yourself.

  “What else are you going to be?!” Even you are surprised at the volume of your voice.

  The creak of the small open window fills the room. None of you dares to say a word. No one dares to breathe within each other's personal bubble.

  You break eye contact first, stepping away, but Spencer has other plans. His hands land on your waist, gripping the flesh to keep you between his legs.

  “That’s a question I’ve been asking myself,” The luminescence of his eyes turns a shade darker. Chocolate hazel eyes gradients to deep earthy irises. Or it may have been the dim lighting in the room and the glass of wine in your system.

  You swallow—roughly like a ball of sandpaper rows down your throat. Fingers lace above his textured ones, wrapping over the long digits to get their bruises off your skin.

  “It’s a simple question. There’s no reason to dread it.” You almost stumble on your words, taking well-needed pauses to huff a small breath. You try to break his grip on you, but they don’t budge one bit. 

  The more you attempt to remove his hold, the more they tighten against the little fabric over your skin.

  Your brows knit. A sigh of defeat escapes your lips as your gaze travels back to him. “Spencer, stop—” Your spine shivers when he starts to lazily move his thumbs in slow, firm strokes.

  Spencer stands in silence, staring at you like you are a doe he preyed on. His eyes start to make your legs melt, and your heart races wildly.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  His gaze flickers over your lips, “Why don’t you answer the question for me? Since you’re so smart, it seems.” A tone of clear mockery spills from his lips. Spencer smirks under his signature smile—smug and utterly amused by the sound of your small, hitched breaths.

  “Can you stop kidding around?” You prattle. A peel of awkward laughter shoots straight down your bones. It was all you could do to relieve the growing tension between your thighs. Or else you’d jump on him like a desperate psychopath.

  "Who says I'm kidding around?" Spencer narrows his eyes. "I never kid around." He squeezes your sides once more and grins when a soft gasp rattles out of you. He hasn't done that in so long, and the nostalgia and buzz spark something in his chest.

  Thick, airy gulp forces itself down your throat. You know why he does it. The same pattern of movements you knew so well in your younger days. The days you spent with him.

  "We can't." It is almost inaudible, but he catches it. You lightly shake your head, backing away, "I-it's not— We can't."

  Spencer raises his brows. "What are you so afraid of?" He reads your features for a moment. The gentle touch of his gaze along your searing skin is electrifying.

  You nibble at the corner of your lip, "Let go of me, Reid." And it seems you love lying to him, too. Because you don't want him to let go. Desperate for his touch. The soft trail of his thumb. The primal clutch of his fingers, like they were claws. It was all too intoxicating to ever want him to let go.

  “Answer the question first.” He flashes the smirk he’s been trying to hide like a villain, exposing his true colors. “I dare you.” Spencer challenges.

  “You know the answer.” Your chest feels like exploding.

  “Say it out loud, then.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because we’re not leaving this position until you do.” His voice sparks fire in your core. Spencer doesn’t let his eyes stray from your moving lips. If anything, he makes a point that he is, in fact, staring at them like a starving lion, ready to pounce at any given moment.

  Oh.

  Well, isn't he such a sweetheart to feed you just what you crave? You don't know where it comes from, nor do you care, but there's at least four liquid cubic centimeters of boldness that flows through your veins.

  Your laughter echoes in the cellar. “Please, or what?” You relax in his hold, convinced that he's just the same lanky guy you've always known. “You going to fuck me like a slut? Not exactly your M.O., pretty boy.” You tease, playfully tapping on his shoulders.

  A low, hoarse chuckle vibrates across his chest. With lust-filled gaze and a thin, mischievous smile, Spencer shifts his eyes to look straight into yours. 

  “Exactly.”

  Your eyes grow the widest they have ever been your entire life. “What—” Before you can stop him, his lips are already clashing against yours.

  Spencer holds onto you as if he is falling off a cliff, and you are a branch about to snap any second. He kisses you aggressively, pulling you so tight, like he needs you glued to him.

  You try to push him, but it doesn't take long until you give in. Until you kissed back.

  You kissed him back.

  You fucking kissed Spencer back.

  The hands that recently danced on his shoulders begin to tug on the soft curls over his nape. The weight of his lips is starting to make your legs wobble.

  Every scrape of his teeth against your stinging lips feels new. It isn't what you're familiar with. Your mind recalls his gentle touches and gentle words as if you'd break if he held you too tight. But the one kissing you isn't. The slice of his tongue over your lips is primal. He's not the Spencer you once knew. He's the Spencer you've been craving, so much so that the mere thought of bruises caused by his grip has been contaminating your mind since you started in the BAU.

  His kisses deepened, warmth enveloping the two of you despite the chilly breeze inside the cellar. With breathless and plump lips, a new strike of desire courses throughout your body the longer you kiss.

  Spencer breathes you in like oxygen, starving for more, never satisfied with just one gentle breath. It's new. And you love it.

  Heaving, you and Spencer pull away, lips detaching and reattaching like magnets ’til distance is too far to push back. His lips are a darker shade of pink, swollen, and adorned with smeared lipstick. You don’t doubt the effect of making out with him gives you any more leverage, imagining your lipstick thickly outlines all over the rims of your mouth.

  Judging by how Spencer stares at you like a satisfied drunken man, you presume he's loving every second more than he's prepared to admit. Most will wonder if his eagerness is merely a product of lost inhibitions. But a simple educated guess tells you that none of his actions are driven by alcohol. He's as sober as an ice cold water splashed over one's face.

  Spencer lifts you on the table, standing between your thighs. The fabric of his pants scrapes against your skin, and your aching cunt throbs at the feeling. He cups your face into his large hands, reattaching your lips once more like it’s an unforgivable sin to keep them apart.

  He pulls away after air fails him, resting his forehead over yours. “I want to be the only one who gets to fuck you like a slut, or so God help me—” Spencer closes his eyes agonizingly slow, “—No man near you will ever see daylight again.”

  Your heart pounds against your chest, and you mentally beg Spencer to do so too—pound against your hips like you’re banned from ever walking again. The pressure of his voice and hot breath fanning against the land of your skin is ecstatically satisfying. 

  Spencer's hand drives up the slit of your dress, and at that moment, you know exactly why you chose to wear such an article of unfriendly clothing amidst your intolerance to the cold wind.

  You wanted him to take it off of you.

  You needed Spencer to take the dress off of you and fuck you hard.

  The tickle of his lips trailing from your jaw to the spot underneath your earlobe has your back arching almost a hundred and eighty degrees. Ever the opportunist, Spencer takes it as his chance to pull you closer, squeezing your thigh with his palm.

  You throw your head back, giving him access to more eager-to-be-touched skin. Legs wrap around his middle in utter pleasure, “Spencer…” You whine breathily, eyes fluttering close at the way he holds your flesh with both hunger and caress.

  His mouth falls agape. Your voice. His name. It’s addicting. His world stops in a millisecond, reveling in the joy of your mouth, uttering his name with the intense pleasure he provides.

  “We’re barely starting,” Spencer whispers against your clavicle, snaking his hand under your dress to the lining of your underwear. He swipes over your clothed clit.

  You twitch under his touch. A total puppet wrapped around his finger while his literal thumb begins to toy with your clit. The pace makes you painfully and deliciously squirm.

  Spencer loves the image before him, especially the rise of your chest as he plunges a finger, then two, inside your needy cunt. It’s the first time he’s ever heard your moans so... needy and begging and desperate and sweet and hot and something he knows you’ve never reached the volume before with other men, and he’s hooked—addicted.

  “You have no idea what your dress did to me the whole night.” He muffles on your neck. Wet kisses echo at the touch of his lips. Spencer buries himself in your scent, one hand unzipping your dress. “No idea how much I wanted to take it off of you.” He whispers next to your ear.

  A hum spills at the ring of his words. His kisses start to sting, and burning hues form on your skin. Spencer marks you with his tongue and teeth.

  It's euphoric. His hunger. His need. And you want nothing else but to give him whatever he wants, the same way he gives you everything you need.

  The sound of his fly distorting in the air makes your skin tingle, nipples perk, and cunt quiver. You whine when he pulls away, already missing his heat. 

  Spencer’s eyes soften, “Are you sure you want this to continue? When we were friends with benefits things didn't work—”

  “Shut up, take my dress off, and fuck me, Spencer.” You heave, or beg, or whichever fits the way you eagerly undo his tie and unbutton his shirt while kissing the soft spot on his neck, marking him yours.

  The vibration of his chuckles sent delicious throbs down to your cunt, drooling to be filled by him.

  “Aren't you needy—” Spencer lifts his arms in defense, “—alright, shutting up now.”

  The cold is nowhere else but the back of your mind. You feel wetness on the peak of his boxers. Spencer's hard erection suffocates him, and you're eager to relieve him in every possible way.

  He immediately sighs when your dress droops down your waist. Spencer takes you in as if you're the most prized art in a museum. He takes every line, scars, birthmarks, or as simple as the crease of your breast into memory. 

  “So, so beautiful…” Spencer murmurs in sheer adoration and awe. He looks up as if God has listened to his prayers as if he’s a passionate believer. Thankful to have you within his reach.

  Warmth coats you with every sweep of his hand on every curve and slope of your body. He’s memorizing each soft plush and perfect flaw. The sentiment alone heightens your arousal like you’ve been touch-starved for years.

  A yelp comes out of you when he unexpectedly spreads the wetness on your folds, touching where you need him most. “Spencer, please…” It’s a plea. A begging need.

  He circles on your clit with more pressure than the first. “You ready for me?” A vigorous nod responds to him while you bite your moans to keep them at bay.

  Spencer pulls you closer by the small of your back. Your ass is almost falling off the edge of the table. The lacey cloth stretched on the side of your entrance. He aligns his slobbering tip with your equally desperate cunt.

  Unsatisfied by your response, Spencer grabs your chin with so much force your bitten lips set free. “I need a verbal answer, sweetheart. I need to hear your voice say the words.” He’s begging, too, aching to slam just about all of him in one push.

  The anticipation is frustrating. "I wa—" With a mere echo jumping out of your throat, Spencer takes it enough confirmation and thrusts his hips to meet yours.

  Temporary pain and electrifying pleasure cause your body to shake, followed by a pornographic moan that Spencer muffles with his hand over half of your face.

  Your mind spins around in endless bliss as his cock throbs at the pressure of your hold. Spencer doesn't move an inch, waiting for your signal.

  “Please… move. Now.” Your voice is caught in the middle of your throat, dragging into a lovely gasp when he pulls back slowly.

  With the tip of his cock the sole filler inside your cunt, Spencer thrusts back so fast, so good. He keeps a steady pace that leaves both of you a moaning mess. 

  Spencer pins your hips on the table, making sure he satisfies you with every force. He sucks a breath in, dizzy at the sight of your breast bouncing on his beat.

  Can he surpass the knowledge that other guys have seen you undone like this? Never. Will he clash heaven and hell for the sake of pleasing you? The almighty and the merciless needn’t make yet another bet because they know Spencer will drag anything, anyone, to kneel before you.

  Because Spencer needs you undone like you have never been before. He craves to be the first to fuck you like it's the last thing you’ll ever do.

  You're addicting. An influence he freely lets himself get sucked in. Spencer wishes he could brand himself with your name, eager to be yours. He's desperate to be called yours.

  Spencer adorns your skin with red and purple hues, beaming at the sight of his marks with every echo of his lips popping yet another possessive tattoo.

  The pleasure he gives sends you beyond time and space. Euphoric daze fogs up your brain. Vision locked inside your skull, eyes permanently rolled into sensual darkness.

  “Spence…”

  Fuck. The nickname drips perfectly off your lips. You and only you can make his cock even harder just by saying his name. He doesn’t try to keep his head from spiraling into desires, desperately imagining all the ways he can own you.

  You gasp shakily, feeling the knot in your abdomen begin to tighten. One, two—five more strokes and you enter a void filled with sparkling stars and mind-numbing pleasure.

  Spencer doesn't stop, just as you wish, through broken moans and nails digging into the thin layer of his skin. Not a single pace slower or faster. And it is fucking blissful.

  Your moans drool off your lips, clenching around his cock. He rides your high like a limited experience that he will never get to try again. Though, you're sure there’ll be more clandestine rendezvous than you both are willing to admit. You both know this isn't the last you’ll ever get a taste of him. And it is not the last time he’ll crave you like oxygen.

  A hand reaches out for his nape, carding your nails at the tangles of his hair. You begin to comb between his curly strands, massaging the scalp beneath. Spencer spits out a tasteful curse dedicated to the pleasure the sensation of your touch has given him.

  “I keep up with my pill. I’m on a good window.” You assure him, breath hitching. “Fill me up, Spence.” You implore greedily, wanting nothing but all traces of him engraved inside and outside of you.

  His mouth slacks open, burying his cock in the deepest part of you. “Fuck, you’re too good to me,” He hisses in utter bliss. Spencer jolts at the ecstasy that vibrates out of him, emptying himself through the depths of your walls.

  Spencer rests his forehead against yours, whispering praises like you suddenly became his goddess. His senses tingle. And he doesn’t want time to continue.

  Your ragged breaths sync with his and soon turn even. Years of yearning are fulfilled in one evening. The prick of his bites floods your senses. 

  “What was the question again?” You giggle out, still, a bit out of breath, breaking the silence.

  Spencer playfully rolls his eyes, zipping up the back of your dress with a kiss on your shoulder. “I basically asked, ‘What are we’ like a typical chick in a movie.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” Your sweet laughter follows while Spencer covers you once more with his jacket despite the clear indication of sweat glistening over your forehead that you’re not nearly as cold anymore. "That many?"

  Pride surges across his chest, beaming. "Like a canvas drenched with paint." He softly bites his lower lip, satisfied by the work he has done.

  You glance down, gasping at the sheath of love bites. "More like a slab of beaten up flesh." Your head lifts up to look at him in disbelief. Spencer painted every inch of your skin, no space left untouched. You don't even recognize your skin anymore.

  "Maybe this will help," He reaches on the back of your head, tugging on the band. Your hair drapes over your neck.

  "No, Reid. It does not help at all." Blinking, you slap his arm lightly, earning a shrug and a peck on your lips. He simply fastens the buttons of his jacket on you, covering everything the fabric can.

  He hunches down to pick up the tie you discarded on the floor. When he stands back up, he says, “We can keep this between us for now while we figure things out if you’d like. But we have to agree on one thing.” He tucks in a wild strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m yours, and you don’t have a choice. Sounds good?”

  You giddily smile, nodding as you dangle your weak legs over the table. “What about me? Can’t I be yours?” You coax, fixing his tie.

  "Do you want to be? Because I'm content with just pleasing you every chance I get. I'm not in a rush."

  "Spencer," You take his face in your hands. "Do you really want to just be friends with benefits?"

  He swipes his tongue over his lower lip. "No..." Spencer squeaks under his breath.

  You nod, humming. "Good, because I don't want you like a best friend either." You flatten the crease on his shoulders.

  "So?" Spencer chases your eyes, hoping he can read your mind.

  "So, you're mine, and I'm yours. Sounds better, don't you think?"

  "Sounds great." He simpers, helping you get back on your feet.

  The two of you come back to the others with the worst whiskey in the cellar. Your hair is neat, and your lipstick is replenished. His tie sits presentably on his chest and hides the smallest purple mark on the base of his neck. Intricate measures for intricate people.

  Derek complains. Penelope agrees. Rossi objects. Hotch sips his drink with no care. Emily laughs hysterically. JJ shrugs. 

  No one knows. Or no one cares. But the secret remain as is.

  Perks of being seen as the most platonic friends. More so than the great Derek Morgan and Penelope Garcia. What they know nothing about won’t hurt them, right? And it’s not like it’ll be any worse if they did.

 Yet the absence of suspicion brews boredom and discontent. How come the others are suspicious enough, but not you and him? What's so dull in the air between you and Spencer that no one dares to wonder if romance ever crossed your minds?

  Spencer drags his fingers on your thigh under the table. And no one suspects why you never take off his jacket despite dancing the night away. 

  And as the night deepens, like any other gathering, the group disperses into different areas and smaller groups.

  “So?” JJ starts, wiggling her eyebrows. 

  “What?” You chuckle into the wine in your glass.

  JJ rolls her eyes, “Did you give the photographer your number?”

  Oh, yeah. You’d forgotten about the entire thing, glancing at the photographer who happens to have his lens on you. He smiles shyly, but you swear in your life that your shy boy is a lot more charming.

  “Because if not, I think Will’s cousin has his eye on you, too,” JJ adds with a mischievous smile. The most supportive friend you’ll have. How will she react when she finds out?

  You smile, looking far ahead at the pair of brown eyes.

  Spencer returns the smile, Hotch’s voice muffling in the background.

  “Like I said, it’s quite a little paperwork, but if you want to try things out and date, I have no problem with helping you out,” Hotch advises between sips of warm whiskey, talking about that one agent who approached Spencer at the bullpen thrice. What will he think when he finds out two of his agents are participating in fraternization?

  They have no idea. Not an inkling of doubt whatsoever.

  The naivete. It bores you and Spencer. It’s prosaic. It’s unglamorous.

  From one end to another, the same words echo.

  “I’ll have another drink.”

  The two of you stand from each end, meeting over the table with vast choices of alcohol. You pick up a glass as Spencer stands next to you.

  “Take it off?”

  “Take it off.”

  And you went separate ways.

  JJ’s eyes widen at the small hint of marks on your chest, jacket slightly drooping over your shoulder.

  Hotch doesn’t say a word when he notices the hickey on Spencer’s neck when the younger agent loosens his tie and undoes one button—and Hotch quotes—because of the heat. His peripheral catches JJ, Emily, and Penelope hovering around you like a group of crows scavenging for some sort of fleshy information he thinks he knows what’s about.

  “A simple no would’ve suffice,” Hotch says evenly. “But you’re still filling out paperwork. Am I clear?”

  Spencer stifles a smug smirk, looking down on his drink. “Clear.”

reid masterlist | masterlist

[lipstickstainedreid]

Hands HANDS hands

[maeintree]

pillow kingdom | s. reid

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid may have three PhDs and an IQ of 187, but when it comes to battling his two tiny, chaos-loving children in an all-out Pillow Kingdom war, he never stood a chance. Pairing: father!Spencer Reid x fem!mother!Reader Word Count: 600 (oh.) Author's Note: genuinely wasn't thinking when i wrote this, saw my nephew and immediately got baby fever and just remembered spence being so good with kids and this is extremely mgg coded, so enjoy this fluffy 'lil one shot <3

You weren’t sure what was funnier—the fact that your two children had built an entire fortress out of couch cushions, blankets, and stuffed animals, or the fact that your genius husband, Dr. Spencer Reid, was dramatically attempting to “storm the castle” like a medieval jester on too much caffeine.

“You think you can defeat me? The all-powerful Dr. Spencer the Fearsome?!” he bellowed, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

From the depths of the pillow fort, two pairs of eyes peeked out. Your daughter, Lily, narrowed hers suspiciously. “You don’t look fearsome.”

“Yeah,” your son, Max, added. “You look like you need a nap.”

You snorted into your coffee from your spot on the couch. They weren’t wrong.

Spencer gasped, clutching his chest like they’d just insulted his entire PhD collection. “A nap? A nap? Do you know who I am? I have an eidetic memory—I once stayed up for eighty-four hours straight during a case! I can outlast any of you!”

Lily pointed a tiny finger at him. “Then why did Mommy say you got cranky and cried over a vending machine that wouldn’t take your dollar?”

You nearly choked.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “I—that’s slander! Your mother is a liar.” He turned to you for backup, but you just smiled innocently and sipped your coffee.

Max, meanwhile, picked up a stuffed T-Rex and threw it at Spencer’s head.

“ATTACK!”

The war was on.

Spencer ducked and rolled—dramatically, of course, like some kind of action hero who had absolutely no reason to be this extra—before lobbing a pillow right back at them. Lily shrieked and launched a plush unicorn in retaliation.

“You’ll never take our kingdom!” she declared.

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” Spencer bellowed, grabbing a blanket and spinning like a deranged superhero. “I have acquired the Cloak of Infinite Wisdom!”

Max squinted. “That’s just the throw blanket from the couch.”

Spencer gasped again, pointing at him. “You have your mother’s skepticism, and frankly, it’s terrifying.”

You grinned. “Taught them well.”

Just as Spencer lunged forward, Lily leaped from the fortress and wrapped herself around his leg. “I got him! I got him!”

Max charged next, full toddler-speed, ramming into Spencer’s side like an overenthusiastic linebacker. Your husband crumpled like a science nerd hit by reality.

“Oh nooooo,” Spencer groaned, flopping onto the floor. “My one weakness! Small, adorable children!”

“Victory!” Lily cheered, standing triumphantly on his stomach like she had just slain a dragon.

Max clambered on top of him next, sitting on his chest. “Now you’re our prisoner!”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “Curse you, tiny overlords.”

From your cozy spot on the couch, you smirked over your coffee. “See, this is why I married you. Not for your three PhDs, not for your genius IQ—but because you lose every single battle against two tiny humans.”

Spencer tilted his head up from the floor, where he lay pinned beneath his children. His curls were a mess, his glasses were slightly askew, and he looked utterly betrayed. “I don’t lose. I let them win.”

Lily gasped. “Traitor!”

Max grabbed another pillow and smacked Spencer square in the face.

And that was the day Dr. Spencer Reid was officially overthrown as ruler of the household.

this was soo rushed, and i'm sooo ughh. hope you enjoyed!! aha

[olderwomenenthusiast]

tell me in the morning (spencer reid)

PAIRING: spencer reid & fem reader DESCRIPTION: you make sure spencer tells you his confession when he's sober CAUTION: drunk spencer WORD COUNT: 2.1k AUTHOR'S NOTE: not proof read, they never are x

Morgan stared at Spencer, who was swaying slightly on the barstool, eyes half-lidded and a slight slur to his words. "Man, you're not usually like this," Morgan said, an amused yet concerned expression on his face. "Rossi, we need to get him out of here."

Rossi just shook his head, eyeing Spencer with a mix of disbelief and sympathy. "He's not usually this bad, but he’s been on a roll tonight. I think we pushed him a bit too far."

Morgan was already reaching for his phone, dialing your number. The sound of it ringing echoed in his ear. "Hey, it's Morgan. We’ve got a problem. Reid’s way too drunk, and I don’t think he can make it home on his own. Can you come pick him up?"

He paused, hearing the concern in your voice. "Yeah, I know, we tried. But you’re his best bet. Please come get him."

He glanced at Spencer, who was now giggling at some joke only he understood, then back at Rossi. "I’ll keep an eye on him, but he’s not going anywhere until you get here."

When you walked in, you saw Spencer’s usual sharpness completely gone, replaced by a goofy grin and a drowsy gaze. He perked up when he saw you, his eyes widening a little. "Hey, hey, it’s you! My favorite person," he slurred, attempting to stand but stumbling into the table beside him.

"Spence," you said softly, moving quickly to steady him, a little worried at how uncharacteristically vulnerable he was. "Let’s get you out of here, okay?"

He nodded, his head falling onto your shoulder as you helped him to his feet. "I’m fine, really," he muttered, but it was clear he wasn’t. He leaned into you more than usual, his weight pressing heavily on your side.

Morgan shot you a quick, apologetic look, and Rossi gave a knowing nod, both stepping back to let you take the lead.

"You’ve got him, right?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah," you replied, though there was no hiding the concern in your voice. "Don’t worry. I’ve got him."

Spencer gave a soft laugh, his arm sliding around your waist as you guided him out of the bar. "You always know how to make me feel better," he murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You smiled, though it was laced with worry. "Let’s just get you home, Spence."

As you led Spencer out of the bar, his head bobbing slightly as he struggled to stay upright, you could feel the weight of the situation settling in. He was usually so put-together, so controlled—this side of him, so vulnerable and unguarded, was unsettling.

"You really went all in tonight, huh?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light, even as your concern deepened.

Spencer chuckled softly, but there was an odd, almost self-deprecating edge to it. "I just… wanted to forget, you know? For a little while. It’s... hard sometimes."

You stopped, glancing at him. He looked at you, eyes unusually glassy, but there was still that familiar vulnerability in his gaze. "Spence, you don't have to do this alone, you know. We’re here for you."

He leaned against you a little more, letting out a sigh. "I know. It’s just... sometimes it feels like I’m too much, even for you guys. Like I’m a burden." His words were slower now, a quiet honesty slipping out as the alcohol loosened his usual guardedness.

Your heart clenched. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol talking or if Spencer truly felt this way, but you weren’t about to let him believe he was a burden to anyone—especially not to you. "You’re not a burden, Spencer. Never have been. We care about you. I care about you."

His head tilted up, just enough to catch your eyes, and for a moment, the playfulness faded as the weight of his words seemed to sink in. "You do?" he asked softly, almost like a whisper, his voice vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

You nodded, your hand gently brushing his cheek. "Of course. You're one of my closest friends, Spence. I’ve always got your back."

Spencer didn’t say anything for a few moments. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable, before a small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Thank you," he whispered, voice full of sincerity.

You smiled back, guiding him toward the car. "Let's just get you home, okay? We'll talk more in the morning."

As you helped Spencer into the car, the ride back was filled with a kind of quiet tension. His hand rested on the seat between you, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach for you, but he never quite did. His usual intelligence and wit seemed clouded, and his mind wandered more than it usually would. Every now and then, he'd mumble something under his breath, something you couldn't quite catch, but it didn’t seem important at the time.

However, as you pulled into the parking spot outside his apartment, he looked over at you with an intensity that was too sharp for the state he was in.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" His voice was softer than usual, almost fragile.

"Of course," you said, keeping the car in park and looking over at him. You noticed how his eyes were fixed on you, a kind of vulnerability in them that you hadn’t seen before.

He shifted, leaning closer, his breath warm on your face. "I’ve been meaning to say this for a long time," he continued, words slow, as if working through something heavy in his mind. "I... I think I’ve always loved you."

Your heart skipped a beat, and the air between you both seemed to hang still for a moment. You blinked, trying to process what he was saying, but Spencer was already moving closer, his hand finding your arm as he leaned in, eyes closing in anticipation of a kiss.

For a brief moment, you froze, feeling a mixture of shock, confusion, and concern. This wasn’t right—not now, not like this.

"Spence," you said, your voice gentle, but firm. You placed your hand on his chest to keep him from leaning in further, your heart pounding in your chest as you made sure he was steady. "I care about you, I do. But this... this isn’t something we should do right now, not when you’re drunk."

He stilled, his face faltering for the briefest of seconds, and when he pulled back, his eyes seemed distant, like he was already retreating into himself. "Oh," he muttered, almost to himself, looking away from you. "Right. I didn’t think... I guess I just thought... you’d feel the same." His voice was tinged with hurt, and that small, vulnerable side of him seemed to sink even further.

You took a deep breath, your hand still gently on his arm, and you spoke softly, careful not to dismiss his feelings. "Spencer," you started again, searching his eyes, making sure he understood. "If you still feel the same way in the morning when you’ve had time to clear your head, then we can talk about it. We can see where things go. But right now, I don’t want you to make any decisions when you’re not yourself."

His expression faltered, but he nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, his gaze dropping. "I just... I just thought... never mind."

You could see the pain behind his words, and it made your heart ache. You reached out to gently squeeze his shoulder, giving him a comforting look. "It’s okay, Spence. Just... let’s get you inside and get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow, alright?"

He didn’t respond at first, but when you helped him out of the car, his steps were slower, as if the weight of his confession and your response had settled on his shoulders. Inside his apartment, you made sure he was settled onto the couch, and though you could see the disappointment and hurt in his eyes, you also knew that this wasn’t the end of whatever was beginning between you two. It was just a pause, a moment where time had to catch up with feelings and circumstances.

"Sleep, Spence," you whispered, tucking a blanket around him. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

He looked up at you one more time, his gaze soft but weary. "Okay," he said quietly, before closing his eyes. "Thanks for... not making this worse."

You watched him drift into a restless sleep, a swirl of emotions in your chest as you settled into the chair beside him. You didn’t know what the morning would bring, but for now, you stayed by his side, knowing that whatever happened, you would work through it together - when he was ready.

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen as you busied yourself with the morning routine, the soft clink of mugs and the steady drip of the coffee maker offering a comforting normalcy after last night’s emotional rollercoaster. You were trying to focus on the task at hand, but your mind kept wandering back to Spencer, and the confession he had drunkenly blurted out in the car. You hoped that, with time, things would settle; though the quiet anticipation in your chest told you otherwise.

Then, you heard the familiar soft padding of footsteps behind you. You turned to find Spencer standing in the doorway, looking a little disheveled, his hair sticking out in every direction, but there was a slight glint in his eyes that made him look almost endearing in his disoriented state.

"Good morning," you said, offering him a soft smile as you poured the coffee. "You need pain meds? A glass of water?"

He shook his head, blinking as he seemed to gather himself. "No, surprisingly, no headache. Just... a little embarrassed." He scratched the back of his neck, his nervousness clear in the way he avoided your gaze. "I can’t believe I said that last night."

You raised an eyebrow, turning to face him more fully, leaning against the counter. "What exactly did you say last night, Spence? You’ll have to remind me." You couldn’t help but tease him lightly, letting the playful tone soften the tension that still hung in the air.

Spencer flushed, taking a few slow steps closer to you, his eyes never quite meeting yours, though you could see the vulnerability behind them. "I told you I loved you. And I meant it," he murmured, his voice quieter now, more serious than it had been before. "I just... I needed to tell you. I was too scared before."

Before you could stop yourself, your heart softened. You didn’t need time to think about it; you knew exactly how you felt. You stepped closer to him, your voice barely above a whisper. "I love you too, Spencer." Your eyes met his, and the depth of your words seemed to linger between you both.

He seemed to freeze, a surprised little breath escaping him as he finally allowed himself to look at you, his gaze searching your face for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, he took one more step toward you, his hand reaching out to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek softly, almost as if he were still trying to convince himself this wasn’t just a dream.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice almost pleading now, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your jaw. "I meant it. I love you."

You smiled, feeling a flutter in your chest at the honesty in his words, but couldn't resist the urge to tease him just a little. "I know you meant it, Spence." You let your fingers brush over his hand where it cupped your face. "But it takes a genius like you to get drunk just to finally tell me."

Spencer’s face flushed deeper, and you could see the little smirk that tugged at his lips, despite the embarrassment. "I guess... I guess I needed a little push."

"You definitely did," you teased, leaning forward just slightly, enough that your lips brushed the edge of his cheek. "But I’m glad you got there."

Spencer chuckled softly, a genuine warmth behind the sound. "I promise next time, no alcohol. I’ll be a little more... coherent when I tell you."

You smiled, your hands gently resting on his chest as you looked up at him, heart full of warmth. "I think I’d like that."

He leaned in just a bit closer, his forehead resting against yours for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. "Good, because I plan on telling you a lot more often."

The air between you seemed to settle, a quiet understanding filling the space. Spencer’s nervousness melted away, and in its place was something stronger, something real. You didn’t know what the future held, but as you stood there with him, the weight of last night’s confession didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It felt right.

[elegantlyeva]

can you do a spencer and hot chocolate and maybe hes protective of her? or jealous

DAY THREE

Hot Cocoa

Summary: Spencer’s embarrassed after getting jealous.

Word Count: 0.4K 

Realistically, Spencer knew the jealousy that burned inside him was unfair to you. You had been nothing but perfect since the two of you got together two months ago.

You were beyond understanding when he showed up late to one too many dates due to work, reassuring him that it sucked but wasn’t his fault.

You never asked him to shut up, even when he knew he was talking too much.

You hadn’t been repulsed when he asked you to stay over at his apartment for the first time either, so why was he getting worked up over your co-worker buying you a hot chocolate?

It was stupid, and he mentally facepalmed. Here you were, draped across his lap, playing with the end of his sweater—a loose string he hadn’t pulled out yet—and he was worried over a drink.

As if sensing his thoughts (and maybe you did), you tapped his jaw with two fingers. “You okay? You’ve hardly spoken since you picked me up from work.”

He hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t say much else until he felt you shift to sit upright, causing him to frown.

“Spencer?” Your voice sounded worried, and he hated that it was his fault.

Clearing his throat, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine, sorry. Long day.”

You nodded, not totally convinced but not wanting to pry either. You took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and the act alone had him speaking up.

“Are you hungry? Better yet, thirsty? I can make you something,” he offered, though he didn’t specify what.

“Oh. I’m okay...” you trailed off, realizing he was already up and across the room. You furrowed your brows, mumbling under your breath, “Never mind.”

Not even five minutes later, Spencer was ushering you into the kitchen to sit at his counter, handing you a mug of hot cocoa.

The smell filled your senses, and the face you made when you took a sip had him relaxing slightly.

“It’s good, right? I made it the way you like it. I think. Although, maybe you like the way Ryan makes it more,” he said, scowling at the mention of the man’s name.

You gave him a knowing smile. “Spence...”

He shook his head. “No, no, I know it’s dumb. I know. But he was so... I don’t know. Not me.” Watching you frown, he sighed. “I’m not trying to be self-deprecating, I just—”

“No, you’re right. You’re nothing like him.” At his crestfallen look, you clarified, “Which is a really good thing. The best thing, actually. I might rip my hair out if you were anything like him. I’ve never met a man so obsessed with himself that he didn’t even care that he spilled the hot chocolate on the floor.”

When he sort of almost-smiled, you continued, “Not to mention he added way too many marshmallows. I mean, I couldn’t even taste the hot chocolate. Didn’t you notice I went inside your car empty-handed?”

“You threw it out.” It wasn’t a question. Spencer groaned, the tips of his ears turning pink, and took the mug from your hands to place it on the counter before wrapping his arms around you.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I reacted like that.” He mumbled.

“No apology needed. I’m happy to know you like me so much that you can’t even stand another guy giving me hot chocolate.”

“Don’t say it like that. He was flirting, I could tell.”

“Oh, you could tell?”

“Mannerisms.”

He squeezed you tighter when he heard you laugh.

[velvetwilde]

pretty, pretty princess

[mariasont]

short n sweet but we need one where spencer loves head scratches and getting his hair played with

Heart Nebula - S.R

summary: spencer tells you every atom in your body was once part of a star, but you think he's the celestial wonder worth studying. pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: fluff galore, existentialism, star-gazing, astrophysics inaccuracies im so sure wc: 2.1k

"You'd be so proud of me today, you know."

You scoot closer, disrupting the careful folds of the blanket. The fabric bunches beneath your legs, damp soil seeps through, not quite wet enough to be a problem, but enough to make you aware of it. A blade of grass tickles stubbornly at your ankle. You wiggle your foot once, twice, it stays. Some things do.

Your pinky grazes his, the barest of contact, but he turns his head anyway. The night seems to fold him in shadow, softens his features, makes him look almost ethereal. His eyes give him away, glinting back at you, tiny shards of cosmos blinking back at you. It should be impossible to feel jealously of the sky, and yet.

"Yeah?" The familiar crease settles between his brows, a well-loved marker in the pages of him. His head tilts, waiting, not impatiently, already certain he's going to love your answer. "Why's that?"

Your smile jumps ahead of you, swells into one of those too-big-for-your-face grins. The kind that crinkles your nose, bunches your cheeks, makes your face ache after a while.

"I learned about a nebula."

Spencer's laugh starts in his chest and works its way out, rattling through his ribs, shaking his shoulders, until the momentum knocks his knee into yours.

"Look at you," he says, all teasing admiration. "I am proud. Which one?"

"I think It was called the Heart Nebula?" You glance at him, waiting, watching, half-hoping that he'll recognize the name, that he'll give you that little nod of confirmation.

He does. You beam.

"I saw a picture earlier, and it was just—," You trail off, eyes tipping upwards, letting the sky steal whatever poetic explanation you were about to give. "I don't know. Too beautiful to be real."

Spencer had been so excited when you told him you wanted to stargaze, his eyes had practically glowed, already rattling off a dozen facts about atmospheric conditions and celestial visibility, and why tonight was perfect.

He barely took a breath before he had been launching into a dozen more reasons, winding himself up so tight with words that the only way to release them, apparently, was kissing you. Feverishly.

Like he had no other way to translate his excitement into something tangible, something felt.

It made you want to promise him everything, to tell him you'd do this forever, that you'd let him drag you under the stars a thousand times over if it meant being kissed like that.

Spencer glances at you, his mouth twitching like you've just said the punchline to a joke you don't realize you're telling. You're here, waxing about a sky full of ancient light, calling the Heart Nebula too beautiful to be real, and he's looking at you like you've missed the most obvious part.

You narrow your eyes, but he only shakes his head, like whatever crossed his mind was his to keep.

"The Heart Nebula is full of newborn stars," he tells you, gaze still pointed on the sky. "Their radiation makes the gas glow red, pink. The whole thing shifts under stellar winds, reshaping itself, over and over again."

His voice wades its way through the parts of your brain, finding its place. He has this way of explaining things, of turning something infinite into something intimate. 

And you love that. Love how he does that. Love the way he sees things. Love him.

"It's about 7,500 light-years away. Which means the light we're seeing now left before humans even figured out agriculture." A small, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "By the time it reaches us, whatever we're looking at doesn't exist the same way anymore. It's already changed. Probably unrecognizable."

His fingers twitch against his thigh, probably resisting the urge to gesture. "Space is weird like that."

"I don't know, Spence," you tease, fingers pinching the sleeve of his shirt, catching just enough of him to feel real. His dimple carves into his cheek and your heart stumbles, caught between beats. "It kind of sounds like you're telling me I can't trust my own eyes."

"Well, technically you can't." He turns fully toward you, dimple still firmly in place, eyes flicking, too quickly, too obviously, to your lips. "The human eye takes in scattered bits of light, and your brain—" he taps your temple for emphasis "—fills in the blanks. Adjusts for shadows, alters colors based on what it thinks is there. Your eyes are compulsive liars."

He pauses, tiling his head, considering. "And since our perception is limited by our optic nerves, no one really sees their own eyes the way others do. Which is a shame, because if you could see yours the way I do, you'd understand why I can't help but stare."

There are moments when Spencer says something so casually devastating that your brain just empties, and this is absolutely one of them. Your mouth opens, then closes again.

"That's—" Your voice catches, so you clear your throat, shake your head, try to reassemble your thoughts. "That's a really unfair thing to say, you know."

Spencer blinks, like he’s running back through the conversation in real time, replaying his own words to figure out what, exactly, made you forget how to breathe. 

"Why?"

"Because some of us have a very delicate hold on their emotional stability, and you—” you point at him, accusing “— just shattered it in two sentences."

"Technically, that’s the limbic system at work. The amygdala controls emotional reactivity, but the prefrontal cortex tempers it."

You would try to unpack that, really, you would, but then his hands find your waist, and suddenly the ground isn't where you thought it was. You gasp, giggle, crash right into him, catching yourself with shaking hands against his chest.

"So really," he continues, as if you aren't sprawled across him, "if your emotional stability was shattered, you should blame your neural pathways, not me."

Your fingers twist in his hair as you lean in to kiss him, deeply and thoroughly, like proof, like inevitability maybe, a thought forming in real time, one you can press straight into his skin. 

"Maybe my neural pathways are just adapting to something worth remembering," you whisper, and the way he stills, the way his lips part just slightly, makes you think you might not be the only one.

Spencer makes a small, pleased noise against your lips, something that was half sighed and smiled, and you feel it, all of it, in the way his throat moves beneath your fingertips as he swallows.

"That... might be my favorite use of neuroscience yet."

You flash him a grin. "And you thought I wasn't paying attention when you ramble."

"I should've known you'd find a way to weaponize it."

You let your full weight settle onto him, chin perched on his chest, his heartbeat a slow song beneath your cheek. Your fingers slip into his hair, threading through soft strands, nails scraping lightly over his scalp, testing a theory you already know the answer to.

Yeah. Definite reaction.

"So that's what it takes, huh?" you tease, lips curling against the material of his shirt. You scratch again to be sure, and his next breath comes slower. "Just a well-placed brain chemistry reference?"

"From you? Yeah, that'll do it."

"Noted." A pause. Then, softer. "Keep talking to me about space."

"You know, you're kind of demanding." Spencer's fingers skate along your waist before he squeezes, firm and quick, like a punctuation mark to his sentence. 

Your head lifts, eyebrow quirked, fingers hovering just out of reach, close enough for him to feel the absence. "Excuse me?"

His smirk vanishes instantly, wiped clean, replaced by something perilously close to distress. His hands twitch at your waist, fingers moving like he can pull you back, like he can make you continue if he just wants it badly enough.

"Wait, wait, I was kidding," he rushes out, voice just shy of frantic. “Don't stop."

You grin, tilting your head like you're considering it. "Hmmm. Apologize."

"I—okay, I'm sorry, you're perfect, please—" his breath hitches, his laugh a little wild, a little helpless, "please keep going."

You giggle, fingertips weaving back into his hair. His response is immediate, a low, shaky sound that buzzes against your skin, something so content it makes warmth spreads through you like a lit fuse, spilling all the way down to your toes.

Spencer smirks, fingers drumming against your waist.

"You really don't let a guy off easy, do you?" He pauses for a second, glancing past you at the sky like he's taking in his options.

"Alright. Here's a fact you might like, every single part of you was once part of a star. All the heavier elements in your body, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, they were formed in the core of ancient stars, forged under immense heat and pressure, then scattered across the galaxy when those stars died, reforming."

His words drift to you, but you don't catch them all. You're too busy watching him.

Out here, in the absence of light pollution, you can see him more clearly than ever. The starlight doesn't just touch him, it claims him, dusting his skin in silver, catching in his lashes, turning the slopes of him almost unreal. Like if you blink too long, he might disappear, slip back into the night where he belongs. A constellation carved into the shape of a person.

You used to think brown was such a simple color. But then you met him, saw his eyes, now it's in everything. Wet earth after rain, cinnamon dusted over coffee, burnt sugar on your tongue.

And now, he’s teaching you it’s also carbon and oxygen forged in the cores of dying stars, pieces of the galaxy that had traveled billions of years to become chocolate flecks on a beautiful face.

He was right, it is a shame people never see their eyes the way others do.

"But how?" you ask. "Like... how does something go from being part of a star to being part of us?"

Spencer exhales softly and you can see the way he loves the question.

 "It's a long process. Billions of years, actually. When a star explodes, it sends all those elements out into space. They mix with other interstellar material, forming new stars, planets, and eventually..." He taps a gentle finger against your stomach. "You."

"That's kind of incredible."

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, grinning, that beautiful grin, the one that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. His fingers find your temple, trail gently down to your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Then, without pause, he leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your nose.

"It is," he murmurs, thumb brushing against your cheek. "We're built from pieces of space, borrowed, passed down, stitched together by time."

"So you're saying we've been part of the same universe forever? That's kind of romantic, Spence."

"It's also backed by astrophysics. Science just happens to be romantic sometimes. "

"Well, good," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his neck. "I like knowing there's proof... but I think I would've believed it anyway."

You barely have time to register the flicker in his eyes before, he moves. In a second, you're on your back, the sky stretching endlessly behind him. The stars flicker, countless and beautiful, but right now, they might as well not exist.

Because all you see is him.

He hovers over you, gaze intent, studying you, like you're a phenomenon he never expected to witness up close. Like he's sure now, more than he's ever been about anything. Like you are the discovery of a lifetime.

"The universe has been expanding for 13.8 billion years," he murmurs, fingers trailing along your jaw. "But I don't think it's ever made anything more beautiful than you."

Heat blooms beneath your skin. "More than the Heart Nebula?"

It should sound like teasing. It doesn't.

Spencer exhales, almost like he's amused by your doubt.

"The Heart Nebula exists purely because gravity and radiation dictate that it must. But you..." His gaze softens. "You exist because of a thousand tiny impossibilities stacking on top of each other. The odds of you, of this, are so astronomically low that it shouldn't have happened at all."

Spencer just looks at you for a moment. You don't move, don't breathe. And then he kisses you.

It crashes over you, stealing your breath before you even realize it's happening. His hands tighten at your sides, pulling you closer, like the space between you is unbearable. It's not rushed nor desperate, but it is consuming, the kind of thing that makes it impossible to think of anything else.

When he breaks away, he doesn't go far, forehead resting against yours. "If the universe was capable of making something more beautiful, it would have done it by now."

And maybe that’s true. Maybe the universe, for all its galaxies and nebulae and infinite expanse, never did anything better than this. Not just you, but you and him together. 

Or maybe the universe will never quite get it right again. Because maybe this was its best work.

But it won’t stop trying. It never does. Even after you’re gone, even after you and Spencer are nothing but scattered atoms, the universe will keep going. Creating. Expanding. Changing. New stars will be born, dust will settle into something new, planets will form, galaxies will stretch apart. And maybe, somewhere, the pieces that were once you and him will find their way back to each other. And maybe, if the universe has any kindness left in it, they’ll get to love like this.

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[elliet1ou]

i love when men look like vampires