#Reid when he thinks he’s slick

[ninugh29]

Im on CM 3x2 and I can’t get over the fact that all these people seem to know that Reid has a drug problem and NO ONE CARES????? “What could I have told her” “…that one of my agents might have a serious drug problem which I didn’t report” AND Y’ALL JUST DONT GAF????

[nevvdrinksteaa]

PLEASE Spencer answering a work call in the middle of sex??? Super smutty

just wanna say that this is my first request and it makes me feel special so thank you !!! hopefully you like this <3

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: 18+ nsfw smut, porn with small plot, afab reader, fingering, p in v sex, post prison spence, riding, doggy style, and missionary (yall were busy), spitting kink !!, spanking (once?), face slapping (i’m not sorry), slight oral (f receiving), lots of pet names (baby, angel, pretty girl), let me know if i missed anything !!

word count: 1.8k (got a little carried away)

also note to everyone- y’all absolutely devoured my spencer post the other day, a little less than 800 notes last i checked, and i just want to say i was very caught off guard and appreciate it so much !!

+ i apologize for the overuse of commas & very limited vocabulary,, i feel like i used the same 10 words smh

+ NOT PROOF READ !!

~~~

“i was able to talk to the brass about getting the week off. the past few weeks have been tough and i think we all need a well deserved break.”

you were all gathered in the round table room for a meeting emily called. in the past two weeks, the team had been assigned three back to back cases; which meant three different unsubs, three different cities, and three different hotel rooms. you hadn’t slept in your own bed in fifteen days, already feeling giddy at the thought of snuggling up in your bed, binge watching mindless reality tv, and fueling yourself with nothing but sweet treats.

matt was the first to speak, already standing up gathering his things from the table, “as much as i love you all i’m going to rush home to the wife and kids, i miss their little faces”

you all followed suit, collecting all of your belongings and saying your goodbyes, all of you raving about your week off plans. you walked to your desk, grabbing your bag and keys. you walked towards the elevator, pressing the down button, watching it slowly fall from floor 10 to floor 9, before tapping your foot, slightly agitated about how long it seemed to be taking.

you heard footsteps heading your way, small taps on sneakers on the slick marble floor, before felt a slight nudge at your side “you know, being mad at it won’t make it work any faster”

you chuckle looking up, making eye contact with spencer before giving him a small grin. “i’m just really ready to get home.”

the elevator doors open, spencer waved his hand up, allowing you to go first, before following you in and pressing the main lobby button. “you in such a rush because you have a hot date to get to?”

you looked up at him and grinned, you felt spencer’s hand move to your back, rubbing the center in small circles with your thumb. you felt your face get hot and you allowed yourself to slightly lean into his touch. the elevator stopped at the lobby, a small chime signaling the doors opening, and you felt spencer’s hand fall back to his side before you both stepped out of the box.

you both made your way to the parking garage, spencer walking you to your car before he headed towards the station to take the subway. you got to your car, unlocking it and throwing your purse inside before looking up at him with a slight smirk “text me when you’re on your way”

he shook his head and laughed as he gave you a small wave goodbye and headed towards the subway.

~~~

it had only been three days since you were given the week off, enjoying the company of spencer in your bed two thirds of those nights. he texted you the same night as the encounter in the parking garage, eager to see you in a private setting.

“look how pretty you look sitting on my cock”

you were straddling him, your head thrown back with both hands on his shoulders as you tried to keep a quick pace. he had his hands pressed deep into your hips, helping you move in a fluid motion. you felt him hit your sweet spot every time you made your way down, letting out tiny whimpers at the feeling.

“i love when you use me like this, getting yourself off like a good girl”

you couldn’t hold in the loud moan you had been holding, feeling your stomach flutter at his words. you felt a slight burning in your thighs and you knew spencer’s shoulders held tiny crescent shapes from how tight your grip had become. you felt one of spencer’s hands move to your clit, rubbing small circles on the bundle of nerves.

he grabbed your chin, making you look him in the eyes. you looked at him and grinned, fucked out and eager before you felt a sudden surge against your cheek before he let his hand rest there, rubbing his thumb to ease the pain.

“you gonna cum for me angel?”

“fuck- yes spence, i’m so- so close” you couldn’t even hear the words coming out of your mouth, your heartbeat beating so loud your hearing going out.

you moved your head down pushing your forehead to spencer’s with your eyes tight.

“cum for me baby, wanna feel you tighten around my cock.”

you felt that tight feeling in your stomach, the mix of his skilled fingers and his thick cock rubbing against your walls caused your breath to stop in your throat, your release making you see stars. you stopped your movement, breathing heavily as you leaned down into spencer. you felt soft kisses on your head and face, peppering you all over.

“did so good for me baby, love watching you use me”

you smiled against his neck, starting to do your own kissing. you felt his breath hitch when you found the sweet spot behind his ear, the small mole behind it always guiding you to the exact spot. you took your time, sucking and biting at the spot, grinding your hips, ready to keep going.

spencer gave your thigh a quick tap, before telling you to bend over. you were quick to roll over, propping yourself up on your hands and knees before slowly wiggling yourself back and forth to him.

you felt a sharp pain on your ass, a slight stinging feeling before you felt a tight grip run through your hair. you felt your body being pulled tightly to his, his chest flushed against your back. he moved one of his hands to your chest, a his fingers glazing your nipple, his other moving to your neck, pushing his thumb and middle finger to just the right spot to apply pressure.

“i let you use me, now it’s my turn to use you angel” spencer had leaned down to your ear, kissing your jaw before pushing you back down onto the bed.

spencer leaned down slightly, gripping your ass with both hands before spreading them. he let a trail of spit fall to your eager hole, before he rubbed it onto your pussy, giving your clit extra attention.

you moaned and pushed back into his touch before you felt him enter you quick and unforgiving, your ass jiggling with every move of his hips.

“fuck- so fucking deep” you arched your back, begging your body to somehow take him deeper. you felt his firm calloused hands rub against your back before settling into a position on your hips, his thumbs pressing small bruises into your skin.

“taking me so fuck-”

spencer’s voice was cut off by his phone ringing, vibrating on the nightstand beside you, and you felt his hips slow down, letting out a soft sigh as he was considering stopping completely.

you felt him hesitate but needed him to keep going, pushing your hips back into his trying to keep both of your focus.

“spence, please don’t stop” your voice still unsteady, “just ignore it”

spencer pulled out of you, and you let out a whine as the loss of contact. you rolled yourself over, making yourself comfortable on the pillows expecting him to walk away to return the call.

instead he leaned back over you and pulled you into a deep kiss, holding your face in both hands. your lips parting slightly when you felt his tongue lick your bottom lip, allowing your tongues to meet.

spencer grabbed his dick, rubbing over your clit before he lined himself up with you, gasping when he pushed himself in.

“you’re so fucking perfect angel”

he pulled away, lifting your legs up to your shoulders and latching his hands to your thighs. he found himself moving slow and deep, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt around him.

you moved your hands to play with your nipples, rolling the hard buds between your finger tips. he bent down, pushing his weight into you, almost like he was folding you. he pooled spit into his mouth before he let it go to your clit, moving his hand to the bundle of nerves.

“want you to cum again for me pretty girl, want one more before i fill you up”

you let out a moan, sighing before you went to speak “gonna fill me-”

you were cut off by the phone ringing again, the buzzing sound making you forget your thoughts. spencer dropped your thighs and leaned over before giving you a quick kiss before he reached over to grab phone.

“spencer do not answer that”

he moved his finger to his lips, making a shushing motion “it’s emily”

you rolled your eyes, ready to kick him out and finish yourself off before heading to bed when you felt him move again. he moved his hand to cover your mouth before answering the phone.

“doctor reid”

you felt yourself get wetter, the sound of your slick filling the room, your moan mumbled behind his hand. spencer’s motion was relentless, his pace quick and brutal, jabbing your sweet spot with every push.

“i thought we were getting the week off”

your leg was lifted up, making the angle even deeper and you felt your eyes roll back, out of pleasure or annoyance you couldn’t tell. there was no way you were getting called in.

“i can get a hold of her for you, i remember her mentioning something about having a date this week”

you grinned, giggling behind his hand before spencer moved the phone to hold it on his shoulder, letting his now free hand to move back down. he never took his eyes off you, holding a shit eating grin as he felt you squeezing him tighter, squirming at how close you were. you furrowed your brows and pinched your eyes shut.

“i’ll be there in an hour”

you heard the phone beep, signaling the call was disconnected. spencer moved his hand away from your mouth down to your neck, cursing as he heard you gasp.

“did so good for me pretty girl”

his hips stopped deep inside you as you felt his cock twitch, filling you up. he groaned as he felt you cumming again, keeping his thumb in place to help your orgasm finish and you let a loud moan out in response. spencer gave you a long kiss, nipping at your bottom lip before he trailed his lips down your neck. he pulled himself out of you, grinning at the soft sigh you let out. he kept his lips on your body, trailing them down your stomach before reaching your thighs and nipping at the sensitive skin.

he moved his tongue and licked a long strip up your pussy, sucking on your clit before pulling up to look at you, shit eating grin on his face. “we’ve got roughly 30 minutes, that’s enough time for me to help you clean up, right angel?”

[mariasont]

schrödinger’s relationship

spencer never needed to define what this was, until you did. now, the box is open, the outcome inevitable, and he has never been so happy to lose an argument.

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: situationship (ish? it gets resolved fast lol), mutual pining, friends to lovers (except they've been kissing for months), mention of heavy makeout, lap sitting, shirt removal, spencer kissing you to shut you the fuck up, cat does not survive the experiment (metaphorically speaking, there is no animal killing in this fic LOL) wc: 1.4k request: here

Your body is warm in his lap, your weight pressing down just enough to be distracting — no, disorienting — and Spencer is trying very hard not to look at your lips. Not just because they’re parted, slick, and kiss-swollen, but because the soft smudge of your lip gloss is evidence that this has been happening. That he’s been kissing you long enough to leave proof of it.

Mascara has clumped just slightly at the corners of your lashes and there’s a half-moon of pink polish chipped at the very edge of your thumbnail.

He’s obsessing over details. Your pupils are dilated, swallowing every fleck of color. He knows it’s a physiological response. That it’s dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin, all working in tandem to make you look like this, flushed and increasingly pretty on his thighs.

It’s easier to focus on biology than it is to focus on the fact that this moment exists in a state of suspended reality.

This was new. Not just in the way that everything between you had been new, in the way that months of small, careful steps had led to this, but in the way that Spencer had never felt like this. Overheated. Overwhelmed. Overrun with sensation. It had started as everything else had, soft and slow, the kind of kissing that didn’t lead anywhere except to more kissing. 

And for months, he convinced himself that he could exist in this purgatory of lips meeting and parting, of hands resting politely at your waist. That he could always pull away before the ground gave away beneath him.

Today the ground was gone.

Spencer had never been particularly drawn to categories, not in the way people seemed to crave them. Labels had always felt limiting, reductive, forcing the complexities of human relationships into neat little boxes that never quite fit. He had been content in ambiguity, had never needed something to be named in order to understand it. 

With you, the lack of label wasn’t liberating, it was frustrating. Because if this wasn’t something that could be named, then what was it?

“I’m just saying, I feel like if Rossi can write a whole book about a case, then I should at least be able to mention it in passing at brunch.” Your fingers skate absentmindedly across the dip of his throat, and Spencer, entranced, forgets to do something as basic as breathe. Oxygen is apparently optional. “But no, apparently that’s an inappropriate topic over eggs benedict. Which, okay, sure, but if I have to sit through another conversation about Carly’s fiance’s fantasy football league, I think I deserve to liven it up a little, you know?”

Your genuine need for an answer is clear, but Spencer can’t even remember what brunch is.

You gesture when you talk, and it’s so innocent, just for emphasis, but right now, it’s destroying him. Your fingers drag absently up his arm, over the soft material of his sweater, mapping the line of his forearm before skimming back up his neck. And then, like you don’t even realize you’re doing it, your palms smooth over his chest, fingertips tapping lightly against his collarbone like you’re idly counting his heartbeats. Spencer is painfully aware of every single one.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies. But he can’t decide what would kill him faster — how you touch him, or the moment you stop. 

Spencer manages to clear his throat, barely.

“I think your friends don’t appreciate you enough.” His voice sounds strained, but any attempt at analyzing tone evaporates the second his fingers breach the barrier of your shirt. 

Warm fingertips skim over bare skin, and suddenly, the conversation seems wildly misplaced. Because what was that about appreciation? If he’s trying to prove a point, he’s making it very convincingly.

You hum, shifting against him, not intentionally, probably, but it doesn’t matter, because he feels it all the same.

“Well, I can’t just hang out with you constantly.”

Spencer isn’t sure how to respond, because if he’s honest, that’s exactly what he wants. You, constantly. No breaks, no buffer. Just you.

Instead, he stares at your mouth again, because his brain is broken, and this is the inevitable destination. He never really understood the appeal of making out before you, before that first time, when he was supposed to just kiss you once and somehow ended up losing entire minutes of his life to your lips, to the sheer pleasure of pressing against you, of drinking in your sounds.

His broken brain is built to reinforce pleasure-seeking behaviors. Neurochemical feedback loops, all of it designed to keep him coming back. To keep him wanting. As if he needed the help.

Spencer doesn’t even pretend to think about it before saying, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Your lips twitch. You’re about to tease him, he can tell.

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” you say, tilting your head. “But wasn’t it you who went on that tangent about how platonic relationships significantly improve cognitive function?”

Spencer tries to find a loophole in that statement.

“And we,” you say, tracing a path down the trail of hair at his navel, “are not exactly fulfilling the platonic requirement.”

There was a time when he would have insisted — vehemently, even — that their relationship was strictly platonic. Fool’s errand.

“I mean, technically, if we wanted to be platonic, we could just… say we are.” That alone is egregiously incorrect. Spencer prepares to say as much, but then you pause, rolling the thought over like you’re actually considering it, before adding, “Like if we don’t label it, then it doesn’t count, right?”

His first instinct is to argue. His second instinct is to really argue. But neither one survives the sensory overload of you pressed against him.

“It’s like when you don’t open your credit card statements,” you continue, lips pursed. “Sure, the debt exists, but if you don’t acknowledge it, then it doesn’t feel real. So technically, if we just never say what this is, then it’s…”

“Schrödinger’s relationship?”

Spencer doesn’t know why he gives you the words, why he hands you the metaphor like a loaded gun and watches as you take perfect aim.

“Exactly! We exist in a state of undefined possibilities. We’re both platonic and not platonic until we open the box.”

Spencer sighs, rubbing at his temple, because now his entire brain is consumed by the implications of your logic. 

Schrödinger’s cat was never meant to be a real experiment, just a way to illustrate how, in quantum mechanics, particles can exist in multiple states until measured. The cat is placed in a box, along with a vial of poison triggered by a completely random quantum event. Until the box is opened, it’s both alive and dead, trapped in an impossible in-between, a paradox that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. The problem is, that concept doesn’t translate perfectly to relationships. People aren’t quantum particles. Relationships don’t exist in probability states.

Except, apparently, this one does. Because as long as neither of you put a definitive label on what’s happening here, you exist in an undefined state. 

He glances at you, at the expectant look in your eyes, and something about it makes him laugh, not because this is funny, necessarily, but because of course it would take a physics analogy for him to see what’s been obvious all along.

“I’m fairly certain that if we opened the metaphorical box, we would find that the cat — that is, our relationship — was decidedly not platonic.”

He hopes you’ll take the words for what they mean. That, for once, you won’t take the obvious escape route, won’t let yourself tuck this moment nearly into the realm of plausible deniability.

Because what he really said, what he really meant, was that he wants you. Only you. Singular, exclusive, definitively. If you pressed him for stronger language, he’d give it to you.

Your face was quick to light up.

“Are you asking me to go steady? Because Spencer, that’s a serious commitment. That means shared desserts, and, like, the expectation that I text you goodnight. And what’s the policy on PDA? Full access or —”

The rest of your sentence vanishes into fabric as Spencer pulls your shirt over your head, words muffled into cotton. You let out a muffled protest, momentarily caught in the fabric, and Spencer swears he’s never been more tempted to laugh at anything in his life.

By the time he tosses your shirt aside, you’ve recovered, blinking at him like nothing happened, hair adorably mussed.

“ — case-by-case basis?”

Spencer drags his hands down your hair, smoothing out the worst of the damage. He sighs dramatically, but his lips are twitching. “If I had known going steady required this much paperwork, I would’ve reconsidered.”

You grin at him. “Oh, you think this is bad? Just wait until we get into the holiday gift-giving policies and date night scheduling. Speaking of which —”

He doesn’t let you finish. He kisses you mid-sentence, less because he wants to shut you up (though that’s a nice bonus) and more because he can. Because he gets to. Because somehow, without him even realizing it was happening, this wonderful, impossible thing has become real.

This thing between you, this thing that was supposed to be undefined, a quantum maybe, it’s never been uncertain. It’s never been both platonic and not platonic, no matter how long he tried to pretend otherwise.

No, the box is open now. It probably always was. 

And Spencer had never been so happy to kill the cat.

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

[bisexualtwinkk]

don’t make it obvious s.r

flirty!reader x early seasons spencer reid

Summary: Morgan just can’t believe you actually flirt with spencer.

a/n: My first fic! I still can take season 1 spencer out of my mind, that’s all. And also, I love to imagine him all flustered and shy. xoxo NEW PART POSTED AND PINNED ON MY PROFILE

“I just think you do all this as an entertainment, pretty” morgan said looking across the bullpen, more specifically to the 6’1 nerdy man with the prettiest honey-like eyes.

“shut up, morgan, I’m tired of explaining the same thing to all of you” a sigh escaped my lips while I arranged all the paperwork we had left after a horrible case of human trafficking in D.C.

“what thing are we talking about? ‘cause if we are talking about the missing cookies, garcia took them” prentiss said sitting on top of the desk besides mine.

“we are talking about the not so secret crush our best dressed agent here” morgan pointed at me, making my laugh a little, “as on our I dress like a grandpa doctor”

“oh my god, dereck, that is so superficial of you to say! and is not a secret crush, I like to say nice things to my friends , you say things way out off line to garcia and no one bats an eye, but if I flirt a little with spence everyone goes crazy ”

“sorry honey, but if you think you can hide something while working around profilers, you are very wrong” prentiss taped my nose and standing from the desk.

“you guys make me sick, you know that? I’ll go to spend time with my favorite friend’ I grabbed my coffee and walked to spencer’s desk, escaping the teasing from my coworkers.

spencer was too busy writing to notice when I sat on the desk beside him. his hair was slicked back, making his face look even more sculpted, and prettier, than usual. he was wearing a simple white shirt and a black tie, a casual and comfortable look.

“hi, spence, sorry I didn’t come earlier to talk, handsome, was kinda busy with the pile of papers on my desk” he blinked rapidly when the word handsome left my mouth.

“H-hey” he coughed a little, “don’t worry, I can help you if you want, did you now that a higher percentage of women report feeling burned out compared to men at their level? I don’t mind helping you, as long as you want, of course” spence spoke quickly, making me smile.

“if you want to spend time with me you can say it, you know? I really love spending time with you, spence” I played with the end of his tie, watching his addam’s apple move and his face turning an adorable shade of pink. “and thank you, I accept your help, you are the best spence” I give him a quick peck on the cheek while walking away and seeing morgan with a smirk on his face.

“try not to make it that obvious next time” he pushed me in a playful way, laughing at my, more than spencer’s, red face.

“shut up, morgan”

I’m totally screwed by that man, I swear.

[reiding-writing]

Congrats on 3k!!

Could you do an injury trope with like season 5-6 Spencer where he and fem! Reader split up and he finds them like dying, UNSUB on the floor also bleeding out so Spencer can safely assume that reader fought back before collapsing and after the UNSUB is arrested, Spencer is immediately at readers side and speaking to them "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.", and "You’ll be fine." *silence* "You’ll be fine. Hey! Wake up! Please. Please wake up…" and while Spencer is panicking over whether or not reader will live, he thinks about how they changed from enemies to lovers.

BLEEDING HEART. /spencer reid/

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” “You’ll be fine.” *silence* “You’ll be fine. Hey! Wake up! Please. Please wake up…”

enemies to lovers

CW | reader is critically injured and unresponsive for most of it, graphic blood descriptions, open ended but maybe reader lives if you want her to

s6! spencer x fem!reader 1.0k angst event masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | angst oh glorious angst

You were too slow. That’s the only thought pounding through Spencer’s head as he stumbles into the warehouse, gun trembling in his hand.

His breath is ragged, his legs unsteady from running full speed across the broken asphalt lot. He barely registers Morgan and Rossi’s shouts behind him, the pounding of boots and orders barked into radios. It’s all white noise. Because the moment his eyes fall on you, collapsed on the cold, blood-slick floor, everything else ceases to exist.

The gun in his hand drops with a clatter.

“No, no, no…”

He’s already kneeling at your side before he registers the motion, fingers shaking as they reach for you. Your face is pale, far too pale, and your hair clings to your sweat-dampened forehead. The bright red stain spreading across your shirt glistens under the flickering light overhead.

Spencer’s hands are sticky the moment they press against the wound. You flinch faintly, your eyes barely cracking open. He feels your blood seeping through his fingers.

“Hey, hey— stay with me, you hear me?” His voice wavers as he glances at the body a few feet away. The unsub is face-down in a growing pool of blood, still twitching slightly, gasping wetly with every rattling breath. The knife he used on you lies discarded, coated in blood—your blood.

You fought him. Spencer knows it. He sees the torn sleeve, the bruises forming along your jaw, the deep scratch marks on the unsub’s neck. You fought back. You must have been so scared, so desperate. And he wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, his voice cracking as he presses his hand harder against the wound. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—” His throat closes around the words.

You cough weakly, and his eyes snap back to you. Your lashes flutter, your gaze unfocused, but you’re still there. Barely. Too barely.

“You’ll be fine,” His voice is hollow with the promise. His blood-slick hand cups your cheek, smearing crimson along your jawline, and he swears he feels you lean into the touch. Or maybe he imagines it.

His eyes blur with the sting of hot, useless tears. “You’ll be fine, okay? Hey!” Your eyelids droop, and a sharp panic seizes him. He shakes you slightly, voice breaking. “Wake up! Please. Please, wake up…”

Your body doesn’t listen. Your eyes fall shut, your chest barely rising with each shallow breath. His own breathing is quick and erratic as he grips you tighter, almost as if he could anchor you there with him.

And then his mind splinters.

For a heartbeat, he isn’t kneeling on the cold warehouse floor with your blood soaking into his jeans. Instead, he’s remembering the first time he met you—how you rolled your eyes at his rambling statistics during your first case together.

He remembers the disdain in your voice, how sharp your words were, how easy it was to bristle around you. You were reckless, impulsive, infuriating.

But then he remembers the late nights in the bullpen when you started bringing him coffee without asking. The first time you defended him against a suspect who mocked his stammer. The way your eyes softened when you caught him with trembling hands after a particularly brutal case.

He remembers how he fell for you so stupidly, so completely, even though neither of you could ever say it. The arguments became softer, the walls thinner. One day, you weren’t his rival—you were his home.

And now, you’re slipping away.

“Don’t—” His voice cracks on the word, his forehead pressing against yours. “Please. Please, don’t do this.” His hands are covered in your blood, and it’s warm and sticky and wrong. He doesn’t know if he’s shaking from fear or from the adrenaline crashing through him, but he can’t stop. He won’t stop.

There’s shouting behind him, someone calling for a medic. He barely hears it. All he knows is you.

“I love you.” The words tumble from his lips in a strangled whisper, broken and desperate. They taste like salt and dirt. His voice is lost, drowned by the ache in his chest, the terror clawing at his throat. “I love you, so you can’t— you can’t leave me. Please…”

When your breath hitches, his heart nearly stops. But then, with excruciating slowness, your eyes flicker open just slightly, unfocused and glassy but alive. Alive.

“Spence…?” It’s barely a whisper, your voice cracked and broken. You’re confused. Afraid. But there.

A ragged breath shudders out of him, half-sob, half-relief. His grip on you tightens, his lips trembling against your temple.

“I’m here,” His voice is thick, barely above a whisper. He presses another frantic kiss to your forehead. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

And as the paramedics rush in, he still doesn’t let go. Even when they pry you from his arms, he’s right there, clinging to your hand with trembling fingers, refusing to let you slip away again.

And for once, statistics don’t matter. Because he won’t accept any other outcome.

[ddejavvu]

I can't get the thought of marking Hotch up with lipstick marks out of my head. Like imagine leaving a trail of kisses down from his neck to his dick. And if the lipstick is starting to fade, he'd reapply it for her so she could continue marking him

Hotch is typically more-than-professional during round table sessions, the grim atmosphere of the room setting the tone for his no-nonsense behavior. However, he can't stop himself from itching at a persistent stinging against his collarbone- probably something to do with the mark you'd sucked into his skin only hours earlier.

it's such an intense sensation that he slips a hand beneath his collar to itch it skin-on-skin, something probably unprofessional considering his environment, but one of those base human things that must be done even if it shouldn't be. A few wandering eyes note his movements, observant but neutral as a profiler should be.

It isn't until he withdraws his hand, fingers stained a crimson red, that anyone reacts.

JJ shifts in her seat, eyes blowing wide as Prentiss leans forwards, "Hotch, is that blood?"

Aaron's already grasped the edge of his manila folder with his lipstick-stained fingers, turning the yellow paper a sinful shade. He frowns, glancing down at his pristinely pressed suit, but there's nothing red against his chest.

"Your hand," Reid urges, his brows knitted in concern, but it's Derek- of course - who recognizes the red for what it really is.

"Hold on," He laughs incredulously, a great gust of air that comes out like a bark, "Hold on, hold on, hold on, that came off'a your chest?"

Caught red-handed, Hotch composes himself, which is a very stark difference to the way that his team dissolves into teasing giggles. Penelope has clapped a hand over her mouth, perhaps the only way she can hold herself back from opening it.

"Settle down." Hotch attempts, but Rossi undermines him with an exasperated groan. Once the oldest of the team proves unreachable Hotch knows he's lost the room, and sits in stony silence while he waits for his coworkers to finish getting their fill.

"My man." Morgan declares, clapping Hotch on the shoulder with a strong hand he's lucky not to lose, "She got you in the doorway this morning, didn't she?"

"We're talking about dead teenagers, here." Hotch reminds them, raising a brow as Emily, Penelope, and JJ collapse into girlish giggles, "Can we please focus on the case?"

"This is on you, Hotch." Rossi levels him with what's supposed to be an unimpressed glare, and what really comes off as a smirk, "It's not their fault you come to work with lipstick under your clothes."

"I have to ask Y/N for that shade," Penelope gushes, but at Hotch's warning glare she grabs her remote and retakes her place beside the viewing screen, "But-! But our trusty boss is right, there are lives on the line here. So- um, incriminating lipstick stains pushed to the back of the mind, we'll start up again on our case."

Hotch's shoulders relax as the team sinks back into careful contemplation of the case details. He thinks he's escaped scrutiny altogether thanks to the shocking violence of this particular unsub, but it's three days later when he hears about the lipstick stains again.

Surprisingly, it's Reid that comes to torture him, and the slick comment comes when Hotch is forced into sharing a motel room with him. Communal bathrooms are in the middle of the complex, but it's easier to change in their rooms. He unbuckles his belt facing the corner of the small room, giving Reid space to change himself, and giving both of them as much privacy as possible.

"Careful, Hotch," Reid calls, voice misleadingly kind-hearted which lures Aaron into a sense of security, "There's a gap in the curtains behind where you're standing. You wouldn't want any onlookers to see any more lipstick Y/N left behind."

Hotch decides that Reid is worse than Morgan. Morgan is expected to be crass, so it's not a shock when it's delivered. Reid, however, is one to watch out for.

"Reid," Hotch responds, hearing Spencer's breathy laughter already bubbling from his throat, "I'm sticking you on desk duty for a month when we get back."

[nicholasgoodgirl]

in the sheets- spencer reid

summary: sleeping with spencer and caring less about the consequences from your dad.

warnings: smut, no protection (wrap that shit), aaron is your dad, age gap (4yrs), multiple rounds, slight squirtung, aftercare

a/n: i wanna be that one writer who writes the reader as aarons daughter.

me and spencer were kissing from the front door all the way to my bedroom. stumbling on eachother while moving backwards towards the bed unable to move off of eachother.

i fall onto the bed; with him ontop of me. he kissed down my jaw to my collar bone leaving sloppy wet kisses.

i reach down, palming him through his pants, looking him straight in his eyes. i see the intense desire in his eyes making me smile.

"can i?" i ask messing with the waist band of his pants. "please" he begged.

i get up from the bed sitting spencer down then unzipping his pants. he helped me pull them down; pulling his boxers down as well.

i grab ahold of his now free cock letting my tounge swirl around the tip, my mouth taking more of him. he gasped at the feeling.

surprisingly he took ahold of my hair and forced my mouth down further on his dick, it caught me off gaurd making me cough a bit.

as i bobbed my head i tried my best to supress my gag reflex everytime he hit the back of my throat.

"k' thats enough. get up" he helped me off the ground and pulled me in for a kiss then made me lay on his bed; turning me over on my stomach.

"please baby take off your shirt" he said while taking off my pants already, then tossing them to the floor.

i took my shirt off and just threw it away from me. his shirt tossed in the same direction.

he runs his hands down my back then to my hips. he guides the head of his cock to my hole, teasing my entrance.

"can we just fuck for now. and not tease eachother" i propose the possibility. "sounds like a plan" i audibly gasp at him slipping into me, bottoming out.

spencer was thrusting into me so easily "god you feel so good" his words wobble out.

he increased his speed gripping onto my hips which i knew were gonna leave marks.

if i was being honset with my self i didn't think he had it in him, but i never fully doubted him.

he brings his hand down to my clit rubbing it in circles while also applying pressure. making me squirm under him. "mm- fuck m' gonna cum" my words muffling into the matress.

"thats fine" i didn't even have to look back to know he was smiling, just from the way he said it.

just one more rut and i felt myself get filled. he fucked his seed into me some more and i had climaxed.

i wanted more, i was yearning for more i wanted him to pull so many orgasms from me tonight. just looking at him made my eyes glaze with lust.

he pulled out and turned me over "can we go again?" i asked before he could say anything. a warm smile and a nodd is all i received before he penetrates me again.

he scans over my face as he pushes inside of me "you're really pretty y'know that?" he leans down to press a sentimental kiss on my lips.

"thanks baby, thats-.. sweet" the last word choking out when his tip brushes my cervix.

he puts his hands back at my waist for leverage to hit into me deeper. i pull at the blankets underneath me. i was still so sensitive from my last orgasm but my need for him was much more stronger.

"I can't really last-" his cock twitched then filled me up again "-that long looking at you" it was endearing really and i can't even be mad about it, but he was still hard.

it was like having sex with a horny teenage boy with much more stamina.

he lays down ontop of me not really putting his full weight on me, he pulls out and turns over; flopping onto his back.

i get on him, straddling his lap "can i ride you?" he just groaned a 'mhm' so i grabbed his hard cock and aligned it with my somehow slick entrance.

i sink down on him, leaning down to place kisses on spencers neck while rocking my hips back and forth. i sit up and use his shoulders to help me go up and down on him. at the certain angle his dick was hitting inside of me made pornographic moans leave my lips and also made me see stars. i was onto my second orgasm tonight.

"ahh.. shit" i laid ontop of spencer, rocking my hips a little; riding out my orgasm feeling pure ecstasy.

i was so tired but the room was thick with tension and lust. i couldn't physically get enough of spencer reid, as the minutes passed i found new things about him that turned me on. like right now, his heavy breathing and the light tracing that his hand is doing on my back.

"turn over. might be a while til' we can do this again" he turned me over; my face laying into the pillows. "can you breath?" he asked fisting some hair into a make shift ponytail. "yeah" he released my hair after the response

his tip dragged through my sensitive folds, he then fucks his tip inside me. my brows knit and my mouth falls open.

he slams inside of me "im goin' all the way" spencer warns.

i put my face into the pillow and let out a scream. I'd never been fucked like this ever. and i never had someone go multiple rounds in different positions for so long, it's been atleast 30 minutes.

his leverage this time was the headboard of his bed. he kept him somewhat steady

he slams into me repeatedly, his tip brusing my cervix. i clench around him, a whimper falling from his mouth it sounded like music to my ears I'd do anything to hear it again.

spencer was using everything in him to hit deeply inside me, it was making my mind go blank. all that was leaving my mouth was moans and his name as if thats all i remembered

"spencer!!" i screamed. i held onto the blankets for dear life as if it could help me take it.

"sorry.. sorry" he began slowing down "no dont stop!" i yelled quickly. so he reverted his speed and continued to go as fast as before.

i possibly could have squirted, i just know my own cum is leaking out of me while he's still going.

"jesus fuck-" he moans, pulling out with a slick pop then collapsing next to me.

i felt worn out, but like i could go just one more time but i highly doubt I'd even be awake for it

"im sorry about that" he sighs into my hair.

"don't apologize" is all i could utter in the moment.

i let my eyes rest and he tucked the hair that fallen in my face behind my ear. i opened my eyes to see him admiring my face "that was eventful wasn't it?" i smile nodding, i could feel butterflies in my stomach just from looking at him.

"lets get cleaned up" spencer sat up but i didn't sit up with him, i actually got under the blankets that were already a mess.

"m' tired" is all i said while snuggling into the balnkets "thats fair." he got out of bed and went to the bathroom with some clothes in hand. which im not quite sure when he got them.

--

i wake up to a damp haired spencer reid. and looking around it was still night. I've only fallen asleep for a few minutes "c'mon sweet girl you need to get clean"

he carried me into the bathroom and placed me in a bath. "im gonna go change the sheets and blankets. try cleaning yourself.. and please dont fall asleep in the tub. it's a major safety hazard" i nod along to what he's saying so he know im listening.

when he leaves i start getting all cleaned up. i could really get used to this princesses treatment, and the thing is we aren't even together and this is the best I've been treated by a man.

i got out the tub and dryed myself off. looking around i saw no clothes, so i wrapped the towel around me and walked out the bathroom.

"spencer!?" i yell out for him but there was no reply. i hear footsteps approaching the bedroom "yeah?" it was just spencer.

"i have no clothes" it's like a instant lightbulb went off in his head "i totally forgot" he went in his closet and came out with a black t-shirt.

"thanks" i walk back into the bathroom but before i could close the door spencer told me he ordered pizza and it should be here by time i was completely finished.

i put the shirt on and it was at my mid thigh so i think i was good for tonight.

i sit on the bed and get comfortable under the blankets of the replaced bedsheets. spencer comes in the room with a box of pizza and two bottled waters in the other hand.

"got the goods" he chuckled placing the food and drink on the bed. "thanks spence"

he climbed into bed next to me "so how are we telling your dad about this" i nearly choked on air.

"he's not finding out about this moment-" ,,no no of course not he'd kill me. i mean us. whatever this is." his words were kinda doubtful of what he thought we were.

"oh.. lets just wait it out and hope I'm not pregnant" i lightened the moment with reid laughing at my half joke.

[heavenlybodies333]

Little black dress - S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader | Secret Relationship |

“You’re not seriously going out in that,” your dad says flatly, gaze flicking up from his paperwork just long enough to catch the hem of your dress. Barely there. Black. Tight. “That dress is too short.”

You smirk, swaying just slightly on your heels, the alcohol in your system humming pleasantly in your veins. “Relax, Dad. I’m twenty, not twelve.”

Hotch’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better by now. You lean against the doorway to his office, dangling your house keys on your finger, just enough swing to make a point.

“I’m dropping these off in case I crash at Sarah’s,” you add innocently, ignoring the way his mouth flattens even more.

You barely register his disapproving sigh before your eyes flick past his shoulder.

Spencer’s at his desk across the bullpen. And the look on his face?

Worth everything.

His eyes rake over you like he’s trying not to, but failing miserably. His jaw ticks, fingers frozen over the file in his lap, but his eyes—his eyes are starving. He looks like he might snap the pen in his hand in two.

Perfect. You lean forward to give your dad a hug goodbye, extra dramatic about how your skirt rides up when you bend—just enough to make Spencer’s throat bob from across the room.

"Be safe," your dad mutters, clearly annoyed, already returning to the files in his hand.

You don’t make it past the hallway. Reid’s hand is on your wrist the second you’re alone, you turn pretending to play dumb, “Oh hi, Dr. Reid.”

“Can I talk to you? In the conference room.” Your stomach flips. You know that tone. You also know you’ve won.

You follow him in silence. The room’s barely shut behind you when he turns on you, eyes dark and burning.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, stepping in close. “Coming in here like that, in that dress?”

“Sorry. Didn’t know I needed your approval.”

His jaw twitches. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Maybe,” you shrug, smiling too sweet. “You’ve been ignoring me all week.”

His nostrils flare.

“That’s because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he grits, voice low and dangerous. “About how you sound when you come. About how your dad would put a bullet between my eyes if he knew I’ve had you bent over the backseat of my car three times this month.”

“Four.” You smirk, “Besides, you were being an ass, acting like I don’t exist.”

“I was trying to keep my hands off you in front of your father.”

In one smooth motion, he hikes your dress up to your waist, panties shoved aside as he sinks to his knees, one arm hooking around your thigh as he pulls you toward him. His mouth is on you instantly, tongue dragging through your folds with the kind of hunger that makes your head thunk back against the wall.

“Fuck—Spencer—”

He groans into you, soft and sinful, tongue lapping at your clit, fingers digging into your thigh to keep you steady. You moan—quiet, breathless, desperate to stay somewhat quiet in the building where your dad is literally down the hall.

You’re already close, already shaking, when he stands again—licking his lips, pupils blown, hands fumbling at his belt. “Turn around,” he says, voice wrecked.

You do, pressing your hands against the cool wall as he pulls your hips back and slams into you in one fluid motion, both of you gasping.

His hand curls around your throat as he starts thrusting harder, deeper, the sound of your slick coating him making your cheeks burn. The desk creaks with every movement, your legs shaking.

“Fuck, fuck—” he chokes out, one hand sliding up your back to grab your hair, forcing your eyes to his. “You feel so good baby.”Your tits bounce, the slap of wet skin filling the room, the high whine of his breath every time you squeeze around him.

You’re close. So close. And he knows it—he always knows. “I love you,” you moan before you can stop yourself, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. “I—fuck, Spencer—”

He stills. Looks down at you. Then he groans, like the words cracked something inside him. “Fuck. I love you too.” He buries himself deep. Grinds against your clit as you clench around him again. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you beg. “Want you to.”

He does. He cums hips jerking, filling you full as you tremble under him, panting, skin flushed and soaked. For a second, neither of you moves.

“I really am going out,” you say, turning your head to smirk at him over your shoulder.

He laughs—soft, fucked out, and still breathless. “The hell you are.”

a/n: soft dom Spence is my fav

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[trampleddoves]

face-sitting spencer pretty please 🙏🏻

s. r. blurb 11

contents: afab!reader, face sitting, munch!Spencer, MDNI (I received so many requests for this, I feel compelled to write another version. Perhaps in the next batch of blurbs.)

When Spencer Reid had said he wanted to drown in you, you didn’t think he meant literally.

It was exchanged during the heated moments of sex, after all, whispered into sweaty skin with hoarse voices. Not exactly something you take that seriously. So when he says it again, as he is stripping off your clothes after a riveting date night at the Smithsonian, you simply giggle.

“Oh yeah?” you say, following him as he stumbles on his bed. Butterflies have taken flight in your stomach, as cliche as that sounds, a soft, fluttery feeling that leaves you glowing and happy.

His hands grip your hips, fingertips dipping into your underwear, “Yeah. Please. I need to drown in you.”

“How do you propose to do that?” you’re grinding on his crotch, pleased to find him already hard.

“Sit on my face.”

Oh. “On your—Spence, are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he tugs and your panties slip past your hips, down to your thighs, “Please. Please, angel, wanna taste you, wanna drown in you.”

The butterflies are incinerated by the pure, burning heat that unfurls in your lower belly. Your mouth goes dry, but you manage a hasty, “Yeah, yeah, okay.” as you scramble off his lap, quickly tossing your panties to the ground. 

Spencer lays back, pitch black eyes of lust raking over your naked figure. It’s a look that both heightens your want, and eliminates any nervousness that may linger. He’s serious, and he loves you. He needs to drown in you.

 “God, you’re so beautiful.” his voice is breathless, hoarse from how desperate he is to taste you, to have his mouth on you. Gently, he guides you up, helping you position yourself over his face. He groans, eyes ravenously looking at the sight in front of him.

Each and every single one of his senses has been invaded by you. The musk of your arousal, the weight of your body and press of your thighs framing his head, the slick that’s simply begging to be lapped and sucked. When you finally lower yourself to his mouth, he swears he’s in heaven. Your sounds fill the room, loud and needy, as he parts your folds with his tongue, licking broad stripes along your labia before focusing on your clit. Easing it out of its hood, before wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking.

“Fuck!” you cry out, head leaning on the headboard for support. You move your hips, moaning as his stubble catches over your wet, sensitive folds, sending the sweetest bursts of electricity down your spine. Pleasure spreads through your limbs as he swipes his tongue over and over, somehow managing to match your movements with an eagerness that shouldn’t have surprised you.

“So sweet,” he mumbles, fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you over him, “So good, taste so good.” 

Soon, two fingers join his tongue, sliding deep into your cunt as he sucks and gently nips at your clit. You can’t help but sink down, thighs burning and begging for ease, and the weight of your body on his face seems to spur your boyfriend on. Fingers accelerate in their thrusts, tongue laying flat against your folds, greedily tasting you, and you’re coming apart with a scream, louder and harder than he’s ever heard you before.

He laps up your juices, pulling out his fingers and eagerly replacing them with his tongue, poking into your cunt like a man starved and thirsting. When you’ve come down from your high, after you’ve spent a good hour exploring each other’s bodies, you decide that if he wants to drown in you again, then all he has to do is ask.

[whatifitis]

♡ how do you want me? - OP 81 ♡

Summary: A wet dream has you grasping for something to feel (or someone). Will your needs be fulfilled?

Author's Note: This is a rework of one of my old fics. It was originally posted to my Spencer Reid blog but now it's been made for Oscar

WC: 639

CW: a bit of fingering, bit of smut, Oscar is dominant if you squint your eyes and don't blink, fluff i think?, we also (lovingly) call Oscar a bitch at some point :P, use of the word brat for a milisecond

It had been a long day. Oscar had left early in the morning, not without lightly kissing your neck and wrapping his hand around your waist. His warm breath caressing your neck, his hand roaming your body, slowly making its way lower and lower, down your front. He lightly swept his finger against your clothed clit, making you whine and squirm. You moved your hips forward, silently begging Oscar for more. He took the hint and slipped his hand under the front of your panties, inching his way towards where you needed him most. You were practically soaking, your thighs sticky with your slick. Oscar softly and slowly rubbed your clit with one finger, slightly teasing you. 

“Please Oscar, more. I need more.” you whined, attempting to somewhat grind against his hand. 

Who was he to deny his favorite girl? He then moved his hand further down, inserting a finger into your cunt, slowly pumping in and out. it felt good but you needed more, you needed to feel him. Oscar then inserted another finger and started pumping his fingers a bit faster. You could feel yourself hurtling towards your orgasm. Just a bit more and you were going to be there. You could feel your stomach turning and tightening at once. The string in your stomach was about to snap, you were so close you could taste it. The only sounds to be heard were your moans and the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you. 

But you woke up, it was a fucking dream. Oscar had actually left early in the morning for work, but only having left you with a kiss on your head as you were fast asleep. 

You were now feeling all types of discomfort, and your panties were soaked through due to your dream. You knew if you tried to relieve yourself, it wouldn’t feel half as good as when Oscar does it, so you got up and spent the day waiting for him to come home. You spent most of the day absolutely feral due to your lack of an orgasmic high that you’ve been craving. Not only that but you were dead tired. And you were too horny and frustrated to take a nap to pass the time. Your eyes were itching for sleep, you could barely function. 

Oscar got home quite late. You were on the sofa, mindlessly watching a film when you heard his keys rustle in the doorway. You listened as he dropped his bag onto the ground, kicking his shoes off and taking his coat off before joining you on the sofa. With a huff, Oscar plopped onto the sofa. 

“Hi darling, how was your day?” you ask as you run your fingers through his unruly hair, making him let out a groan that makes the heat between your legs grow. 

“It was alright, Lando was Lando, and the social media team had us working overtime. I'm glad to finally be home though. I missed you.” he said, giving you a quick peck on the lips. (not the lips you wanted though 😗)

“I'm sorry darling, is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” you asked, itching to please him whilst pleasing yourself. 

“No, just be with me please.”

“How do you want me?” you asked seductively, moving to straddle him before he pushed your leg back.

“In bed. Asleep. Get your dark circles out of my face.”

“Bitch. I’m fucking horny.” 

“Okay? The bags under your eyes are so bad. You look like a raccoon, love.”

“Fuck me then i’ll sleep.”

Oscar moves too fast for your brain to register. One minute you’re sitting beside him on the sofa, the next you’re being pinned down by Oscar with your back on the floor.

“Alright then. Have it your way, brat.”

[spencerreidenjoyer]

giddy up | spencer reid x reader

Spencer gets shot in the leg. You help him feel better about it.

wc: 1.7k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: s5/jesus hair reid, established r/s, reader and spencer are both switches, riding, grinding, frottage, porn without plot, fluff and smut actually

a/n: was thinking about writing jesus reid/crutches reid for a long time and this was the only thing that came to mind. I am only a little sorry about it. (also find this fic on ao3!)

Of all the things Spencer could complain about after having been shot in the leg, not being able to fuck you properly is something you definitely did not consider.

You’d been worried sick when Penelope had called you, when Spencer had woken up after surgery. You were the first person he’d called for.

No unnecessary pressure on the leg, the doctor had said. Spencer was to use crutches at all times until the doctor cleared him. You don’t remember the rest of the doctor’s instructions, at least not now, when Spencer’s doing much better. He’s just been cleared to walk off his crutches, but he still has a slight limp in his step and starts to wince when he’s on his feet for too long. He hasn’t healed completely, but it’s enough to put you at ease being around Spencer, not having to worry excessively about him. 

While you know he’s grateful to have only gotten shot in the leg and not somewhere more risky, Spencer’s got a mouth on him, which leads you to where you are right now:

“I’m so tired of not being able to fuck you,” Spencer groans. 

You’re lounging in bed with him when he says this, and you whip your head around to look at him, shocked at his sudden admission. “Damn. What’s the matter, baby?”

“I just–” Spencer huffs in the middle of his sentence, like he needs to find the right words. It blows his hair out of his face. It’s cute, but what he says next is filthy in comparison: “I miss fucking you. Properly. Not just handjobs.”

“I thought you liked my handjobs, babe.” You pout, pretending to seem upset. “And my mouth.”

“I do!” Spencer is quick to correct you, insisting, “I like all of that, but it just doesn’t feel the same.”

“As to when you’re buried inside of me?” You whisper, resting your hand on his chest, giggling when Spencer turns red. While he was no longer the innocent, virginal nerd you’d met him as, sex talk still flusters him from time to time, and you love to fluster him.

“Baby,” Spencer whines at your teasing. “I’m serious. I miss making you feel good too.”

“You’re good with your hands, though,” you swoon, mind drifting. “And your mouth. Really good with your mouth.”

You think about Spencer asking you to sit on his face for the first time. Neither of you were exactly used to the position, Spencer typically preferring to be between your legs when he went down on you. But the way his tongue was expertly flicking at your clit, slipping into your hole, making you feel so good until you were making a mess of his face, your slick everywhere–

“Hey, focus.” Spencer taps your cheek, and you puff your cheeks. “I want you to feel good too.”

“I know, pretty,” you hum, letting your thumb trace his jaw. “I think I have an idea.”

Spencer quirks a brow in attentive curiosity. You, getting up from laying next to him, swing your leg across his hips. You sit down squarely on his crotch. 

Spencer’s eyes widen. “O-Oh.”

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” you coo. Spencer nods hurriedly. 

Spencer looks up at you with wide eyes, roaming all over your body but unable to leave it. He watches you roll your hips into his crotch. He lets out a pitiful whine. You feel him hardening between your legs already. You grind against him like this, solely intent on working him up. You know this kind of pressure isn’t enough for Spencer, pleasure dulled between layers of fabric, so you aren’t surprised when Spencer asks, “More, please?”

You smile. “Poor thing.”

“Please, darling,” he exhales. 

“Okay,” you hum, climbing off of him so you can get your shorts and underwear off. His eyes are so big as he stares at you, all of you, like he’s still surprised that he gets to see you undress. You laugh, and snake your hands into the waistband of his pyjama pants. You push them down, until his hard cock springs up, bobbing against his stomach. You meet Spencer’s gaze, before pressing your cunt to his cock.

You both gasp, feeling each other’s warmth. You’re so wet you know you must be making a mess of Spencer right about now. You don’t slip him inside of you just yet, instead grinding your bare pussy against Spencer’s length. You can’t imagine how it feels for him, but you see the way his face is scrunched up in pleasure – what you’re giving him is not entirely enough. You know he misses sinking into your wet heat, and you’re just giving him a taster, sliding his cock along your slick folds, pressed against your leaking hole.

“Spencer,” you moan, rocking your hips harder. It feels so good, Spencer’s hardness against your cunt, the tip of his cock nudging at your clit every time you press your hips down. It’s too much yet not enough, both you and Spencer needing that sweet relief, the feeling of his cock pressing into you. Still, you want to drag it out for him, and you grind your pussy against him some more. “You feel so good, baby.”

“It would feel better if you let me fuck you, darling,” Spencer grunts with gritted teeth. You can tell he’s desperate, his hands antsy by his sides, nails digging into his palms. 

“Mm, not yet,” you hum, feeling a little bratty, enjoying the feeling of building tension, growing arousal between the two of you, between your legs. It’s heaven grinding against Spencer like this.

And maybe you’re too wet, or Spencer is too convincing, because by some act of God, when you roll your hips down against him again, the head of his cock is breaching your entrance, and you moan when you feel his tip pressed inside of you. “Oh–!”

“Fuck,” Spencer moans, long and drawn-out. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

You can’t blame him, since you’d put a stop to sex with Spencer as he recovered. You’d only started giving him handjobs and blowjobs once you were sure an orgasm wouldn’t break him – “I promise an orgasm won’t hurt. It’ll be fine. I’m a doctor.” “You’re not a medical doctor, idiot.” – even then, penetrative sex was off the table.

Until now, as Spencer’s cock pushes deeper inside of you, and the rolling of your hips only serves to remind you just how good Spencer feels. You’ve missed this, his thick cock pressed inside of you, splitting you in half, filling you up until you don’t know anything other than his name. 

“Spence,” you whine. “Feels good.”

“I know, darling,” Spencer groans. “You feel tighter than I remember. Wetter too.” 

He sounds so nonchalant saying these things, and that only serves to drive you more insane. When did he get so confident, so cocky? You want to say something witty but you can’t find the words. Spencer just continues, almost bored to the untrained ear, but you know Spencer’s barely keeping himself together, “So, are you going to ride me or not?”

You grumble, your thighs flexing as you push yourself up, shifting from a rolling, grinding motion to bounce on Spencer’s cock instead. You don’t think you’ve done this before with Spencer, always content letting him get on top, so the new angle makes the both of you a little crazy. He moans, and so do you.

Like this, Spencer’s cock fucks you deeper, harder, the weight of your bouncing thrusts driving him into you until you feel positively ruined. You cry out, desperate, “Spence– Oh, Spencer, oh my God–”

“You’re riding me so well, darling,” Spencer says in awe, slack-jawed. His large hands come to hold your waist, feeling you bounce on his cock, helping you with the laborious movements. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

You whine, thighs already feeling the burn, but the way Spencer’s using your weight to fuck you down onto his cock has you feeling lightheaded. You think you like the feeling, being pushed around like a warm, wet fleshlight for Spencer to fuck into. “Spence, so deep–”

“I want to fuck you so badly right now, my love,” Spencer groans. You feel his hips bucking up into you slightly, right when he pulls your ass down against him, but you know his movements are restricted because of his leg. Still, his desperation to bury himself into you is wild, and your head spins. “But I can’t, and you’re doing so good fucking yourself on my cock.”

You tremble, using all your strength to fuck yourself on his cock, sobbing because you just feel that good. Spencer’s filthy words and the intensity of it all has you weak, and you wish Spencer could just flip you over and finish the job.

“Come on, darling,” Spencer encourages, his hands squeezing your ass and your thighs. It makes you feel wanted, a desperate Spencer’s way of feeling you. “I’m so close too. You’re doing so good.”

“Spencer-!” You sob, clenching around him as you come, your orgasm wracking through your body like electricity in your veins. It’s so good, too good like this, Spencer pressed up inside you like he could split you in half. 

You’re frozen as you feel him inside, his cock twitching as he blows his load. It’s warm and wet and sticky, as you feel it drip out of you. You almost can’t believe it, feeling Spencer buried to the hilt of you after months, and you wonder why it hadn’t occurred to either of you to do this sooner. 

You whimper as your emotions rush over you, and Spencer is quick to pull you close, his lips pressed to the top of your head. “That was crazy. You’re amazing. And perfect. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say, still a little breathless. “We should do that more.”

“Until my leg is better? Then I can fuck you the way you want,” Spencer soothes, his hand petting your hair, and that certainly sounds like a good idea.

“Yeah. But we should also just do that again some time,” you giggle, resting your head on his chest. You feel his heart pounding under your ear. “I like riding you.”

Spencer laughs heartily, a warm sound that is like music to your ears. “Giddy up, cowgirl.”

[esote-rika]

A bookstore meet cute I wish I could experience | Spencer Reid

Category: Fluff with S4 awkward, nerdy rizz Spencer

Warnings: use of Y/N, unedited (tenses keep shifting, sorry)

A/N: this is just 1.8k words of self indulgent self insert. Like this is inspired by some unpleasant experiences I've had talking with men about books in the past lol, and reader's responses defensive responses had been me at some point. i feel like a conversation with Spencer Reid would heal me, thus this fic. Also, save me, s4e9 Spencer Reid, save me.

He seemed like a fixture to the bookstore, if fixtures moved on their own. Or if they moved up and down the aisles with elegant fingers tracing the spines of the books on display. Or if they dressed like a rumpled professor, complete with the black rimmed glasses. He just seemed like he was part of the space, and you thought that every bookstore should probably come with one - a tall, attractive nerd who drifted all over the room like some sort of phantom. Maybe that would help with the literacy problem. It certainly would bring more people in, make them more interested in reading.

You've been trying to figure him out from afar, as subtle as you can. You're not a creep, after all, but he cuts such a lonely figure that you couldn't help but wonder if he needed some company. A part of you wonders if he's noticed you as well. This store is your late afternoon treat, after all. You come here every Friday, without fail, even when you know the inventory is unreplenished, simply to bask in the presence of books.

And then he started coming in regularly, and you had another reason to come.

You never approached him. Something about simply knowing he's there, while remaining a stranger, is thrilling. You can romanticize him if he's a stranger, project all the wholesome fantasies and book boyfriends you have upon him with no sense of accountability.

It also means you avoid the disappointment if he turns out to be another condescending know it all, eager to put you and your reading habits down because oh your tastes are so girly.

No, this was better. You're a flaneur, you tell yourself, you're here to be part of the space and observe from within, even though you doubt this is what Baudelaire had in mind when he wrote that essay and defined the term.

Still.

You smile to yourself, crouching down to check the books on the lower shelf, and also to catch a glimpse of his legs. He'd been on the other side of this shelf for the past five minutes, and you've gotten a soft chuckle when you saw his mismatched socks.

However, his lean form is nowhere to be seen. He seems to have moved to another aisle. With a small frown, you move to stand up, only to feel a tug.

“Shit,” a quick glance down reveals that a familiar looking shoe has accidentally stepped on your long skirt. You hadn't realized it billowed out around you when you knelt down.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!”

You look up and realize why the shoe looks familiar. It's him. You couldn't see him in the other aisle because he'd moved to your side, so silently you hadn't even heard him.

“Sorry, oh gosh, I didn’t notice.” He steps off quickly, and you watch as his cheeks bloom bright pink. A pink that quickly travels down his neck.

You stifle a laugh at how easily he blushed. “It's fine.” Your attempt to stand is more successful without his foot pinning the fabric of your skirt to the ground.

“I've messed up your skirt though.” He says, looking at the brown smudge left behind on the skirt.

“It's no big deal, it’ll come out.” You shrug, getting a good look at him this time. He's taller than you thought, with a sharp bone structure that's softened by large, hazel eyes and pouty lips. His hair is slicked back, curling at the nape of his neck, the color a soft brown that matches his eyes. Yeah, one of him should really come in every bookstore, you think.

“O-okay, uh, if you're sure…” He says, rubbing his hands on his pants. A nervous energy emanates from him, disrupting your idea that he's calm and tranquil.

Oh well, there goes that fantasy. Still, you wonder if maybe he's nervous because of you.

“I still feel bad though,” He adds, looking around, “Uh, how about I buy you a book for the inconvenience?”

“It's hardly an inconvenience,” You laugh, “But hey, I won't say no to a free book.”

He perks up, “Great. I'm Spencer, by the way.”

“Y/N. It's nice to meet you, Spencer.”

He repeats your name, and you find yourself enjoying the shape his mouth makes as he tests it out, lips and tongue wrapping around the syllables as if he wants to commit the way it feels in his memory.

You mentally kick yourself in the ass, wondering if you've read too many romance novels.

“Likewise,” He smiles, and you have to remind yourself that it's rude to stare at the lips of someone you just met. It's not your fault he has such pretty dimples, and you had the urge to count them. He continues, “So what kind of books do you like, Y/N? Romance?”

Your eyes narrow at that. You wonder how to answer. Yes? Would he judge you if you say yes? Is he one of those guys, the ones who only read heavy, intellectual books and look down on people who read fluff? Do you want to try and impress him by saying no, by scoffing and saying something like of course not I’m looking for a copy of Swann's Way by Marcel Proust? (which is the most “impressive” book you can think of at the moment). The idea seems too gross, too I'm not like other girls, and you immediately cross it out.

“And if I do?” you ask instead, surprised by the edge to your voice.

He blinks, then shrugs, looking entirely innocent. “Then we should head to the romance shelf over there.”

Once again, you're surprised. Some part of you had been expecting a smirk, maybe a roll of his eyes, that look you get when you even dare to bring up the romance genre. But, no. He starts walking to a different part of the store and you're forced to follow.

“Why did you think I read romance?” the words escape your lips before you can stop them.

He ducks behind a shelf, his hair falling down and hiding his face but you get a glimpse of the bright red skin of his neck. He's blushing again.

“Well, it's - ah - that is, I've noticed you here before, and you always seemed to hang out here in the romance section.” He says in a rush, his head still angled away from you.

You feel simultaneously called out, and a little giddy. So he's noticed you, just as much as you'd noticed him.

“So you're a stalker.” You can't help but tease.

He lets out a sound, somewhere between an indignant sputter and a scoff. “What? No! I just happen to be very observant, it's a skill I've learned to hone for my job, and you're not very hard to remember-” He cuts himself off, peeking at you with a horrified look on his face.

Laughter tumbles from your lips, and you clamp your teeth down your bottom lip to stop.

“I was teasing you.” You say, trying to fight the giggles.

He seems relieved, but the crease on his brow remains, a sign of his previous embarrassment.

“And you're right. The romance section has the biggest amount of secondhand books that I can read while I'm here.” You explain. This aisle also gives you the best view of the nonfiction section, which he frequents, therefore giving you the perfect spot to observe him over the past few weeks. Though you leave out that part.

“Ah,” He nods, looking around, “See anything you like?”

“No, I'm actually looking for a copy of The Hobbit right now.”

He lights up, “Oh, you're a fan of Tolkien too? I love him, he's such a genius and completely innovated the fantasy genre! So much so that he - wait, if you're looking for The Hobbit, why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“You just started walking.” You reply, smiling at him. He's adorable when he becomes so animated, hands waving around like his body can't contain his excitement and has to find ways to express them physically. “Had to follow you. But anyway, I'm assuming you've read The Hobbit?”

He accepts your explanation easily, then nods his head. You can't help but compare him to a puppy, so eager and nearly frantic in his excitement.

“I've read every Tolkien book.” He says, and you're surprised to find his voice contains no hint of superiority, or cockiness. Just genuine joy. It's refreshing, “Including The Silmarillion."

“Oh wow,” You laugh, aware of the reputation that tome carries, “I've only seen the Lord of The Rings movies.”

“Well that's not sufficient at all! You're missing out on so much history,” He says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Mhm, well help me find The Hobbit first, before I move on to the trilogy.” You reply, already walking over to where you know the fantasy books are.

He follows you, smiling bashfully, “You know, I have copies of all the books… I can just lend them to you, if you want.”

You pause, glancing over your shoulder in surprise. “You'd let a stranger borrow your books?”

“Only if you promise to take care of them.” He says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

“I swear on my life, I will not tarry your precious copies of Tolkien's masterpiece.” You make a cross over your heart for emphasis, which makes him laugh. This time, you stare at his lips shamelessly, enjoying the dimples that appeared from the action.

“Okay, maybe we meet up over coffee sometime?” he asks, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “I'll bring the books.”

You fight the urge to squeal. Your body refuses to contain the giddiness, and the sound compromises by coming out as a giggle.

“Yeah, sure.” you watch as he digs into his pocket, handing over a card. “Oh, how very professional.” You say playfully, accepting the slip of paper.

He ducks his head, and you see the beginnings of the blush creeping down his neck. It feels exhilarating, being able to make him blush like this.

“It's just more practical.” He mumbles.

You grab your phone quickly, typing in his number and giving it a call, so that your number goes through his as well. “I'll give you a call. But, you still owe me a book for this.” You motion at your skirt, at the stain of his footprint on the fabric.

He chuckles, “Of course. Can't go back on my promise.” he looks around the store and you're taken by the sight of him, looking like he's part of the space, like he simply belongs here. And this time, with you standing next to him, with him. “Take your pick.”

“I'm pretty indecisive.” You say playfully.

“I have time.” He smiles, and you find he has two dimples on one side of his face, and only one on the other. Your chest feels heavy with something that you can't quite put a name to yet, but you're eager for more of it.

[moonstruckme]

Hey Mae, you wrote a Spencer smut blurb a while ago about him helping reader speak up in the bedroom and at the end it mentions him using his handcuffs on reader. Just wondering if you would write a followup to that heheh 🌚

Thank you for requesting babe ;)

cw: smut mdni, bondage, slighttttt dom spencer but not really it's a collaborative effort haha

Spencer Reid x afab!reader ♡ 652 words

You make an involuntary whimpering sound. 

Spencer lifts his head to look at you. “You okay?” 

“Y…yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Very sure.” 

Your boyfriend’s look softens. “Okay. Try not to sound so distressed, please? It makes me think you’re not having fun.” 

“Sorry.” You want to tell him that you’re not having fun, but you are, really. The bite of metal into your wrists is a welcome, if frustrating, restraint. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, sweetheart,” Spencer assures you, voice turning slow as he lowers his lips back to your shoulder. The brush of his knuckles against your inner thigh is enough to make another whimper rise in your throat. 

The handcuffs were your idea. You don’t think bringing work into the bedroom would have ever crossed Spencer’s mind, but your stomach had flipped excitedly when he’d locked them over your wrists. He was careful not to make them too tight, told you to say something if they started to rub your skin wrong, but you sort of enjoy the pressure of them each time you tug against the bed frame. 

Spencer’s curiosity is just as fervid in the bedroom as it is out. He takes his time with you, cataloguing each movement and sound. Your breath hitches, and he tilts his head, an academic. Scientific fingers explore every curve and bend. 

You’re seeping arousal from between your folds before he even gets there. 

“Spence,” you plead.

“Hm?” 

“Can you just—” You can’t say it. You know Spencer appreciates plain language, but you can’t make yourself. You push your hips up, hoping he gets the hint. 

He does. He smiles, the asshole. “Can you be patient? I’m getting there.” 

“Today?” 

“Okay, fine.” Spencer laughs as he pushes two fingers into you, their path slick and easy. You gasp in surprise. “Is this what you want?” 

“Please.” 

“I told you I was getting to it.” His voice gentles. He touches his lips to the side of your throat, fingers moving slowly in and out of you. Curling. Gently, so gently. “You know you do better when we build up to it.” 

You almost miss the days when Spencer was still shy around you. When sex made him nervous, when he didn’t know your body quite so well or feel so confident in how to make you tick. 

He’s right, of course. 

“I’m—ahh…”

“Yeah, I know.” Spencer kisses the flat of your chest. Doubtless feeling your erratic heartbeat. “You never like it when it’s happening, but you’re happy afterward. You’ll thank me.” 

It’s not violent, your undoing; Spencer takes you apart gently, with careful fingers, and then swallows the cry that escapes you like it’s his favorite flavor. 

Your wrists are lined with agitated circlets when he pushes into you. You’re well worked open by then. Time is lost to you. You gasp and roll your hips, desperate to grab him, your fists curling around nothing. 

“Hey.” Spencer’s thumb presses over your pulse, a barrier between you and the cuff. “Relax. Be careful with yourself.” 

His lips are parted, pupils blown but eyes soft with concern. You love him. It’s not the first time you’ve thought it, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said it, but suddenly you feel it achingly, urgently, tearily. You love him you love him you love him. 

“Come here,” you beg him in as nice a voice as you can. 

Spencer listens, because he always listens to you, really, even when you’re all tied up and helpless and probably a little delirious. His mouth covers yours with reassuring warmth. 

“Still okay?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“Yes.” You press towards him, kissing his chin, his jaw, his sweaty cupid’s bow. “Oh my god, yes.” 

“Okay.” Spencer links his fingers through yours. Pushing you back, but staying close to you. You shudder at the contact. “We’re okay.” 

“Just stay here, please.” 

“Where do you think I would go?” 

[mariasont]

OKAY OKAY OKAY this might seem really simple but i love the simple stuff

spence x reader

spence is just yapping about whatever, the quantum mechanics of coffee beans, as you said in one of your posts i think, and reader just cuts him off by kissing him IN FRONT OF EVERYONE on the jet.. and everyone’s there like.. oh! im imagining he kisses reader like he kissed lila in that pool scene IM FERAL. yes he kisses back.. and then the rest of it’s just garcia being a squeaking happy person and hotch and morgan are like “that’s my boy” but rossi and jj are just gagged

please im like

Reid the Room - S.R

spencer reid has never met a bad time to discuss aviation disasters. and before your survival instincts can stop you, you're kissing him just to make it stop

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), secret relationship, pda, mild workplace inappropriateness lol, teasing/banter, spencer reid being spencer reid, mentions of plane crashes! wc: 0.9k

The words don’t just come from Spencer, they pour — fast and inevitable, like water rolling down slick stone, shaping everything in its path. You’ve spent months memorizing the subtleties of it, the tiny furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard, his fingers twitching mid-sentence, like even his body can’t quite keep pace with his brilliance.

He becomes more animated when he’s passionate. It should be illegal, you think, for someone to be this smart and this pretty at once. If the team ever noticed how intently you watched him, they’d know. They’d know everything. 

“— the likelihood of a plane crash is about one in 11 million, but what’s really fascinating is that 95.7% of people actually survive crashes, assuming they’re seated within the five rows of an emergency exit. Though, of course, the probability of surviving depends on factors like impact angle and —”

Morgan leans forward, bracing an arm against his knee, eyes locked on Spencer with the patience of a man debating the ethics of shutting someone up by violent force.“Hey, man, you ever hear of a bad time? We are currently on a plane. Read the room.”

For once, you don’t leap to his defense. No well-timed he’s just trying to educate us, Morgan, or an indulgent I think it’s interesting thrown in to buffer the onslaught. 

Instead, you glance at him, eyebrows lifting into something dangerously close to betrayal. Because, yeah. This might actually be one of those times. One of the Morgan is completely justified in wanting to tape Spencer’s mouth shut for the next four hours.

“I have heard of a bad time, but the concept is largely subjective. What you’re experiencing is cognitive bias, your brain associating this discussion with immediate danger because of proximity. In reality, the likelihood of a crash remains the same whether I mention it or not, so from a purely logical standpoint, this is no worse a time than any other.”

Morgan drags a hand down his face.

“...In fact, not talking about it could be considered the real danger. Avoidance leads to complacency, and complacency leads to fatal mistakes. Did you know that the most survivable crash positions involve bracing at a 60-degree angle? Although, of course, survivability depends largely on the structural integrity of the fuselage upon impact, and in cases of explosive decompression —”

It happens before you can think about — before the gnawing, frantic need to make him stop talking about plane crashes while you are actively inside one overrides all rational thought.

You turn, grab Spencer’s collar, and yank him in, your own common sense careening into a tailspin somewhere at 30,000 feet.

The moment your lips collide, Spencer’s entire body goes rigid, frozen mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-existence. His mouth is still forming a syllable that dies in a half-swallowed exhale against your tongue. His hands, previously conducting an invisible orchestra of statistical doom, trap in mid-air like he forgot what hands are.

But he catches up fast. One second he’s buffering and the next his fingers twitch — once, twice — and then lock onto your waist like he’s just decided physics no longer applies and you need to be closer. It starts semi-tentatively, inhaling against your lips, breath uneven, before he presses deeper. A lit match dropped straight into gasoline.

You pull back, breath coming fast, Spencer still leaning in like he isn’t done yet. “Anyway. What were you saying?”

Spencer stares, lips parted, pupils blown wide. For a second, he seems to genuinely try to answer, searching his mind for whatever deeply important fact he was so adamant about a minute ago. “...I don’t remember.”

The jet is quiet — too quiet — and that’s when it hits you. 

You kissed Spencer. In front of everyone.

Something cold and hot spreads through you, and suddenly, your limbs don’t seem to be operating under your jurisdiction anymore. Do something. Anything. Breathe. Blink. Move. But nope, your brain is still buffering, and Spencer – dear, sweet Spencer — looks just as dazed, which means absolutely no one is saving you from this.

You could just… not turn around. Avoid whatever is waiting for you. Live the rest of your life facing forward like a malfunctioning animatronic. But the weight of twelve pairs of eyes boring into your back is impossible to ignore.

So, with all the grace of a person walking into their own execution, you turn.

Garcia has both hands glued to her mouth, body vibrating like she’s one second away from either screeching at a frequency only dogs can hear or launching herself into the air like a bottle rocket. Her eyes are huge, pupils dilated. JJ, meanwhile, is just staring. Frozen, lips parting as if she wants to say something but has no idea where to start.

And then there’s Hotch.

You swallow hard as you meet his gaze, expecting some level of seriousness, some stern professional acknowledgment of the wildly inappropriate display that just took place — but instead, he just exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man who is simply too tired for this.

And then, breaking the tension with the ease of a wrecking ball, Morgan lets out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Damn. I knew there was something going on, but damn.”

After the initial shock wore off — and after Garcia had texted Emily a summary in all caps, Morgan had called you both a lost cause, and Rossi had actually applauded — things mostly went back to normal. Mostly. Except now Spencer absolutely knew what he was doing.

And later that night, as you sat beside Spencer on the couch, he turned to you, utterly serious, and murmured, “You know, in the U.S., the majority of residential break-ins occur between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. —” 

You groaned, yanked him in, and cut him off the same way you had earlier. He made a very pleased noise.

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

[hotchner-edu]

Eyes Don't Lie | Aaron Hotchner

Synopsis: The one where you think you’re being slick about your crush on Aaron (spoiler: you’re not.)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!sunshine!reader

Warnings: fluff, Aaron's arms, drinking

You remember it all too clearly, the day you got the highly coveted profiler position in the BAU. Not because you actually managed to get the job, that was secondary, but because the man who interviewed you was possibly the most gorgeous human you'd ever laid eyes on.

And now that very same man was your unit chief. Unbending in his resolve and ever self-assured, you stood absolutely no chance. You still had trouble recalling how you even answered the interview questions back then, only remembering how your mind spun the longer you stared at him.

When you joined the team, the overflowing abundance of joy and sunshine tying them together (thanks to one Penelope Garcia) seemed to fly into overdrive.

The team never let you forget just how much they adored your smiley nature, grateful for your constant comforting presence. Although they all absolutely loved Penelope, she was usually stationed back in her lair when the team had to fly to different places, and the effects of heavy cases weighed on them during those days.

That seemed to change when you were roped into the team, always keeping someone company and trying to alleviate their stress.

Never with Aaron though.

You seemed to malfunction every time he was alone with you, and that often led you to scurry off, your school girl crush festering deeper in your heart.

"Good morning, sunshine." Derek's voice meets your ears as he enters the precinct, dropping a kiss to the top of your head as he sits beside you.

"Good morning!" You chirp with a grin, sorting out the papers in front of you— all ransom notes that had been left by the unsub for his victims' parents. All starting with demands for hundreds of thousands of dollars, and all ending with half-buried bodies.

Derek glances at the papers for a moment before directing his attention to Spencer who was staring at the whiteboard in front of him. "Any luck with the geographical profile, Reid?"

"Working on it..." Spencer mumbles under his breath, the precursor to his flow state. Yeah, he would figure it out in no time.

Your attention is averted to the entrance of the meeting room when Emily strolls in with both her coffee and yours in her hands. "Early start today... again." She grumbles playfully and smiles as she hands you your cup.

"At least we all seem to be energized today." You smile brightly in gratitude, bringing the cup to your lips so you could blow on it.

Emily nods and plops down across from you. "Yeah, and it seems like our guy is in no rush." She huffs and frowns a bit as she addresses the three of you guys. "Lisa's parents haven't gotten a second ransom note yet."

Your eyebrows furrow at the news. Lisa Thomas was the unsub's latest victim, having been snatched almost three days prior.

"He's breaking pattern?" You ask in disbelief, frowning as you think.

"Or he's found what he was looking for." Aaron's smooth voice flows into the room and you instinctively stiffen up, posture suddenly pin-straight. "Good morning." He nods to all of you.

You miss the amused look Derek and Emily share as your eyes flicker to Aaron's figure as he strolls towards the table. He was in his usual suit, bringing his arm up to check his watch for a moment, the action drawing your gaze to his hands.

Your voice dies a little in your throat and Aaron's eyes find yours, softening a bit.

Emily swoops in and jumps off of his suggestion. "You think he's found the perfect opportunity from Lisa?"

Aaron debates this and spares a glance toward Spencer's motionless figure. "Her parents are the most affluent. It could be that he's planning out his next move to optimize monetary gain."

Still, that theory didn't seem right to you. It had to be something else. His ransom notes were vague, making steep demands that were undeniably impossible to meet in his given time window.

Besides, autopsy had told you all that he had killed the previous girls only hours after the ransom notes were estimated to have been delivered.

And then it hits you.

"He was practicing." You suddenly say, blushing sheepishly when you realize you said it louder than you intended.

Aaron looks back to you and gently asks, "Practicing?"

Willing every ounce of professionalism in your body to come together, you nod and glance toward Reid's map. "What if Lisa isn't just another one of his victims? What if she was the goal the entire time? He never intended on letting any of his previous captives live, that's why he never even went to pick up any ransom money that was offered."

Derek's eyes widen and he nods, the gears turning in his head. "Her background doesn't match his previous three victims then, but how?"

Spencer suddenly cuts in, having had an epiphany as he draws four circles around the map, three forming a triangle around the fourth circle. "Status. Lisa's family lives on the top of the estate hill."

"But the other three girls also came from wealthy backgrounds?" Emily asks, leaning forward in her seat.

"The hill is the status symbol... he's been targeting increasingly wealthy girls to test the limits, to see if he'd get caught." You say softly.

Reid nods and looks to you in an almost excited manner from the breakthrough. "We've been looking at this the wrong way. He's not trying to get ransom money, it's much more personal than that and he's trying to throw us off his trail."

"We need to interview the residents living at the bottom of the hill. Prentiss, pay the Thomas' another visit and ask them about anybody in their lives who they've casted aside that may have been personally involved with Lisa" Aaron says firmly, already reaching for his phone. He pauses before looking at you, face softening a bit. "Nice work."

Your eyes widen and you stutter out a surprised response. "I... thank you, sir."

Aaron looks like he wants to say something again, but he decides not to and spins on his heel to make some calls. Derek chuckles and shakes your shoulders. "Good job, sunshine. But you have got to stop making googly eyes at the boss man."

"I'm not making googly eyes!" You protest, ignoring your sweaty palms and racing heart.

Derek lifts his hands up in surrender, his smug grin unwavering. "Whatever you say."

It takes only half a day after your revelation to catch the unsub, a secret boyfriend of Lisa's who lived at the bottom of the hill. He had intended to take her and run away since her parents disapproved of their relationship, but he wasn't able to follow through with that plan because Lisa had found out about his penchant for murder and planned to turn him in.

"How scary." You sigh and frown a bit as the team packs up, ready to leave the precinct and get back on the jet.

"You're telling me. Killing innocent girls to try and hide your girlfriend's abduction is certainly..." Emily trails off with a flabbergasted look, not having a word to describe the situation.

"This is why I am never dating." You grumble, smiling when Emily gives you an eyebrow raise. "I mean it!"

"Sure, sweetheart. Don't think we forgot how you want to be Mrs. Unit Chief." Derek jokes, snickering as he slings his bag over his shoulder.

Emily nods in agreement and pats your arm fondly. "Steam practically erupts from your face whenever he's within a four feet radius of you, honey."

You gasp in denial and turn to Spencer. "Spence, I'm not like that, am I?"

Your friend perks up at the sudden question and blinks a couple of times. "Uhm... you kinda are." He says with a sheepish smile, hating to burst your bubble of delusion.

"Oh my god... I need a drink." You huff and sigh in defeat.

"Now that's something I can agree with." Derek chuckles and slings his arm around your shoulder. "Let's celebrate when we get back."

You throw your head back and sigh dramatically. "You guys totally suck by the way."

You try to avoid thinking of the matter in the coming days, becoming even more skittish around Aaron. Unbeknownst to you, your boss had long caught on to the crush you harbored for him, and was growing more impatient with your constant avoidance.

A week after you get back from the case, you're distracted by a sight in front of you that has you nearly drooling. Aaron is pacing in his office, blinds open, suit jacket off, with his arm muscles rippling as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves.

He's speaking into his phone, his signature frown painting his face.

Your chin is propped up against your hand as you watch him, a hint of wonder in your gaze as your paperwork is long forgotten about in front of you.

You're suddenly jolted out of your stupor when a pair of hands land on your shoulders. "What are we looking at, sunshine?" Derek's voice rings out by your ear as he follows your gaze with a chuckle. "That checks out."

"Here to torment me again, oh great one?" You joke and poke his ribs with your finger.

He shakes his head and moves his hand to rest on the back of your chair. "Maybe later. The team was planning on grabbing some drinks tonight, and you're coming."

"I have no say in this?" You ask and chuckle, smiling brightly at the prospect of having a fun night out with the team.

"Nope. Neither does the boss man." Derek grins mischievously as he glances towards Aaron's office.

Your eyes widen owlishly and you gape. "Wait, Hotch is coming too?"

He pats the back of your chair and smirks. "Yep! See you tonight, sweetheart. JJ's picking the place so make sure to check the groupchat." He says and walks off before you can get another word out.

Blinking slowly, your mind suddenly conjures up a mental image of your closet as you start debating on what to wear.

Meanwhile, across the bullpen, Hotch is speaking lowly into his phone as he suddenly feels very silly. "So?" He gruffly asks, eyes darting to his discarded jacket.

"What? You're telling me you couldn't feel the heart-shaped lasers coming your way?" Emily's voice rings out on the other side of the phone with an amused huff.

He sighs softly and frowns. He had no idea what the hell he was doing and why he even agreed to the the team's little scheme in the first place.

"Okay, I can hear you overthinking from here. Trust me, she was ogling you like no tomorrow. And she knows you're coming tonight, so wear something nice." She advises gently.

His frown deepens and he looks out of his office window and into the bullpen, seeing your frazzled figure deep in thought at your desk. "Yeah, like what?"

"You didn't hear this from me, but she likes your arms. Do what you will with that knowledge." Emily muses out lightly, recalling the time when you had practically gushed to her and JJ that Aaron wasn't in his suit for once when he came by to pick something up at his office.

Both her and JJ figured out pretty quickly that you were raving about it because of his exposed arms as you kept circling back to how muscular they looked.

Emily felt a bit guilty for tipping Hotch off about that, but she could ask for your forgiveness at a later date.

Later that night, you're contemplating faking a flat tire to get out of the get-together, but Aaron being the kind of person he is, would likely offer to come pick you up instead.

Seeing no escape, you decide to just toughen up and join in on the night of fun. You were dressing up a bit more than usual, and you decided to arrive fashionably late to avoid being paired off with your early-bird boss. You don't think you'd survive another embarrassing interaction with him.

It's a bit past nine by the time you arrive at the bar, most of your team already two shots of vodka deep. Waving at the group, you do a double take when you see Aaron sitting beside the only empty spot, sporting a navy polo shirt that hugged his biceps deliciously, two of the top buttons undone.

You pause in step for a second and nearly stumble into someone as your eyes are zeroed in on him. What the fuck was he wearing, and was he trying to kill you?

Regaining your bearings after a couple of seconds, you continue walking and smile softly.

"Hey guys..." You chuckle as Penelope gasps at the sight of you.

"Hot! Hot!" She squeals out and stands up, hugging you and looking at your outfit.

You smile brightly and shake your head. "Says you, beautiful! Also, are you already drunk?" You chuckle, knowing she could never pass up any kind of fruity margarita.

"Not yet! I was waiting for you!" She giggles excitedly and drags you closer to the table your team was occupying.

"Look who made it!" Derek calls out and grins, a half-empty glass of negroni in front of him.

You slowly shuffle toward the only vacant spot that was coincidentally beside Aaron, narrowing your eyes playfully at your beaming friend. "I knew you'd come kicking down my door if I didn't turn up."

Derek simply picks up his glass and cheers to your words, not even bothering to deny it. Shaking your head a bit, you place your bag in your lap and brave a glance at Aaron, plastering on a small smile when you meet his gaze.

"You look beautiful." Aaron says to you in a low voice, his entire attention focused on you.

"Oh, thank you, sir..." You say bashfully, eyes scanning his face and dropping down to the pink cocktail JJ's sliding to you with a subtle wink.

Aaron tilts his head a smidge and smiles at you fondly. "How many times have I told you that you can just call me Aaron? Or Hotch, at the very least."

"Oh, right. Sorry, Aaron." You say a bit shyly, taking a sip from the cocktail and praying no one takes notice of your shaky hand. "Uhm... I'm surprised you came out tonight."

Aaron leans his elbows on the table, keeping his head turned to face you. It was sinful the way his muscles were flexing, and you really couldn't escape the sight of the defined veins running down his forearms.

His large, calloused hands kept calling for your attention and you could only force yourself to look away from them when he responded to you.

"Well, I thought it would nice to celebrate a bit."

You nod at his explanation and gaze at him. "You... you look really nice." Your voice is soft and barely audible over the booming laughter and upbeat music echoing around the bar.

Aaron seems pleased by your words, his eyes twinkling as he chuckles and smiles almost boyishly. "Thank you, sweetheart."

Your entire face blossoms with warmth as you hear the pet name, mouth parting a bit in surprise as you try to muster up a response. Luckily, you're saved when Penelope loudly announces that everyone is doing a round of shots, leaving no room for argument.

The rest of the night is filled with endless laughter and tall glasses of colorful cocktails, leading Penelope and Derek to quickly get tipsy, hitting the dance floor together before you're even through with your first drink. You and Aaron decide to opt out of drinking too much, with the man being completely sober by the time midnight rolls around.

It's not long before you find that your entire team, save for Aaron, are scattered around somewhere in the bar. You glance at the man and find him already gazing at you, expression soft and adoring. It was clear that he was growing a bit weary the longer the night dragged on, and you couldn't understand why he was forcing himself to stay.

"Are you the designated driver?" You ask and smile kindly at him, knowing everyone else on the team would be sloshed by the time they had the sense to call it a night.

Aaron nods and he leans a bit closer to you, shoulders sagging tiredly. "Seems like it." He pauses before sighing almost bashfully. "To be honest, I lied to you earlier about why I came out tonight."

"Huh, why?" You ask and tilt your head, your heart racing a bit as he licks his lips nervously.

"Because... Well, the reason I decided to come tonight was because of you." He states quietly, eyes gazing at you fondly. "I'm tired of waiting."

You stay silent, eyes wide as you try to process his words.

"May I kiss you?" He finally whispers, eyes flickering from yours and down to your lips.

Without hesitating, you surge forward and lock your lips with his, hands resting against his firm chest. Aaron reciprocates immediately, one of his hands moving to your waist while the other rests against the back of your head, gently keeping you close.

Kissing Aaron feels magnetic, every movement flowing into something more intense as neither of you can help but draw closer to one another. His hand squeezes your waist as his nose nudges against yours, his lips relentless in their pursuit of yours.

When you finally pull back a little for air, you grow a bit shy as you see the string of saliva between you both.

"I like you." You whisper, hands rubbing against the material of his polo shirt.

He chuckles breathlessly and pulls you closer to him by your hip. "I like you too, honey." His arm wraps around you and your eyes close instinctively, feeling yourself becoming addicted to his lips already.

Neither of you see your team members cheering from across the bar as they see Aaron dive in for more kisses from you, movements akin to that of a starved man.

When they finally stumble back to the table a mere ten minutes later, no one says anything for a second as they all realize you're both long gone.

Emily groans softly and plops down in one of the chairs. "Did Hotch forget he was our ride home?"

Derek grunts and picks up a pink sticky note on the table, your penmanship a bit sloppy as if you had written on it in a rush.

'Called cabs for you guys! JJ, I called Will. Text us when you guys get home safely x'

[reiding-writing]

who needs a valentine when we have cold!reader and Spencer kissing on the 14th

𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

spencer thinks you’re too reckless sometimes. too impulsive. you don’t exactly prove him wrong.

s9!spencer x cold!reader ❅ 3.4k ❅ cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

A/N | and thus, the romance arc begins. the amount of requests for this is so funny 😭

The air is thick with tension as the team moves through the abandoned office, the only sounds the distant creak of shifting metal and the quiet shuffle of boots against concrete.

Flashlight beams slice through the dim light, illuminating dust swirling in the air. The unsub is here. You know it like you know the feeling of a storm coming—an electric charge beneath your skin, a pull in your gut.

Your grip on your gun is steady, but your pulse thrums with anticipation. You keep your breathing measured, sharp eyes scanning the shadowed corners of the room.

The others are moving carefully, methodically, sticking to protocol. Spencer had warned you earlier, voice low but insistent: “Please don’t take unnecessary risks. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

He worries too much. It’s something you’ve come to expect from him, but it gnaws at you differently than when others do it. With Spencer, it’s not condescending or dismissive—it’s genuine. He cares, and that unsettles you more than it should.

Which is exactly why you ignored him.

Movement flickers at the edge of your vision. A shadow slipping through a half-open door at the far end of the office space. Your instincts scream at you to move. To act. The others are too far behind; if you wait, the unsub could disappear.

You don’t hesitate.

“Going left,” you mutter into your comms, but you don’t stop to explain further. You slip through the doorway, gun raised, ignoring the sharp crackle of your earpiece as Spencer’s voice comes through.

"Wait— Don’t go in alone—”

But you’re already inside.

The room is colder than the rest of the building, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and something else—something sharper. It’s nearly pitch dark, the only light filtering in through a broken window near the ceiling. Your heartbeat is steady, controlled, but your muscles coil tight, ready to spring.

A shift. A whisper of movement.

Then—

Pain.

A white-hot sting tears through your side before you fully register what’s happened. Your breath hitches as you stumble back, your free hand instinctively pressing to your ribs. It comes away slick with blood.

Shit.

Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You fire—once, twice—and the gunshots are deafening in the enclosed space. The figure in front of you jerks and collapses, the dull thud of their body hitting the ground barely registering through the rush of blood in your ears.

The room tilts slightly. The pain sharpens. Your legs feel unsteady beneath you, but you grit your teeth and straighten, forcing yourself to stay upright.

Then—footsteps. Fast, urgent.

A second later, Spencer bursts into the room.

“Oh my god— We need a medic in here!”

His voice is tight, breathless, as he skids to a stop in front of you. His eyes, wide with panic, dart from your face to the growing stain on your shirt. And then he’s moving, closing the distance in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you before you can so much as protest.

His hands replace yours, pressing down on the wound, and you hiss at the sharp pressure.

“Jesus, Reid,” you bite out, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t budge.

“It’s fine,” you grit through clenched teeth, but even you can hear the slight tremor in your voice.

“Fine?” His voice cracks, his breath coming fast, like he’s been running. “You’re bleeding, and you—God, why would you go after him alone?”

You try to roll your eyes, but the action is weaker than you intend. “He’s down, isn’t he?”

Spencer lets out a sharp breath, and you catch the way his jaw clenches, the flicker of something dark and unreadable in his eyes. His fingers press harder against your side, grounding you, keeping you here.

“You could have died—” His voice is lower now, rougher, and it makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

You try to scoff, to deflect. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s not funny.”

You freeze.

His voice is raw. Unsteady. And when you meet his eyes, you see something there that you don’t want to see—something that makes the air between you feel too heavy, too charged.

You’ve seen Spencer worried before, but this is different. This is something deeper. Something dangerous.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

His hands are warm, firm but careful. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the slight tremor in his fingers despite the pressure he’s applying to your wound.

He’s afraid.

Not in the way most people would be. Not in the way someone fears losing a teammate.

It’s different with him.

And that realisation sends something cold through your chest.

You should push him away. Should tell him to back off, that you don’t need him fussing over you like this. But your head is light, and the pain is making you sluggish, and his hands are keeping you steady in a way that you don’t want to think too hard about.

So, for once, you don’t fight it.

Just for a moment.

Then, the rest of the team rushes in, and the fragile thing between you shatters.

—

The hotel room feels too small. Too bright. Too loud.

You shouldn’t be here—you should still be in the hospital, technically—but the second the doctor said you were stable enough for discharge, you signed the damn papers and got out of there.

You don’t do hospitals. They make you feel trapped, restless, like you’re waiting for something to go wrong. So you took the out, ignored the side-eye from the nurse, and made your way back to the hotel with nothing but a few high-grade painkillers and a warning to take it easy.

Right. Like that was going to happen.

Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, stiff and exhausted, you’re starting to regret it. Not because of the pain—you’ve had worse. Not because of the exhaustion—you can push through it.

But because Spencer won’t stop hovering.

He’s been like this since you walked through the door, tracking your every move with sharp, restless eyes. He won’t sit down, won’t even lean against the desk or the wall—he just stands there, pacing slightly, rubbing his fingers together in that nervous habit of his.

And worst of all? He hasn’t stopped talking.

"You can’t keep doing this,” he says again, voice tight. “One day, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank. Here we go.

“I’m fine,” you say, each word clipped and deliberate. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the point.”

There’s something sharp in his voice now, an edge you don’t hear often. Spencer doesn’t yell—not really—but this is worse. His frustration is controlled, simmering just under the surface, and it makes your skin prickle in a way you don’t like.

“The point,” he continues, stepping closer, hands moving in short, tense gestures, “is that you ran into a room alone, without backup, without knowing what you were up against—”

“I knew enough,” you cut in, irritation flaring.

Spencer lets out a short, incredulous laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Enough? Enough that you got stabbed?”

His voice rises slightly at the end, and you swear there’s something like desperation in it.

You exhale through your nose, gripping the edge of the bed. Breathe. Keep your cool. You don’t want to fight with him.

Except, maybe you do.

Maybe it would be easier to push him away, to make him angry enough to stop looking at you like that—like you matter too much. Like you scared him.

“I got nicked.” you say, your voice flat. “That’s part of the job, Reid. We all take risks.”

“This wasn’t just a risk,” he snaps, eyes flashing with something dangerously close to anger. “It was reckless.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re not my minder, Reid.”

His jaw tightens. His whole body goes tense, like he’s holding something back.

“Then stop making me feel like I have to be—”

The words hit you harder than the knife had.

You inhale sharply, but he doesn’t give you a chance to recover.

“Do you even realise how bad it could have been?” he presses, voice lower now, but no less intense. “How bad it was?”

You clench your jaw.

“I know exactly how bad it was,” you say, quieter now, your voice cold. “I was there.”

But he won’t let it go.

He keeps talking, keeps pushing, listing every single thing that could have gone wrong, every possible outcome that ends with you bleeding out on the floor, and it’s too much.

You can’t breathe past the weight of it.

It’s overwhelming—the concern, the intensity, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile. Like you’re something he can’t lose.

Like you matter.

You don’t want to hear it.

You just want him to stop.

But he just keeps talking.

His voice is insistent, sharp with frustration but frayed at the edges with something softer, something worse. He’s listing probabilities now, rattling off numbers and percentages like they’re supposed to mean something to you.

Like hearing that there was a 42.7% chance of you bleeding out before medics arrived is going to make you rethink everything.

But it’s not the numbers that get to you.

It’s him.

It’s the way his voice wavers, just slightly, like he’s fighting to keep it steady. The way his hands won’t stay still, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. The way his eyes are burning into you, dark and unreadable, except for one thing:

He’s scared.

And you don’t know how to handle that.

The worry in his expression is like a weight on your chest, pressing down hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. It’s too much—his voice, his eyes, the intensity of it all. He won’t stop talking, won’t stop pushing, won’t stop caring—

And you can’t take another second of it.

So you do the one thing that will shut him up.

You kiss him.

It happens so fast, you don’t have time to process it. One second, he’s standing in front of you, mid-sentence, his mouth forming words you don’t want to hear, and then your hands are gripping his face, and your lips are on his, and—

Everything stops.

Spencer goes completely still. Not just still—frozen. His breath catches, his entire body tensing like he’s just been short-circuited.

For the first time since this whole damn argument started, there’s silence.

No words. No numbers. No probabilities.

Just you. And him. And the space where your lips meet.

For a fleeting, desperate second, you think it might actually work. That maybe this is enough to make it stop.

Then, the weight of what you just did slams into you.

Your breath stutters as reality crashes down around you, as you realise that the heat of his skin is real, that his hands have curled slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

You pull back abruptly, your fingers slipping from his jaw as you take a step back, your heart hammering against your ribs.

But Spencer doesn’t move.

He just—stares.

Wide-eyed. Breath uneven. Lips parted like he’s trying to form words but can’t quite find them.

Like he doesn’t quite believe it happened.

And the worst part?

You don’t know what the hell to do next.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, too loud in your ears, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to retreat, to put the walls back up and pretend nothing happened. Pretend it was just some mistake, some impulsive thing you did in the heat of the moment.

It was just a kiss, right?

That’s what you’ll tell yourself. That’s what you have to tell yourself.

Your fingers tremble as you step back, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You can already feel the walls sliding back into place, the emotional armour rising to shield you from whatever this is. From the mess you just created.

You weren’t supposed to care this much about Spencer. You weren’t supposed to let yourself get wrapped up in him—not when your instincts always screamed at you to push people away, to keep things simple, to keep yourself safe. But now, standing here in the wake of your impulsive decision, you feel anything but safe.

And that terrifies you.

But before you can finish shoving the walls back up, before you can even start to deflect or pretend it didn’t mean anything—he moves.

It’s almost too fast, a blur of motion that catches you off guard. One second, you’re standing there, heart still hammering, and the next, Spencer is right there in front of you, his hands gently cupping your face, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that pins you to the spot.

You barely have time to think before he closes the distance again and kisses you—again.

But this time, it’s different.

This kiss is slow, deliberate. It’s not impulsive, not reactionary, not a desperate attempt to silence the chaos between you.

This time, it’s a choice. His choice.

His lips move against yours with purpose, as though he’s trying to tell you something with every brush of his mouth, something he couldn’t say before. Something you’re too scared to hear.

And for a second, you want to pull away. You want to tell him this was a mistake, that you don’t have time for this, for the complication, for the mess that’s swirling between you both. But your body won’t listen to your mind. It won’t let you run this time.

Instead, you lean into it.

You let your hands reach for him, sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens, and you realise with a sinking feeling that you’re not pulling away because you don’t want this—you’re pulling away because you do.

Because you knew. You knew this was inevitable.

This moment, this connection, this tension between you both that’s been building for so long, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in every glance, in every touch that lingered a second too long.

You’ve both ignored it, buried it under layers of professional distance, under the constant chatter and the mission-driven focus that keeps you moving forward.

But it doesn’t work anymore.

You can’t ignore it anymore.

And as his lips press against yours, as you finally, fully allow yourself to feel what’s been there all along, you realise that there’s no going back from this.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath as you separate, suspended in the space between you both. Neither of you speaks for a long, heavy moment.

There’s a tension now, a thick, unspoken understanding that pulses between you, a thread that has always been there, but now it’s too palpable to ignore. You can’t pretend like it’s not there anymore.

His hands are still on you, a soft warmth, but not quite enough to distract from the fire that lingers in the air. His fingertips hover at your waist, just shy of touching, as though he’s afraid if he holds you too tightly, something will break—something more than the fragile tension that’s just been shattered.

You’re still so close. So close to something you’re not sure you can name.

You pull away slowly, reluctantly, when your body reminds you of the injury. It’s a sharp, jarring pain—nothing too severe, but enough to make your muscles protest, enough to make you wince and break the moment.

You’re trying to hide it, but the slight catch in your breath gives you away. Spencer’s gaze sharpens immediately, eyes flicking down to your side, where the bandage is just barely visible under your shirt.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice quieter now, as if he’s finally realising the full weight of the situation. His hand moves to your elbow, guiding you carefully down to the bed, but not without a lingering touch. His fingers brush against your skin just a little too long, a quiet caress that makes your pulse spike again.

You sit down with a soft sigh, the sharp throb in your side a welcome distraction from the mess of feelings still swirling inside you. You try to focus on your breathing, but Spencer is still standing there, just a few inches away, looking at you like you’ve just cracked the universe wide open.

Your eyes meet, and his expression is a mix of something you can’t quite place—concern, sure, but there’s something else there. Something that burns hotter, deeper, just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to do something. Maybe waiting for you to tell him this was a mistake, or to push him away again, or to tell him it didn’t mean anything.

But you don’t say anything. Neither of you do.

And then, as if testing the weight of the silence between you, he speaks your name—just your name, soft and careful, like he’s unsure of how to even say it after everything that’s happened.

It’s barely a whisper, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he says it too loudly. Or maybe he’s just unsure of what to do with the name now that it’s hanging in the air, heavy with the implications of everything you’ve just shared.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself. The walls you’d worked so hard to put up feel like they’ve crumbled, but you’re too proud—or too scared—to admit it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, as though trying to gauge how much of you is still the same, how much has shifted.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you look at him, at the softness in his expression, the way he’s waiting for you to tell him what happens next. And in that moment, it’s impossible to pretend this didn’t happen, that things are just fine, that the walls you’ve so carefully built around yourself are still in place.

Because they’re not.

This—whatever this is—is real. And it’s not going away.

So you exhale, steadying yourself, and look back at him, finally allowing yourself to face what’s there between you. “Yeah,” you say, voice quiet, but steady. “I’m okay, I’m fine—”

But whatever happens next, there’s one thing you know for sure:

You can’t pretend this didn’t happen.

Not when everything between you has shifted so suddenly, so irrevocably. Not when you’re feeling more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life, and the weight of Spencer’s gaze is both comforting and terrifying.

“I think I need to lie down,”

“Yeah—” Spencer nods a little too quickly, hesitating before helping you under the sheets. “Yeah of course, I’ll uh— come and check on you in a few hours,”

You press your lips together, the phantom sensation of his still present. “Thanks,”