#SPENCER REID FANFIC

[mggslover]

MORE TO LOVE

In which Spencer proves to you how much he loves your big breasts.

pairing spencer reid x gf!reader genre smut (18+) cw reader has big breasts and is insecure bc of porn standards, just 6k words of tit worship: tit play, tit sucking, tit fucking. lots of teasing, oral (f receiving), p in v, cum play, creampie, reader wears a dress and lingerie, spencer is clingy and horny, spencer and reader are slightly tipsy, soft!dom!spence wc 6,3k a/n for my big tit girls <3 i hope someone can relate to this, and if you don't, i hope you can still enjoy! thank u lovely @esote-rika for proofreading

Everyone who’s had the honor of meeting Spencer Reid in an informal setting is aware of the fact that he isn’t a drinker. You’d score an indefinite amount of points in his book if you have something besides alcohol to offer. And Spencer isn’t picky — some trail mix in a bowl works as a good enough replacement. 

So, being surprised was an understatement when Spencer suggested coming to the bar where you were having drinks with your friends. The case he was on got wrapped up quicker than anticipated. He was about to walk to your apartment to spend the night with you when he remembered you were out with friends. 

It was the plan to pick you up and walk you home, making some light conversation with your friends while he was at it (for the amount of months you’d been dating, he should invest more time in getting to know the people who are close to you). He hadn’t planned on drinking, even surprising himself when he downed the two shots of liquor that one of your friends handed him. But he had no choice. Not when he walked into the bar and noticed you dancing in the crowd. Not when you were wearing that tiny black dress that was on his mind ever since he’d found it in your closet. Not when you turned around, your eyes twinkling and a bright smile tugging at your lips when you noticed him. And certainly not when his gaze had lowered and landed on the cleavage that was close to spilling out of your dress. He truly needed the liquid courage to get through the night. 

Now, standing on the corner outside of the bar, waiting for an Uber, you didn’t even notice the cold of the night as your body buzzed with the warmth of alcohol in your system combined with Spencer’s touches. He stood close to you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he pressed gentle kisses to the curve of your neck — acting uncharacteristically clingy now that there’s alcohol in his system. 

“So this is the real reason why you don’t drink, huh?” You ask Spencer in a chuckle, feigning annoyance while actually feeling very flattered by his sudden clinginess, which he rarely displays when sober. 

“You’re just so pretty.” He says in a lack of a better explanation. 

He had his palm placed flat on your stomach, the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. He squeezed the soft skin before his hand moved up your body at a concerningly fast speed.

“Hey there, mister,” you say in a playful warning, placing your hand on top of his to stop him in his tracks. “We’re still in public. Remember?”

He grumbled some incoherent words as his fingers toyed with the underwire of your bra.  “I like this dress.”

You smile, a flush creeping up your neck, glad he can’t see how much you’re enjoying this. “Yeah?” 

He hums in confirmation. “I’d like it even better off of you.”

The flush has now found its way to your cheeks, heating your skin as your heartbeat raced.

He presses a kiss to your jawline. “Bet you’d look so pretty.”

Your cheeks were on fire at this point. The butterflies in your stomach set free. 

“Want to see you naked.”

Then, everything comes to a halt.

“N-naked?”

He nods against your neck, his soft curls nuzzling you. 

Spencer doesn’t notice the way you tense up. To be fair, he’s not noticing any of his surroundings, completely focused on the way you feel in his grasp. 

His statement wasn’t weird. It shouldn’t have thrown you off like it did. He’s been your boyfriend for over three months — nearing the four-month mark — and you’ve had sex a lot of times. Still, he has never seen you naked. At least, not completely. 

All the times you’d had sex, you kept your bra on. They were cute bras, sexy lingerie sets that had cost you a fortune — specifically because the bra sizes you were looking for were like trying to find a signed limited edition of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. (You spoke from experience, having fought everyone on the internet to get a copy for Spencer’s birthday). All this effort was to hide one thing, well, two things really: your breasts. And it worked. Spencer was always hypnotized the second you took your top off. He had asked before if he could take your bra off, but when you rationally responded with, “It was so expensive, it would be a waste to take it off,” he always agreed, cupping your tits through the lacy fabric and forgetting why he ever complained. 

This is a good example that shows how considerate Spencer is. He’d let the subject slide with every weak excuse you made, never asking any prying questions. You knew it didn’t make sense to think Spencer would be turned off by the way your breasts look without a bra. He is obsessed with them covered, let alone when they’re not, your friends had told you. Still, doubt gnawed at you. He was a man. Men watch porn. You knew of his exes, how they have a different body type from yours. You were just afraid you’d shatter the illusion — that he’d be disappointed when he found out that your breasts aren’t as perky without support, how your nipples aren't placed symmetrically in the middle, how stretch marks covered the skin. 

“Are you alright?”

Spencer’s voice rattles you out of your thoughts. You swallow. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The knuckle of his index finger tilts your chin, coercing you to look at him. His eyes looked sweet — a little tired, very lustful, but sweet nonetheless. 

“I love you. You know that, right?”

Three simple words, and still it felt like a large weight fell off your shoulders, allowing you to breathe again. “I know,” you respond with a nod, reaching out to cup his jaw. Your thumb grazes his light stubble, then gently brushes against the hidden scar underneath his chin. 

“I love you,” you say back.

The intimate moment is of short duration. Spencer tilts his head, then raises his hand to signal to the Uber, who just drives into the street. 

You mumble a soft thanks as Spencer holds the door open for you. You crawl into the backseat, and he follows behind you, clicking his seatbelt on and giving the driver the address to your home.

“Driver, roll up the partition, please,” you sing under your breath as the Uber driver does so.

“Beyoncé?”

You gasp, placing a hand on your heart to emphasize your surprise. “Wow, I’ve taught you so much.”

“You teach me lots of things,” he says with a goofy grin. 

And he meant it. You did teach the all-knowing genius quite a lot. Whether you’d consider sharing your excessive pop-culture knowledge as impressive as the facts he rambled about was questionable. But the information was useful, nonetheless. 

His eyes flicker from the driver back to you, saying his next words just loud enough for you to hear. “I don’t think it would be a smart idea if you were to get on your knees, though.”

Your lips curl, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth. His comment is a reference to the song; still you could tell there was a slight invitation behind his words. 

“You don’t think so?” You tease.

He scootches forward in his seat. His eyes roam over your body, halting on your cleavage, then move up to your pouty lips.

“It’s a pretty cramped space,” he settles on saying, his voice hoarse. “Not even mentioning the fact that partitions are made of polycarbonate — which does absorb up to 34 decibels on average, but that’s not enough for you.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Not enough for me?”

He places a hand on your bare knee, thumbing the skin. “You’re pretty loud,” he recalls, his eyes finding yours. 

You chuckle, your gaze falling down to his hand, which was slowly creeping its way up your thigh. His fingertips were digging into the muscle, massaging it with care. The act is enough to turn you on, though you were already turned on by the kisses that he had left on your neck earlier. The memory is still vivid in your mind. 

“It’s not fair to blame it on me,” you tell Spencer. “You’re the reason for making me scream.”

He breaks eye contact, but not before you could catch the sparkle in his dark irises. He was trying to hold himself together; you could tell. He licks his lips, tucking a loose curl of hair behind his ear, before leaning in. His shoulder brushes against yours, his hot breath leaving goosebumps as his mouth traces the shell of your ear.

“Will you scream again for me tonight?” 

-`♡´-

Spencer’s kisses were all tongue, holding your jaw as he claimed you. There was no fight for dominance — you had surrendered the second he had closed the front door behind you. You had kicked your heels off at the same speed as he had thrown his blazer and tie on the ground. 

Large palms grip your face, connecting his lips back to yours as you blindly stumble through the living room in search of your bedroom. You know you’ve reached your destination as the back of your knees hit the mattress. 

Spencer pulls back. A deep exhale leaves his lips, caressing your cheek with the knuckles of his hand. “So beautiful,” he whispers, taking you in. 

You pull him back in by his collar, kissing him fervently. The lace of your underwear is bundled up between your folds, the material completely soaked. You roll your hips, moaning against Spencer’s mouth because of the slight friction it causes. 

Spencer notices what you’re doing. What you need. He grabs your ass, pulling you flush against him in a swift motion. Another moan escapes your throat as he locks his leg in between yours. Your dress rides up and he sees it as an invitation, rubbing his knee against where you need him most.

You let out a cry, the first one of the night.  

Spencer’s hands make way under the thin straps of your dress, pulling them down your arms, making your skin ignite. He pulls the dress down lower in a slight struggle as he tugs the fabric over your chest. Finally he frees your breasts, still covered with the lacy bra you’re wearing, but visible enough for his mouth to water. 

He pinches your nipples between both of his thumbs and index fingers, making your eyes roll back. “So needy, aren’t you, angel?”

His question isn’t meant to sound condescending — quite the opposite, actually. Still, you feel like he’s enjoying the way you’re all glossy-eyed and fawn-legged, feeling like you can come undone by the slightest of his touches. 

He continues stripping you down, revealing you inch by inch until the dress you had so carefully picked out in the evening is now pooled at your feet. 

Spencer gently presses you on the mattress, pushing your knees open as he takes place on the ground in between your legs. 

He hooks his hands behind your knees, scooting you a bit forward. His hands trail to your inner thighs, making you gasp as his fingertips dance over your skin ever so slowly. 

His touch was a delicious tickle, not one that you wanted to scratch, but one that you wanted to last forever. The heat in your core builds with every swipe of his digits. Your chest is heaving, his fingers so close to your throbbing pussy. 

“These are so damp,” he observes, curving his finger around the string of your underwear. “Think we should take these off, hm?”

A breathy moan leaves your lips. 

Spencer looks up at you, head cocking. He’s waiting for you to answer. You nod your head, hands gripping the bed sheets. “Yes. Want them off.”

He’s satisfied with your response, propping the material to the side to reveal your glistening cunt.

“God, you’re perfect.” He praises in awe. 

Perfect. 

You blink the thought away. There was no room for your anxieties as his tongue made contact with your pussy. You gasp, clenching your stomach and squirming forward, hands immediately finding their way into his hair. 

He uses the flat of his tongue to lick stripes up your folds, then uses the tip of his tongue to add pressure with every swipe against your clit. 

“Tastes so sweet,” he says, letting go of your swollen clit with a pop. 

You’re balancing yourself on the palms of your hands, back arched and head thrown back, giving yourself over to the pleasure. A rough hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh. His curls disappear between your legs again. Then that same rough hand… but now around your breast. 

You didn’t notice anything at first — too caught up in the buzz of his hands and mouth on you. That was until he pulled the cup of your bra down, your breast spilling free.

“Spence!” You squeal. 

The sound could pass as a moan to anyone else, but Spencer knows the way you sound. His hands drop from your body, mouth pulling away, leaving you empty but giving you enough time to quickly cover yourself up. His pretty face is etched with confusion. “What is it?” 

“You pulled my bra down.”

“Did I break it?”

You didn’t even think of that. You turn your head to your collarbone, then pull on the strap. “No. It’s fine.”

“Then what’s wrong?” He repeats, golden-speckled eyes blinking up at you. “I told you that I can buy you some new brassières. I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that, Spencer,” you sigh. 

It isn’t fair to get irritated by him. The first step to a good relationship is communication — it’s a sentence you’ve become sick of with the amount of times you hear it, but that doesn’t make it less true.

“Do you…” you’ve now started your sentence. There’s no going back. “You… You like my boobs. Right?”

It’s like watching a mime; the way his eyes widen in surprise, then the wheels in his mind seem to turn, his eyes narrow, and a frown line forms between them. 

“Of course I do,” he says, standing up from his spot in between your legs. 

You’re scared that you’ve ruined it. That the mood is gone now that he’s aware there’s something keeping your mind busy. 

“I thought it was clear how much I like your breasts,” he assures, gently helping you up by your wrists and pulling you into a hug. His arms make you feel more covered, less vulnerable, because he’s still wearing a button-up and pants, while you’re merely clothed in your flimsy lingerie, wetness still coating your inner thighs. 

He presses a kiss to your hair. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I don’t like them.”

You still need to get used to being in a relationship with someone so emotionally mature. He truly had nothing to apologize for. It’s the voices in your head that tell you that he doesn’t like them. He’s never given you any reason to doubt yourself. 

“You haven’t, Spence. I swear. I’m just-“ you’re glad you’re talking to his chest right now, not having to face him as the next words leave your lips. “I’m scared you won’t like them anymore once you see them… bare. They don’t look the same as when I’m wearing a bra.” 

You can feel his slight chuckle reverberating from his chest. “I don’t look the same without clothes on either.”

Yes, he looks even better. His clothes hide the muscles in his arms, the thickness of his thighs, the soft flesh of his tummy. 

“They just… you know. Sag a bit.” You whisper the last words, feeling like you’ve just admitted to a foul crime. The room stays silent, and his hold on you lessens.

He pulls back enough to see your face, a playful glint still shimmering in his eyes. “I have three PhD's, one of them being in physics, and you don’t think I know how gravity works?”

Well, you weren’t expecting that answer.

“I know it’s natural and all,” you shrug. “They just don’t look like they do in porn. I felt like I needed to warn you.”

He cups your face, making you look at him; a sweet smile lingers on his lips. “If I wanted a pornstar,” the word sounded foreign on his lips, “I wouldn’t be here right now. I want you. All of you.”

You nuzzle your face into the warmth of his palm. Words were just words, but you’d never find out if he meant them if you didn’t give him a chance. You swallow, gathering courage as you take a step back, just enough room for him to fully observe you, his tall figure standing over you. 

Your fingers make their way to your back, trying to ignore their shaking as you reach the clasp of your bra. You maintain eye contact with Spencer, trying to see if he’d change his mind, but so far his hazel eyes are just filled with anticipation and need.

You take in a deep breath, then undo all three clasps at once, ripping the band-aid off. The relief is immediate, certain that there’d be marks on your skin because of the biting underwire. 

Spencer’s jaw slackens. His irises grow with every inch of skin that reveals as you pull the cups down. Then — in a quick move of your hand — you fully remove the bra from your body. 

“Jesus,” Spencer says breathlessly. 

Anxiety flashes through you like a sudden strike of lightning. Your hands reach out to cover yourself up. “I shouldn’t have-“

Warm hands lock around your wrists, gently pulling them away. “I didn’t even imagine you could look this beautiful.” 

His voice was tinged with complete adoration as he took you in. Your mind had to do a double take to signal to you that you’ve heard him properly. Beautiful. 

You play with your hands, squeezing the tips of your fingers to keep yourself from hiding the curves that were on display. “You don’t have to say that.”

He took a step forward, his fingers knitting through yours. “I’m not just saying it,” he guides your intertwined hands to his pants; your breath catches as you notice the outline of his cock bulging through the fabric. He places your hands on his cock, squeezing your fingers around his length. A breathy ah escapes his mouth, his head slightly thrown back as you start moving your hands on your own accord.

“This is all for you. This is what you do to me,” his voice rasps. 

Your thumb moves to his tip, circling the sensitive spot until you see a wet patch forming. Spencer’s hips stutter, bucking into your touch. “Let me prove to you how much I love you. Please, angel.”

His plea was one out of pure desperation. Not only was he dying to touch you, but it had been several hours since he’d first seen you in that dress. Several hours of fighting the urge to bury his cock deep inside of you. 

“I need you so bad, Spence,” you mumble back, nails grazing his clothed cock. 

A loud moan escapes from his throat. He doesn’t waste any time, holding you by your waist and letting the two of you fall onto the bed. You squeal, your tits bouncing from the effort. 

“God, look at you,” he groans, making way in between your legs as you lay down. Your breasts have fallen to the sides of your body, framing you deliciously. Spencer leans in, teasing you as he licks a wet stripe right up your breastbone, curls tickling your pillowy curves, but not yet touching them. 

He swallows your whiny moans by kissing you. His tongue hastily meets yours. He can’t help but grind himself against the softness of your inner thigh, seeking relief as his arousal continues to grow. 

Your mind is spinning. The contrast between his fully clothed body and your naked, vulnerable state is stark. His strong hands grip your delicate face as he kisses you deeper. 

With a catch for breath, Spencer pulls back. His dick twitches as he looks at you — eyes full of desire, pouty swollen lips, hard nipples begging to be touched, and your pussy glistening, ready for him to use. 

“You drive me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”

You reach out to let your hands roam over his chest, pulling on the collar of his shirt. “Please, take it off.”

He nods, making a quick effort to take his shirt off, throwing it haphazardly to the ground. With slightly shaky legs, he gets to his knees on the bed, hands fumbling with his belt, too busy staring at you.

You can’t escape the moan that leaves your lips as you see the first dusty brown hairs appear on his pubic bone. He pulls his pants down lower, revealing the thick shaft of his throbbing cock. You’re not even aware of your own hand sliding down your body, gasping as your middle finger touches your swollen clit, the feeling electrifying.

“Getting yourself off just by looking at me? I thought that was my job.”

His slacks and boxers fall to his knees, his cock slapping up against his abdomen. You felt almost guilty for teasing him this long — his tip was just as red as his rosy lips, leaking shiny precum. And his cum-filled balls stood strained, like he could bust at any moment. Your middle finger slips into your warm pussy easily, eyes rolling back as you curve your knuckle, hitting that delicious spot hidden inside of you. 

Spencer takes his pants completely off, then grabs your wrist, pulling your finger out swiftly, the motion making a sloppy, wet sound. You whine, bucking your hips up in the air. He moves your hand to his mouth, connecting his lips around your wet finger as he sucks on the digit.

He swirled his tongue, collecting all of your sweet juices and moaning in appreciation. “You can wait a little longer,” he purrs as he pops your finger out of his mouth. 

All you want to do is touch yourself again, especially now that that finger has been in his pretty mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance as he holds your wrists together, locking them above your head. 

“You can’t show me your beautiful body and then expect me not to worship it,” he softly breathes, leaning in, his lips ghosting your cheek. 

You wiggle in his grasp, making him squeeze his fingers around your wrist. “Be good for me and keep your hands up like this, okay?”

You could say no. Could decline his proposal and have his cock pounding into your aching pussy with just one word. But where would the fun be in that?

“Okay,” you nodded, anticipation bubbling in your core. 

Spencer let go of your hands, and as promised, you intertwined your own fingers, keeping them in place above your head. For a second he just looked at you, taking you in and not knowing where to start. Like a feast that looked delicious from head to toe. But he was the only guest, so he could take his sweet time savoring all of you.

He eventually made his decision. His thumbs and pointer fingers each cupped a breast from the side, then lifted them up so they pressed perfectly against each other.  

A groan left his throat as he bounced them, tongue darting out as he played with your tits in an adorable fascination. “Is this okay?”

You hum, a soft smile lingering on your face. “Yeah, you can be rougher; I won’t break.”

He displayed his fingers over your breasts, experimentally starting to massage the pillowy, plump skin like he’d do with your thighs. Your nipples hardened under his touch, inducing a moan from the both of you. 

His thumbs swiped over your buds synchronously, causing you to whimper. His brows rose lightly, the same look he’d have every time he’d have an epiphany; he then pinched your nipples, slightly turning them as he pulled. Your back arched on the bed, accompanied by a heavenly sounding moan. 

“So sensitive, aren’t you?” He muses. “My poor girl, depraved herself for so long.” 

You could only cry, begging for more. 

“That won’t happen again,” he gently reassures, thumbing your nipples, sending electrifying sparks to your clit. “I’ll make sure to give them all the attention they deserve, hm?”

You hastily nod in agreement, your voice a soft whimper. “Please.”

He leaned down, settling in between your legs, hissing when his cock grazed against your soft inner thigh. 

“Can’t wait to taste you,” he whispered, breath fanning your sensitive skin. He stuck his tongue out, and you couldn’t wait to experience how he’d feel lapping on your tits, if it were to feel just as incredible as having his tongue on your pussy.

Your question was quickly confirmed as he licked a wet stripe over the bud. The cool air that followed formed goosebumps on the skin. He cupped your breast tightly in his hand, leaning in again to repeat the motion, then again, until the bud glimmered under the bedroom light. He squeezed your other tit, making sure to give that one the same amount of attention as he swirled his tongue around the same bud. 

The only sounds that filled the space were your longing moans and the smooching of his kisses. You lay still, hands kept patiently up as you let him use you like a canvas, painting your skin with gentle strokes of his tongue.  

It was after a few more teasing licks that he closed his lips around the bud, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. You gasped, not being able to help yourself as your hands shot to his hair. He didn’t mind though, moaning around you as you tugged on the locks. He let go of your nipple, placing featherlight kisses and sucks on your chest before finding his way to your other breast, connecting his lips to it. The feeling was so dizzying, and you swore that you could come by just a single tap to your clit. 

He opened his eyes to look at you, blown wide pupils locking with yours as he continued to suck. His eyebrows were scrunched as if he was waiting for you to tell him that he was doing a good job, that he was pleasing you. 

“God, you look so beautiful,” you say in a moan. “Make me feel so good.” His eyes twinkled at the compliment, and he grinded his length against your leg as if to say the sentiment was mutual. 

He released your nipple from his mouth, hoisting himself up to press a kiss to your lips. His tongue moved around yours in the same way as it had done to your body just a moment ago. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” kiss, “can’t get enough of you,” another kiss, “need more.” 

An idea sparked in the back of your mind. It was something you’d never tried before, not with anyone, but you could imagine it feeling good. He has fucked your thighs before. Your mouth. Your pussy. The only thing that was missing was—

“Do you want to fuck my tits?”

“Oh God, yes,” Spencer instantly groaned in response. You giggled as he made quick work of moving up the bed, placing a knee on either side of your upper body. His hard cock was just inches away from you; a string of precum coated his tip, dripping onto you. You reached out, finger gathering the sticky essence before suckling on the digit.

Spencer’s hips twitched, releasing another thick drop of precum. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Why?” You teased, proudly showing your clean finger. 

He groaned, both in frustration and longing. “Because I will come all over you before I’ve even fucked you.”

You laugh, turning him on even more without it being on purpose. You placed your hands flat against your tits, squeezing them together invitingly. “Come on, then.”

Spencer grips himself by the base, tapping his tip against your soft cleavage before sliding himself in between your breasts. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he moans, throwing his head back. He’s too aroused to start out slow, instantly slamming his hips up in a steady rhythm. His upper thighs slap against your breasts, recreating the dirty sounds he'd make if he were actually fucking you.

“You feel so good like this,” he whimpers. “Always so good to me, angel.” 

He reaches out to pinch your nipples, making sure to bring you pleasure as well. Not like you weren’t enjoying this — Spencer was so, so pretty; you could stare at him for hours: his jaw slack, moans and groans spilling from his swollen lips like a song sung just for you, his chest and neck covered in red splotches from the heat of your bodies, his slick, pink tip rubbing against your chest, his veiny hands playing with your tits as he kept looking at you, his eyes filled with love and adoration… You couldn’t get enough. 

“I’m so close, baby,” he pants, his cock twitching, using the wetness that had gathered between your breasts as lube to move his hips faster against you. 

“That’s okay,” you encourage breathlessly, pressing your tits closer together, creating more friction for him. “Let go for me, Spence.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. One of his hands clasps around your shoulder, the other kneading the soft flesh of your breast as he thrusts his hips forward once more. His muscles tense, and you catch that look on his face — the look that tells you he’s right on the edge. Your prediction gets confirmed as a throaty whine escapes his throat, followed by warm spurts of white shooting onto your neck and chest. You’re able to catch a few drops by sticking out your tongue, swallowing, and sticking it out again to show him the proof.

“You drive me absolutely crazy, angel,” he says awestruck, climbing off of your body and staying seated beside you. 

You hum as you take in the way he has painted your chest, tracing your skin with your index finger, creating small drawings. He looks at you mesmerized, then blinks. “We should clean you up.”

“I got it,” you announce, cupping your breast up to your face and licking a firm stripe across the skin. 

A gasp sounded beside you, and you couldn’t help the sly grin that formed on your face as Spencer looked at you in pure surprise.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

You giggled, placing your lips around your nipple as you gave a gentle suck while focusing on your boyfriend, whose cock was hardening again. 

“Acting so needy when you’ve been pleasing yourself all this time,” he tsked. “Such a dirty girl.” 

He matched your smile, cupping your face and bending over to lightly caress your lips with his once again. You moan in satisfaction, licking his bottom lip to be invited in. Your lips acted in a familiar play, experimentally moving around each other until you figured out each other’s moves, able to feel the urgent need in the way his tongue stroked yours, signaling back to him that you’re feeling the same by biting down on his bottom lip.

He groaned in response, his hands sneaking around your waist to hoist you up. “You’ve done enough hard work; you deserve to lie down now,” you joke as he gently makes way onto the soft bed sheets, holding onto your even softer thighs as you straddle him. 

His cock feels heavy in your hands as you position it underneath your throbbing pussy, shuddering as you tease your walls with the slick head. 

“You look so beautiful,” he praises, moving his warm hands up and down your hips, easing the strain you feel when you slowly sink down onto his length. You gasp when his thick tip disappears between your folds, but his sweet moans calm you down. Oh, you’re so tight. Just a little more, just like that. You’re doing so good for me, angel. 

“Oh my God, Spence,” you moan as your hips make contact with his. The stinging has eased into a delicious sense of being full, placing your hands on top of his tummy to keep yourself steady as you start rocking your hips. Spencer gives a firm squeeze, fingertips digging into the curve of your ass, sure it’s going to leave marks. 

You move your body up and down, breasts swaying with every one of your movements, the act completely hypnotizing Spencer. His head feels fuzzy and his throat dry as he watches you, not being able to believe how lucky he got. 

You up your speed, moaning and whimpering as you use his cock as your personal toy, his voice and face working as porn as he shudders in pure bliss underneath you. 

“Taking me— fuck — so well, baby,” he whines. Spencer places the soles of his feet flat on the bed, holding you tightly by your waist as he lifts his body up.

“Spencer!” you cry as his cock drives deeper into you. 

“Hm, I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs in apology. “Just want to help you out.”

You nod — because even though you’re very much enjoying taking the lead, you know how good it feels when Spencer helps you out by pounding into you. So that’s what you do: sinking down onto him, meeting each of his thrusts as he bucks his hips up.

“Is it painful?” he asks considerately, nodding toward the way your heavy breasts bounce with each push of his hips.

You shrug, “Just a bit.” To be fair, you’re way too focused on the way your core tightens every time he buries his cock in your pussy, hitting that sweet spot inside of you as the veins decorated around his shaft tease your inner walls — to even care.

His large hands find their place on your breasts, squeezing them once, then twice, then looking back in your eyes. “I can work as your personal brassière.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Ah, how civil.”

“Did you know brassières were only invented in 1893? It’s fascinating because technically the first brassières dated back to ancient Greece. Actually, in Book 14 of Homer’s Iliad, there’s a reference to Aphrodite’s embroidered girdle.”

You hum, leaning forward to catch his lips. “And did you know that you talk too much?” You tease as you press another kiss to his mouth. “And did you know that no one uses the word brassières anymore?”

“But it’s the correct term!”

There’s only one other way to shut him up. You cradle your hands underneath his head, bending while tilting his head up to press his face against your tits. 

“Hmpf,” he mouths against your breasts, before easily finding your nipple to latch on. 

You hold onto the headboard, relishing in his touch as you pick up your rhythm again. His cock hits even deeper inside of you in this position. There’s something so electrifying about the stimulation of your breasts in combination with the pleasure against your G-spot. A feeling so electrifying you doubt you can hold on much longer. 

“Getting close, Spence,” you cry as his hands cradle your ass, holding the cheeks open as he pumps his length in and out of you.

“Not yet, sweetheart. Wait on me.”

His hot breath fans against your wet nipples, and you cry loudly, gripping the headboard until your knuckles turn white.

“I can’t, Spence. I can’t — feels so fucking good.”

“Yes, you can. Just a little longer. Make me proud, angel; I know you can.”

You tighten your walls around him — maybe it can be considered as cheating — but it works. Spencer groans as he bites down on your breast, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you squeal.

Spencer holds you tight against him, chests pressing together as he moves his hips with force. “That’s it — Oh, I’m close. Let go for me.” 

With one more jolt of his hips, you come undone. You cry incoherent words in the crook of his shoulder. Your legs are shaking from the strain of holding them open for so long. Your pussy flutters around him repeatedly until Spencer’s legs quiver in the same way as yours, filling you up with his warmth.

He groans in satisfaction, pushing his hips up a few more times to make sure his release is buried deep inside of you. The round head of his cock slips out of your folds. You let out a sharp gasp, still feeling the print he had left inside of you. You can feel the way your pussy twitches as his cum drips out of you and dribbles onto his thighs.

Spencer pulls some hairs out of your face, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple as you settle your head down on his sweaty chest.

“It's okay,” he soothes you. “You did so good.”

You smile sheepishly, drawing figures on his chest. “Yeah?”

He mirrors your smile. “Yeah. You did perfectly.” Another kiss to your face. “My beautiful, brilliant girl.”

Your heart does a leap out of joy. It’s easy to say afterward, but you can’t believe how you were ever scared to show yourself to him. Now only regretting not having done it sooner as you see the physical proof of how enamored he is with you. Maybe you didn’t fit the ideal you’d been forced to fit in all of your life, but if anything, there’s only more to love.

[pathologicalreid]

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

black hole | s.r.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

spoiler content warning: miscarriage

[mariasont]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer’s chest aches in a way he can’t pinpoint, a vulnerability spreading through him that he rarely allows himself to feel. He’s not used to people taking such gentle care of his anxieties, treating his quirks as something precious rather than burdensome. A small, quiet part of him wonders if he deserves this kind of thoughtfulness, this careful, intentional love you offer without hesitation. He wants to believe it, wants to let himself trust it completely, but the tender astonishment that grips him right now makes it hard to think straight.

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

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

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

You smile at that.

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

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

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

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

[darkmatilda]

𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer never thought he’d be woken up in the middle of the night by a woman who didn’t even particularly like him, asking him to examine her breast. and yet, there he was.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, mention of the case they're working on, reader thinks she might be infected by something dangerous, reader is half-naked, chemical nonsense and a made-up disease, reader is described with slightly longer hair, but that's just for the sake of the plot lol—you can imagine her however you want.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3k

𝐚/𝐧: i know something else won the poll but i just couldnt stop myself from writing this. the next part will be one of your requests :3 (shoutout to @angellic4l for listening me ramble about this—btw i used some of her quotes here because shes my personal comedian)

"My weekend? Nothing special," Morgan began, leaning back against the hood of the car. His dark sunglasses had slid slightly down his nose, shielding him from the harsh sunlight beating down on the shopping mall parking lot where they stood. Or rather, where they waited.

"I promised Pen I’d drop by for the evening, but it kinda stretched out. Especially after she talked me into some wine..."

Spencer zoned out somewhere in the middle of that sentence, not even realizing when the words started slipping past his ears instead of through them. And he liked to think he was good at multitasking.

His gaze had been fixed for a while now on the police-secured entrance to the mall, where a woman in a protective suit was stepping outside, slowly peeling it off. The forensic team beside her started discussing something with her, but she barely acknowledged them, sliding the suit down to her ankles and stepping out—one foot, then the other. Underneath, she was wearing her usual formal attire.

Her lips moved as she replied, her face betraying nothing but focus. One hand reached up to push back strands of messy hair…

"…And then on Saturday, we got word from Hotch that he won a belly dance competition at the White House. So, obviously, we baked him cupcakes."

Morgan trailed off, waiting for a response. One of his eyebrows arched in that weird, expectant way.

Spencer realized, too late, that he hadn't been listening at all. Clearing his throat, he grabbed onto the last words still hanging in the air between them.

"Interesting. What kind of cupcakes?" he asked.

Morgan just shook his head, part disbelief, part something else Spencer couldn't quite read.

Reid frowned. 

"What? Something wrong?"

"Morgan. Reid."

Both of them turned their heads toward Hotch, who stood behind them with his usual seriousness—except today, it seemed even more intense. Not surprising, given the kind of case they were working on.

He must have been there for a while. For reasons unknown to Spencer, Derek’s eyes suddenly widened at the sight of their boss, like he was seeing him for the first time in his life.

Reid was starting to feel more and more disoriented.

"Want you to talk to the chemists and get their opinion. Especially in the context of previous incidents," he instructed them, one of his eyes drifting sideways toward his teammate’s face. The other man simply nodded, avoiding eye contact, his lips pursed slightly forward.

A phone rang. Hotch reached into his pocket.

"Excuse me," he said, stepping away. For a moment, however, he froze, something very odd flickering across his face. “Morgan. Just so you know, I'm currently cutting down on processed sugar, so cupcakes aren't the best idea. Just for future reference."

Derek squeezed his eyes shut for a second before nodding, muttering under his breath, I’ll keep that in mind. 

When their boss walked away, he fixed his gaze on Reid and shook his head.

"I hate you. I just want you to know that."

Spencer let his arms fall helplessly to his sides.

"I— I still have no idea what you're talking about. Did you tell Hotch about you and Garcia baking cupcakes? Did you offer him some? You know, you could have guessed he wouldn’t eat that kind of stuff while training for a marathon—"

"If you value your life, you better shut up already, okay?” 

"But—"

"You."

Their conversation was interrupted by the voice of a woman approaching them—the chemist Spencer had just watched removing her protective suit. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her stride as quick as ever, and her expression held nothing remotely positive.

Derek gave her a nod. "Why the gloomy face at the sight of two such handsome profilers?"

She scoffed with the purest form of mockery. All of it.

"Ouch…" Morgan hissed in fake pain, pressing a hand to his chest as if he'd actually been wounded.

Her gaze held a certain resignation. Spencer noted that her face had an odd look, as if some of its color had drained away.

"This gloomy face is the result of looking at a body so drenched in blood that I didn’t even realize the human body could hold that much," she replied dryly, sweeping her eyes from one of them to the other as if scolding them. Then, suddenly, her stare lingered on Morgan, and her expression hardened even further. "So forgive me if, after a sight like that, I’m not exactly radiating joy or giggling at the sight of you two handsome or not. Can we finally get to the point?"

Reid couldn’t suppress a small, petty spark of satisfaction at the look on his friend’s face. Probably the first time ever that he’d taken her side, and, to his surprise, her sharp remarks actually amused him. Turns out, when they weren’t aimed at him, he could appreciate how spot-on they were.

For a fraction of a second, the corners of his mouth even twitched upward—until he reminded himself that she was right, and they really should be getting back to the case.

"Actually, we were just about to talk to you," he said.

"Mm-hmm. Sure you were. Just standing here like two useless lampposts."

He changed his mind. He didn’t like her remarks after all.

To quickly sum up the case they were working on—they had been sent to another state where, over the past few weeks, four strange incidents had occurred. So far, they hadn't identified any connections between the victims, but each had suffered a mysterious attack.

More specifically, they had all experienced sudden, severe hemorrhaging from various orifices—gruesome and unexpected. It was different from their usual cases; the unsub hadn’t directly taken their lives, but they suspected some kind of foreign, unknown substance had been introduced into their bodies. How, exactly, was still a mystery.

The most recent attack had just taken place in a shopping mall. Given the nature of the crime, they were accompanied by their trusted team of chemists.

"What we've determined so far is, well," the woman began, her tone carrying a hint of irritation, "we're dealing with the same thing as in the previous victims."

Reid couldn’t help himself—he let out a short, amused scoff at the obvious conclusion.

"That was never in question," he said, shaking his head. "Anything more? Have you figured out what was administered? When, how?"

Her expression held a double dose of irritation—at him, obviously, and at the fact that her team hadn’t managed to figure out anything more.

"So far, we suspect that the method of transmission wasn’t through contact with a contaminated surface or accidental ingestion," she explained. "In other words, the most likely scenario is that it was introduced directly into the victim’s body. Did you see the other corpses? Any injection marks?"

Spencer exchanged a glance with Morgan, trying to recall. His friend slowly shook his head.

"We’re not sure," he admitted. "But a lot of their bodies were covered in a rash, which might’ve distracted us from spotting any puncture wounds."

The atmosphere between them shifted, thickening with realization. They were all arriving at the same unsettling conclusion.

"So, what—you think some mad scientist is cooking up potions at home and injecting random people? Just picking them out of a crowd and—"

"I don’t think so," Reid interrupted, thoughtful. "I actually wondered if the rash could be an early symptom. Which would mean the substance was in their system for a while before the hemorrhaging started—a buildup of symptoms leading to the final collapse."

"A fatal buildup of symptoms," the woman added, the memory of what she’d seen clearly flashing through her mind.

Morgan turned to Reid, his gaze sharpening. "So you’re saying the victims weren’t random? That there’s a connection?"

"Well, that’s what we need to find out."

To his surprise, the woman let out a quiet hum of agreement.

"You’d better," she said, though not in a way that suggested she was wishing them luck. "Because I never want to see something like that again. I’ll let you know if we find anything else."

With that, she gave a slight nod and walked off, heading back to her team.

Spencer watched her absently, his mind still running through everything they’d learned, trying to piece it all together. He was determined to solve this before another person ended up in the same horrific state.

That’s when he realized Morgan was staring at him.

"What now?" Spencer asked.

Morgan just shook his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

*

He was on the verge of falling asleep when someone knocked on the door.

And he knew he wasn’t imagining it—it wasn’t a hesitant, uncertain tapping but a determined pounding. Loud enough to jolt him out of bed. Spencer sat up, a flicker of unease creeping in.

The case they were working on required them to stay in a motel for a few days. It was small, dimly lit, but otherwise, he had no complaints. He assumed it had to be someone from his team—maybe Morgan, wanting to share some new findings, some breakthrough. Or maybe another incident had occurred?

That thought made him jump to his feet. Within seconds, the door swung open.

But it wasn’t Morgan standing there. It wasn’t anyone from his team.

"I need you to examine my breast," the woman said without so much as a blink, before he could even open his mouth to ask what she was doing there. "And not just that. But I figured I’d start with something that might keep you particularly motivated."

Her words might have sounded lighthearted—if not for her expression. Absolute seriousness, a clenched jaw, and something else in her eyes. Something he had never seen there before.

It took him a moment to recognize it.

It looked a lot like…fear.

"You need—you want me to…what?"

He knew he must have looked, to put it mildly, like a complete idiot—staring at her with wide eyes. The theory that he was dreaming suddenly seemed a lot more convincing.

Except…why would he be dreaming about something like this?

"You heard me," she replied shortly before simply letting herself into his room. She slipped through the partially open door so closely that her hip brushed against him by accident.

Spencer remained frozen for a few more seconds before finally snapping out of his daze. He shut the door and turned to face her.

That was when he noticed—she was wearing nothing but a satin robe. Definitely not something provided by the motel, which meant she must have brought it from home. She stopped just where her back blocked the light source in his small room—the standing lamp casting a dim, yellow glow that settled gently along the edges of her figure.

He watched as she took a breath.

"I was just about to take a shower," she began. Spencer could tell she was trying to maintain a calm and measured tone, which resulted in her speaking very slowly, emphasizing each syllable. "When I noticed…I think I might have been infected with whatever those victims had. During the examination, maybe my suit was compromised—I don’t know. I just…you need to look at it and tell me."

As Spencer looked at her—the quiet desperation woven between her words—he was reminded of how she had acted earlier in the parking lot outside the shopping center. Almost masterfully concealed, but still faintly present, was the lingering shakiness from seeing a victim in such a state. Unlike him, this wasn’t something she encountered every day.

And now, that same fear was written all over her. The terror that the same thing might be happening to her.

He felt something twist in his stomach, but he quickly shook his head. He had to be the rational one here, not let panic take over.

"But…you were the one who said it likely wasn’t transmitted through physical contact. That it was introduced directly into the victim’s body by the unsub. So how would you have gotten infected?"

"That was just our assumption. A theory. For all we know, we could be completely wrong, and this thing is highly contagious, and I’m about to collapse onto this…disgusting carpet and start bleeding out from my eyes, ears, and mouth right in front of your bed!" she snapped through clenched teeth.

She took another deep breath, this one just as shaky.

"So, please, just check. Tell me if my suspicions are correct, because if they are, maybe we still have time to—"

"Okay, just—calm down," Spencer attempted, stepping toward her.

"Oh, do not tell me to calm down. I will calm down when you check."

He stared at her for a moment, neither of them moving.

"Please," she added, her voice quieter now, tight with strain. "Seriously, what’s the harm? You might not like me, but I doubt you’d wish me dead."

Spencer pressed his fingers briefly to the space between his brows, shaking his head slightly.

"I’ll do it," he finally confirmed. He had to swallow before speaking again. "Jesus. Of course, I’ll do it. You didn’t have to guilt-trip me so hard."

Her chest rose and fell in what looked like relief, and despite the circumstances, he thought he caught the faintest shadow of a smile at his words. He found himself holding his gaze there, just for a second—before forcing himself to look away, silently telling himself to focus.

"Maybe…maybe you should step closer to the light," he suggested.

He forced himself to take a step closer—to her and to the lamp. She followed his instruction slowly, turning her back to him. From the movement of her hands, it was easy to guess she was reaching for the tie of her robe.

"Most of it is on my back," she explained, sliding the fabric down to her waist, exposing the bare skin of her back.

The motel lighting was far from ideal, and Spencer had no choice but to step in even closer. In fact, he had to stand right behind her, lower his head to focus on the small marks on her skin, partially hidden by her hair. He hesitated before moving his hand. Slowly—making an effort to steady his breathing so she wouldn’t hear how close he was—he slid his fingers under her hair, carefully sweeping it to one side.

She didn’t tremble, but her shoulders lifted and fell in an uneven rhythm, signaling a shift in her breathing.

He knew it was tied to fear and uncertainty, and he didn’t want to leave her trapped in that state any longer than necessary. At the same time, he couldn’t say with certainty whether the small bumps on her skin were the same ones they had found on the previous victims.

Swallowing hard, he leaned in even closer before pulling back slightly to get a wider perspective, comparing the shape, color, and pattern of the marks in his mind. The woman glanced at him over her shoulder. Noticing that he had drawn back a little, she must have assumed he was finished, because she turned to face him. Completely. Still without pulling the robe back over herself.

"There’s a bit here too. It’s the same thing, really, but it’s better if you check everything," she said.

Spencer’s gaze lowered—slowly—from her face, from her lips forming the words, down along the length of her body.

He really hoped his face wasn’t betraying him, that it showed nothing beyond pure, clinical focus. Especially since she hadn’t taken her eyes off him for even a second, searching his expression for the answer she so desperately wanted.

But he still wasn’t sure.

Something flickered in his mind—a thought, a doubt.

The problem was that forcing himself to speak felt almost impossibly difficult.

"May I?" he asked hesitantly, raising his hand slightly but keeping it suspended in place, waiting for permission.

"Well, if it’s necessary, doctor," she murmured, a husky note in her voice.

Spencer took a breath, trying to clear his mind, and slowly placed his fingers against the marks at the center of her chest, where they seemed to intensify toward the right side. He moved carefully, lightly, feeling the texture against her skin, tracing them with deliberate slowness. The moment the answer registered in his mind, he stopped abruptly and pulled his hand back, letting it fall to his side.

The woman's eyes widened in anticipation of his response.

"It's not the same," he blurted out, his voice sinking into a wave of relief that caught him off guard.

She raised an eyebrow at the certainty in his tone.

"Are you lying just to get rid of me?"

"What? No, look…or rather…okay, you don’t have a point of reference, but trust me. The rash on the victims’ bodies was different from this. Sure, the placement and distribution are similar, but theirs had raised bumps, while yours are flatter, almost embedded in the skin. Do you get what I mean?" he explained hastily.

It didn’t help that she still hadn’t pulled her robe back on, as if waiting for him to change his mind.

"Also, the color is slightly different, which I can tell even with this terrible lighting. You’re not infected."

She kept glancing at him with a certain skepticism. Slowly, unfazed, she slid both arms fully into the sleeves of her robe, covering her back. But before tying it, she focused on pulling her hair out from under the fabric.

"Then what is it?" she asked, furrowing her brows.

He had expected her to be happier when he told her she wasn’t about to bleed out from some mysterious substance in her system. Spencer shrugged.

"A regular rash, an allergic reaction—I have no idea," he admitted honestly. "Maybe it’s the motel water, the towel, the sheets…anything you’ve come into contact with," he suggested, watching as her lips pursed slightly. That reaction made him think he had probably hit the mark.

And now that the tension between them had eased—no looming threat of her imminent death and, perhaps less critically but still relevant, she was no longer standing half-naked in front of him—he allowed himself a small, amused scoff.

"Maybe your luxury skin just doesn’t get along with cheap motel bedding."

Her lips parted slightly, and for the first time in their entire acquaintance, she was the one at a loss for words. When she briefly dropped her gaze, he sensed…embarrassment?

Somehow, the thought that she might actually be flustered—because of him, no less—felt more abstract than the fact that she had just undressed in front of him.

"I should’ve known that," she muttered to herself. "It’s not transmitted through contact. My team already ruled that out."

So all of her embarrassment stemmed purely from the fact that she had second-guessed her own intelligence and judgment—not from the fact that she had barged into the motel room of someone who wasn’t even really a friend and asked him to examine her breast.

Spencer exhaled briefly, a flicker of disbelief passing through him as he processed that realization. But he didn’t comment. Because, honestly, had he expected anything different? This was her, after all.

Realizing it was all over, she turned on her heel and headed for the door with her usual brisk stride. One moment, she was in front of him; the next, she was already at the exit, pulling it open. He half-expected her to walk out without a word, slamming the door behind her in frustration at herself.

But at the last second, she turned her head toward him. First, she pressed her lips together—then a small smirk formed.

"Thanks, doc," she quipped. "That was a truly professional breast exam."

Spencer simply closed his eyes for a second, wondering if this was the moment he should officially add her to his list of the most unserious people he knew.

"You’re welcome. Seriously—tried my best."

yes, this was inspired by an x-files episode xoxo

[esote-rika]

𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's also incredibly beautiful. 

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

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

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

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

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

Loneliness. 

Why is Spencer Reid lonely? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why should there be a reason?”

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

“Just having a bad day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even fucking worse, your coworker. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he definitely needed that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or rather— whom. 

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

Oh.

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

Oh.

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

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

Are you?

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

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

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

Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth? 

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

It doesn't. It doesn't. 

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

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

The only thing on your mind is him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing!”

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

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

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

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

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

“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”

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

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

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

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

“We’re coworkers.”

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

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

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

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

God, he wants you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you always this needy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your slick.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t make me say it.”

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

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

“Spencer.”

“Mhm?”

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

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

“Spencer!”

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

“Because I squirted in your face.”

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

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if he belongs there. 

As if you’re his. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop clenching.”

“Can’t help it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your walls tighten around him in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, please, do it inside.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cameron ❤️

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

“Who’s Cameron?”

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

[gf2bellamy]

Hii! I am in love with your writing! Specially the sunshine!reader x Spencer, I don’t know if you are taking new requests, if you aren’t feel free to completely ignore this, but I would love to see your take in one of the BAU member (maybe Emily) sort of call out Spencer in the “soft spot” he has for reader. And he’s all like I don’t???? But ofc they would notice this bc 1. They are profilers 2. They just know him. I can imagine Emily’s speech on how it’s ok to let people in and how she thinks they would be good for each other 🥰 or idk something better you can come up

Anyways I just want to thank you for sharing your writing with us 🤍✨

good — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: postprison!spencer so mentions of insecurities in regards to that a/n: hiii !! this is such a wonderful idea <3 i wasnt entirely sure if you wanted post!prison spencer but i thought it fit your request best so i hope thats alright !! <33

Emily narrowed her eyes as she studied the scene unfolding before her. There you and Spencer were, sitting close together in the back of the jet.

Spencer was leaning in slightly, helping you solve a crossword puzzle. She watched as his fingers brushed yours gently when he took the pen from your hand, as he wrote the next answer. You glanced up at him, as if you weren't sure whether to be grateful or flustered. 

He’d practically solved the whole thing in the blink of an eye, but instead of simply finishing it, he waited for you to catch up, his gaze flickering to yours every so often with a small, encouraging smile. 

Emily couldn’t help but shake her head as she looked out the window again.

It wasn’t the first time she had seen the two of you like this—closer than anyone else on the team. She could see it in Spencer’s eyes—he had a soft spot for you, no question. The way he took his time with you, how he tried to make you laugh or ease your stress, it was so different from how he interacted with the rest of them.

And as much as she had grown to appreciate the dynamic, Emily had to admit, she was getting tired of watching both of you dance around the obvious.

Emily couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Spencer smile this much, this freely. It had been a long road since his release from prison, and though he was slowly piecing himself back together, it was clear that you played a significant role in his recovery.

The way he would light up at the smallest of gestures from you, or the way he would seek out your company without hesitation—it was a refreshing change.

Her thoughts were interrupted by your laughter—loud and genuine—as Spencer cracked a joke about one of the crossword clues.

Emily’s eyes flicked to the two of you just in time to see your shoulder brush against his, your body language open, comfortable.

But it wasn’t just your laughter that caught Emily’s attention—it was the look Spencer gave you in that moment. His eyes lingered on you, soft and warm. Emily noticed the way his lips curled upward ever so slightly.

Emily sighed inwardly, leaning her head against the seat. She wasn't sure what either of you were waiting for, but she hoped, for both of your sakes, that you would stop pretending like nothing was happening between you.

The next instance was when Emily had had enough.

The moment you and Spencer walked into the bullpen together, Emily's gaze immediately locked onto the way he had a hand resting casually on the small of your back.

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. She knew she wasn’t imagining it—there was no mistaking the way Spencer was always hovering just a little bit closer to you, the way his body seemed to naturally gravitate toward yours. 

“Do you want some coffee?” Spencer asked you. You hesitated for a moment as you approached your desk, dropping your bag down with a soft sigh.

You glanced at the stack of files waiting for you. “Yes, I have like 20 files to get through,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m going to need that coffee.” 

Spencer smiled. “I’ll make you one,” he said, his tone soft as he set his own bag down on his desk. He didn’t waste a moment before heading toward the break room, but not before he threw one last comment over his shoulder. “I’ll help you with some of your files later.” 

He didn’t wait for your response, though Emily could already predict what it would have been—a quick “No, that’s fine.”

You didn’t want him to do too much for you, but Spencer had this way of offering help, and even though you would have rather tackled the work yourself, you knew it would have been pointless to argue with him. 

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the smile that threatened to slip out as you watched him leave. You turned your attention back to the files, your hand instinctively covering your mouth to keep yourself from letting out the giggle that bubbled up in your chest. 

Emily saw her opportunity and took it.

Without hesitation, she walked into the breakroom, where Spencer was carefully pulling two mugs from the cupboard.

One was your favorite—white with a print of Snoopy lying on his red doghouse. Spencer had gotten it for you on your birthday after overhearing you talk about how much you loved Snoopy as a kid.

The other mug was his—bright yellow, with an image of Woodstock perched happily on a branch. 

That one had been your gift to him. 

Emily still remembered the way Spencer had reacted when he unwrapped it, his fingers brushing over the design as realization dawned on his face.

“Snoopy and Woodstock have to stay together,” you had said with a grin, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

For a moment, he had just stared at the mug, lips parted as if he couldn’t quite find the words. Then, without thinking, he had pulled you into a tight hug. You had stiffened for half a second, caught off guard, before melting into his embrace.

Emily had caught the entire moment from across the room, sharing an exasperated look with JJ. The two of you were so painfully oblivious to what was right in front of you.

Now, standing in the breakroom, she cleared her throat.

“Morning, Spencer,” Emily greeted, reaching for a cup of her own. 

Spencer, clearly lost in his own thoughts, blinked at her before nodding. “Morning, Emily.”

He carefully poured coffee into the Snoopy mug first, taking his time, as if it was second nature to prepare yours before his own. 

“Have a good weekend?” she asked casually, watching him with thinly veiled curiosity. 

He glanced at her briefly before continuing his task. “Yeah. I was happy to have some days off,” he said with a small nod, carefully placing your cup aside before starting on his own. “You?” 

“Yeah. Thanks,” Emily replied, swirling her own coffee absentmindedly. She was biding her time, figuring out the best way to ease into the conversation she really wanted to have. 

“Did you do anything fun?” she asked, the question innocent enough but leading somewhere more intentional. 

Spencer shook his head. “Not really.” 

Emily hummed. “You know, you should do something fun.” 

Spencer finally glanced at her, a little suspicious now. He knew Emily too well to think she was just making small talk. She wasn’t one for casual, meaningless conversation. 

She didn’t say anything else right away, though. Instead, she took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes drifting through the breakroom window, settling on you. 

You were sitting at your desk, chewing absentmindedly on the end of a pencil, clearly lost in thought. Your brows were furrowed as you studied whatever was in front of you, your lips pursed slightly.

It was such a small, unconscious habit, but Spencer had noticed it long ago. He had seen you do it a dozen times when you were concentrating, and for some reason, it was something he always found himself captivated by. 

Emily turned her gaze back to Spencer, and—just as she expected—his eyes were already on you. 

And then, just as quickly as he had let himself get lost in the sight of you, he pulled himself away, dropping his gaze back to his coffee as if it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. 

Emily smirked. Gotcha. 

“She’s good for you, you know,” Emily said, her voice softer now. 

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly around the handle of his mug. He stared at her for a moment. 

Then, just as quickly, he looked away again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. 

Emily chuckled. “Spencer.” 

He sighed, shaking his head, but Emily could tell he wasn’t annoyed. Just… hesitant. 

“You should tell her,” she said, shrugging. 

Spencer swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against the counter. “It’s not that simple,” he finally admitted. 

Emily tilted her head. “Why not?” 

Spencer didn’t answer. Not immediately, anyway. But he didn’t have to. 

Emily already knew. 

She knew Spencer was afraid. Afraid of ruining what he had with you. Afraid that you didn’t feel the same way. Afraid that, after everything he’d been through, he wasn’t allowed to have something good. 

"She likes you too, you know that, right?" 

Spencer stilled, the metal spoon clinking softly against the ceramic mug as he hesitated. Emily’s words hung in the air between them, impossible to ignore. 

His grip on the spoon tightened slightly before he forced himself to continue stirring his coffee, feigning indifference.

“You don’t know that,” he muttered, his voice quieter than before. 

Emily huffed. “Spencer, you’re a genius. Do you really expect me to believe that you haven’t noticed the way she looks at you? The way she leans into you when you talk, the way she lights up when you’re around?” She tilted her head, eyes sharp as she studied him. “She likes you, Spencer. And you like her. So why are you making this so complicated?” 

Spencer swallowed, staring down into the dark liquid in his mug. “Because… because what if I ruin it?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but Emily heard him. 

Her expression softened slightly. “You won’t.” 

Spencer let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t know that either.” 

Emily sighed. She could see it now—the self-doubt, the hesitation, the fear that had been planted deep within him after everything that had happened. After losing so much.

He was afraid of getting too close, afraid that if he let himself have this, it would eventually be taken from him, just like everything else. 

Her voice gentled. “Spence, it’s okay to let her in.” 

He glanced up at her then, his eyes conflicted, torn between hope and uncertainty. 

“She’s already in,” Emily continued. “You just haven’t let yourself admit it yet.” 

Spencer exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly.

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to let himself have this—have you. But that lingering fear, that quiet voice in the back of his mind, kept telling him that if he did, he’d lose you too. 

Emily must have sensed his hesitation because she suddenly reached over and took the spoon from his hand, placing it on the counter with a firm clink. 

“Talk to her,” she said simply. “Or don’t. But don’t sit here and pretend like this doesn’t exist. Because we both know it does.” 

Spencer stared at her, then down at the two mugs once again.

Snoopy and Woodstock.

A pair that was always meant to be together. 

And then, before Emily could say anything else, he grabbed both mugs and walked out of the breakroom—straight toward you. 

Emily watched as Spencer placed the coffee in front of you. You barely even glanced at the mug before flashing him a wide, grateful smile as you wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic.

Spencer’s lips quirked into a soft smile, his eyes lingering on you a little longer than necessary. Emily caught the way his fingers twitched at his side, the way he hesitated—as if debating something in his head. Then, as if gathering every ounce of courage he had, he took a deep breath. 

And then—he said something. 

Emily couldn’t hear it from where she stood, but whatever it was made you freeze. Your mouth dropped open slightly, eyes widening in surprise. 

For a brief, agonizing second, Spencer looked like he regretted saying it, his expression shifting into something nervous, almost panicked. His fingers flexed at his sides, waiting for you to react. 

Then, suddenly—your face broke into a huge smile. 

A real one. The kind that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. The kind that held no hesitation, no uncertainty. The kind that answered whatever question Spencer had just asked. 

You nodded. Quickly. Eagerly. Almost as if you couldn’t believe it had taken this long. 

And Spencer—who had been watching you anxiously—grinned. A wide, relieved, genuine grin. 

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his whole body seeming to relax. His fingers tapped lightly against his leg before he instinctively reached up to push his hair behind his ear, a nervous habit that Emily had seen a million times before.

Only this time, it was different. 

This time, he was happy. 

He glanced at Emily from the side, as if checking to see if she had seen everything unfold. 

Emily, still watching, simply smirked and shot him a small, knowing smile. 

Finally. 

[awordsmith]

tongue-tied 𝜗𝜚 s.r

Spencer breaks up with you because he’s been arrested for murder. He refuses to see or talk about you and you–dumbfounded–force your way back into his life by becoming his lawyer.

who? spencer reid x known!reader when? s12 genre: novella content warning: a bit angsty in the beginning, open ending?, little mention of work stress/not feeling like enough/feeling too much... ..reid with warm care !! word count: 3.5k a/n: i had a really vivd dream about this scenario; i don't know if any of you know what tiktok shifting is, but it felt like that–where it was first person pov and i didn't know i was dreaming until i woke up...enjoy!!

The ceiling fan buzzed; you wiped your eyes and stood, heading for the switch when your phone rang on the table. Your heart leaped and you rushed back to the table, forgetting the annoyance that moments ago haunted you.

It was him–you grinned and clicked answer, “Spencer, hey are you b–

“—...”

“Hey,” frowning, you took a seat at your desk, pulling a leg up on the chair to lean on, “what’s going on? Are you alright?”

You heard his breath on the other side of the line. Shaky–it passe over you like a cloud. You felt tears spring into your own eyes. You were never equipped to handle things like this–Spencer knew that–he was the yapper and you were the listener–but he wasn’t yapping right now.

“Spencer, say something…” you bit your thumb, “where are you?” You stood, moving your hands around in search of your keys, “I’m coming to get you–

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to see each other anymore…”

Your keys fell from your hand and you dumbly slid back into your chair, glancing at the documents spread out in front of you–you had just finished a case that day–you were writing out your report and sorting the files in order. “What did you say?...”

There was no response, only heavy breathing. A tear broke free and you were quick to swipe it away.

“Where is this coming from?” Your voice, though quivering, full–you knew he could hear it–he could hear how pathetic you sounded, “did something happen in Mexico?”

You closed your eyes for a minute, before setting the phone down and putting him on speaker. This wasn’t happening–this was–what even happened?

“Spencer,” your voice grew louder, “dammit–Spencer answer me! I deserve a damn explanation!” You slammed your hands on your desk near your phone, knocking a few papers to the floor.

“...I know,” he dared to whisper–and then like that, the line went dead.

You slid to the floor, wailing.

No calls, no messages–you’d sent around 20 throughout the night as you fell in and out of sleep. You’d left 5 voicemails and still–nothing. You tried him again this morning when you woke up, once when you got out of the shower, once before you left the house, and once before you headed into the office.

At this point, you were starting to accept the fact that maybe it really was over–but that didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t blocked you–that was something? Maybe? Or maybe you were being delusional.

There had to be something bigger behind this–something you were missing–there was no way–not the Spencer that you knew–would do something like this–

“I love you, you know that?” He kissed your exposed shoulder, it was cold and you wondered if he had accidentally left a window open.

A giggle escaped you and pushed him off your back, “Spence–I need to–” Another laugh cut off your sentence as he kissed your neck, “Come on seriously,” you gave him a once over, “I need to work.”

He had an old, tall lamp that stood in the corner of his den–you remember helping him pick it out from the thrift store–Spencer was a thrifting-obsessed maniac. But you loved that about him. “Work can wait for tomorrow,” he whined.

You raised an incredulous brow, “Do I ever say that when Penelope calls?” His apartment had that same fresh parchment smell it always seemed to have.

“Fine,” Spencer sighed, “do you want takeout?”

You gripped the back of his desk chair, grinning, “I thought you’d never ask.”

There had to be some sort of misunderstanding–Spencer wouldn’t just up and do something like this to you, not after the year you’d been together. You were expecting to take the next step with him–not a breakup–

“This is great, I’ll email you some of the newer cases and you can take your pick.”

“Actually,” you grimaced, “I was wondering if I could take a few days off, one or two would be great.”

Your boss assessed you, his eyes roamed over your tired eyes and a messy ponytail. “Everything alright?”

Your lips pressed together and you forced the corners to turn upward, “yep, just…tired…”

He sighed and leaned backward, crossing his hands on his belly, “I see, well yes, of course–take as many days as you need.”

Your smile brightened slightly, “thank you, Sir, really.” 

He called your name when you were at the door, and you turned back, waiting, “just something to keep in mind…he’s not worth it. Don’t let it stress you out too much, you’re a great lawyer. Okay?”

You took a breath and closed your eyes. When they reopened, you fixed them on your boss, “Thank you, I know you’re just being kind. But with all due respect, Sir, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Beauru wasn’t too far away from your office, perhaps a few blocks. You made it there in 15 minutes with traffic and were stepping through the doors in 20.

You tried Emily’s cell, but she didn’t pick up, and none of the other team members were responding either–you called Luke, but he didn’t pick up. You thanked the receptionist for your visitor pass, she’d grown accustomed to your presence.

You typically had lunch with Spencer when his team didn’t have a case, sometimes he’d surprise you at the office super early or incredibly late when he wasn’t supposed to get back until the next day. 

Which is why none of this made any freaking sense.

“Penelope Garcia,” you pushed open her door, but she wasn’t there. Recognition crossed your face when you saw her little fidgets and gadgets spread across her desk. Her computer was open, but locked. You frowned and stepped away from it. Should you just wait here?

Spencer normally accompanied you whenever you were at the Beaureu, you felt out of place without him. You huffed a sigh and sat in her chair, Spencer wouldn’t be able to resist spinning himself, the thought made you chuckle, but just as quickly, the memory of him dumping you via phone call crossed your mind.

Over a fucking phone call? You set your purse off to the side and swiped up on your phone again. There was something seriously wrong. You would get to the bottom of this if it meant forcing it out of everyone here.

“Ah, perfect timing,” you spun around, meeting Penelope face to…well waist.

“Uh…hi,” she said.

“You hesitated–” you jabbed a finger at her and stood.

“I–” she looked behind her as if you were on a reality TV show and cameras were hiding in plain sight, “huh?–wha–no, no no no.” She stepped forward, “whywhatar–e you doing here?”

You averted your eyes to the floor, “It's Spencer…”

“Oh,” she nodded, “he’s…not here at the moment…but I will–I can call you or text! You…if that’s what you…want.”

“Garcia,” you didn’t want to be mean. You didn’t want to be rude–but being around profilers all the time, she should’ve known how to hide her lies better.

“Okay–fine,” she waved her hands in her face, chest deflating, “but you can’t tell anyone I told you–least of all Reid–he’d…” she grimaced, “...hate me for life.”

“Garcia–”

“–Okay, right, yeah, you wanna–” she motioned with her hands and walked forward.

You followed her with your gaze, widening your eyes expectantly, “…well?”

“Oh boy– you’re gonna wanna sit down for this.”

“If there’s another woman Garcia, just tell me, I can take it–

Her eyes narrowed, “Oh no–God no–Ried would never–he’s crah–zy about you…trust me he never shuts up–anyway,” she shook her head and flailed her arms, “What I’m trying to say is that Reid would never cheat–he isn’t that kind of person. He–

“So then why!?”

“Reids in prison!” Her hands covered her mouth and her eyes grew, “oh my gosh I just said that–he’s gonna–he’ll never forgive me–

Your heart plummeted, “Spencer’s in…prison…?”

Penelope coughed up his file pretty easily. After getting her to spill the big beans on what happened in Mexico–or at least what Spencer had been able to remember, it wasn’t too hard to convince her that if Spencer hated her already, what would it matter that she do anything else?

You sped home, pulled into your complex, and ran toward your apartment. Upon locking the door, you set your things on your couch and took his files to your room. At a time like like this you really wished you had a pet, someone to comfort you–were it not for the surrounding circumstances, you could rely on Spencer. He was always there.

Which is why–despite his shitty breakup call–you had to be here for him, when he was at his lowest.

But first, you needed to cry.

A load of salty fries and two water bottles later, you were tying your hair back into a bun and grabbing a red marker. The copies Penelope had made for you proved to have nothing other than a few written statements from first responders–most of which did not favor Spencer–the crime scene photos, that were hard to look at, though nothing of which you hadn’t seen before.

And finally, his statement–his recollection pulled together in a jumble of phrases and half-sentences. Your heart lapsed again. You pushed everything in front of you and rubbed your face. It was getting late. Almost eight, you most likely weren’t on his visitation list–and if he’d kept all of this from you–he most definitely wouldn’t be expecting you.

Which is exactly why you had just one last favor to ask of Penelope.

You defended minor criminals whom you believed innocent on most, if not all accounts–the majority of the cases you took on favored your clients. You had slowly been working your way up to higher crimes–your last case had been a series of robberies, resulting in a shootout, though no one had died, the second it crossed your screen, you knew you had to take it.

This was your first murder case–though it wasn’t officially yours…yet. You needed more information, but first and foremost, you needed Spencer to agree.

Millburn Correctional Facility wasn’t the place you dreamt about when you wanted to escape reality–but Spencer was here, and he didn’t look happy to see you. The buzzer sounded and the doors were opened, the prisoners failed into the room in a straight line.

When he turned to face you, his expression became unreadable, you knew something was off then, because Spencer was always readable to you. His skin looked ghostly pale and his eyes looked a bit sunken–but that was still your Spencer behind the glass. 

“What are you doing here?”  Was the first thing he asked upon picking up the phone.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

A breath passed between his lips where words should have been. 

“Spencer, why didn’t you want me to know? Why did you–this is why you broke up with me, right?” He remained silent, eyes scanning something on your shirt, “am I right?”

He shook his head, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“How could I not come?” Exasperated, you slammed a hand onto the table in front of you, lowering your voice when you met the gazes of the other visitors.

“Who told you, Garcia?” He scoffed, “Did she also get you on my visitation list–is that–is that how you’re here?–”

“–The better question is why you didn’t tell me yourself.”

Spencer shook his head, “I can’t believe she would do that–

“You asked them?” You grit your teeth and take a calming breath, “you asked them to not tell me? That’s why no one’s been picking up my calls or messages?”

“That’s–

“–It’s what, Spencer?”

He went silent again.

You leaned forward, pressing the phone to your ear, “What happened in Mexico?”

“I can’t–I’m not allowed to discuss that with you–

“No,” you sat back and crossed your leg, the pencil skirt you wore riding up your thigh, “but you can with your lawyer.”

“What? No.” He shook his head, “No. I’m telling you right now, I will never agree to that.” He looked so set in his decision. Your bottom lip quivered a bit, you clamped down to keep it from giving you away.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The buzzer sounded again, “I already have a lawyer.” He shoved the phone back on its hinges and stood, you followed.

“I don’t care,” you shouted through the glass. Spencer’s eyes looked glazed over, you wanted to hug him–you wanted to breathe him in and tell him everything would be alright. But somewhere in you felt him drifting away, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t reach him.

“Don’t come back.” These were his final words before he was taken away.

The chair provided you with some stability–though tears pricked the corner of your eyes as you watched the back of him disappear. “Ma’am, it’s time.” An officer led you and the other visitors back through the doors, toward the front.

You wouldn’t give up. This was your case. You would make it yours.

“We can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…nothing personal–” 

“–Except it,” Emily sighed, “I’m sorry,” she murmured your name, looking at the picture of sorrow, “I really am, but…” she pursed her lips and glanced away, “you’re not gonna let this go?”

“How could I?” You scoffed and stood, “This case is mine, Emily–whether you decide to help me is up to you.” You headed for the door, but Fiona, Spencer’s current lawyer called you back.

You glanced at her over your shoulder, waiting. She glanced away and blew out air, “I appreciate you thinking about me, and I’m glad to know you have this much confidence in me…”

“But…?” Emily slumped her shoulders and nodded, “All alright,” you spun around to face her, meeting her resolve with a heavy heart.

“If you can get Reid to agree, the case is yours.”

You let out a breath and dropped your firm stance, tears springing into the corners of your eyes. You looked up and blinked them away, “thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I think I have a rather good idea.” Emily’s smile was faint but evident.

“And thank you, Fiona,” you tried for a smile, surprised to find it somewhat genuine.

“Don’t be. This case is going to be rough–”

“Oh, and paired with the fact that Reid will never agree to it.”

“Wow, thanks for the confidence, Emily.” You snorted out.

She held up her hands, “I’m sorry, good luck.”

Emily watched you slip behind her office door and down the steps of the Beaureu. “Do you think he really won’t accept?” Fiona mumbled.

Emily turned toward her old friend and pressed a thing to smile to her lips, shrugging, “I have no idea.”

Fiona sat back down and ran her hands through her hair, “Yeah, but, I can tell why she’s so persistent.”

“Okay, why?” Though Emily had an inkling of suspicion herself, she never wanted to assume anything.

“Because she loves him–with her whole heart.”

“People in love do stupid things,” Emily clicked her tongue.

“Sometimes I wish someone would love me enough to do stupid things for me.”

“It’s a both blessing and a curse.”

“I’ll raise to that.”

The two friends laughed as their morning coffee cups met.

The prison was icky–perhaps you should have worn sweats this time. You crossed our legs, trying to ignore the stares.

“I told you not to come back here.” Spencer hissed.

“You don’t own me, Spencer. You cannot tell me what to do–

“–No, but I can take you off my visitor list.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me–”

“–Spencer!” Gosh, what was wrong with him!?

Fragments of his voice seeped through the speaker on the old landline. A hairsbreadth of a word, a name–your name.

You watched the phone in horror. Why–Why? Wasn’t he letting you help him? Did he not think you were capable? “Spencer.” You said in response. “Spencer. Spencer. Spencer.”

“Dammit.” He cursed and a guard asked if you were alright, of course, you were alright. He would never hurt you. That wasn’t him. Prison wouldn’t change Spencer–there was no way–

“Tell me something.” You urged, “Tell me something outlandish–something no one would know about unless they were…you.”

He flinched. His pupils dilated and you could tell he was thinking of what to say next. “Why are you doing this?”

The tone in his voice unnerved you. It reached the cracks in your body that led to your soul. He sounded tired–so tired from the last you’d been to see him. You would not be pushed down. You wouldn’t give in–this wasn’t scrabble or chess–this was his life. How could he not see that?

“You know why.” You watched him–every tick, every muscle; every movement, you analyzed, and perhaps overanalyzed, but you didn’t know another person who wouldn’t in your situation.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”

Two weeks later you were taken off Spencer’s visitor list, which was madness because you had thought you’d had this conversation already.

“Penelope Garcia,” you spun around in her chair.

“AH–Gya, you’ve got to stop doing that. I half-expect you to be petting an evil cat in your lap.”

“Why did he take me off, what’s going on? Has there been a break in the case? Nothing had come across my desk since Tara’s cognitive with him.”

Penelope averted her eyes and fidgeted with the chunky rings on her fingers.

“Penelope I’m serious. Why does he keep doing this? What is going on? Something happened? Right? That’s why he doesn’t want me to see him? I drove down there yesterday and waited two hours just to be told I couldn’t see him.” You weren’t seething, but you were close to it.

“I–I don’t know, honestly.”

“But you know someone who does,” you stepped forward, “Penelope come on,” you fell against the wall, holding in all your emotional turmoil that has caused you to have freak accidents. “I’m losing him, Penelope.” You swallowed and slid to the floor of her office, “I’m losing myself.”

“Oh, oh sweetie,” she crouched down, pushing hair out of your eyes. Her fingers slid across your tear-stricken face, “...Emily. Emily knows.”

You took a moment and sat up, gulping down your breakdown, then breathing out, “Thank you.”

Up until the new documents crossed your desk, you neglected to see Spencer. You couldn’t–you didn’t want to. Not after you knew the reason behind why he’d taken you off the list.

It was too much–this entire situation was too much. Sometimes you had felt like you were bearing everything on your shoulders alone and no one was asking you to–no one cared because no one had wanted you on this case in the damned first place.

“Cat Adams, that name ring a bell?”

“The psycho hitwoman you guys captured months ago?”

Rossi and Emily exchanged glances, “yeah…” she motioned for you to sit down, “you’re going to want to sit for this.”

The lights in her office seemed to grow brighter with each sentence that flew from her mouth. Your soul stitching itself back together, that was how you felt when you left her office. You were on your way to Spencer once more, he was free. He didn’t do it.

Hi false testimony wasn’t Scratch playing games–he really was just too deluded. He wanted to remember so badly, his mind gave him false memories.

It disturbed you more than you would have liked to admit. Spencer was a prodigy–a genius in simple terms–and if even he couldn’t trust his own brain in times like these, could you ever trust yours?

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Spencer paced back and forth in front of you; JJ stood in the corner watching.

“She’s right, Spence, we can find another way–”

“–No. No, I can do this.” He ran a hand over his face.

“Hey–hey–” you grabbed his shirt and cupped his jaw in one of your hands, “it’s okay. I’ll be right outside.”

Spencer breathed you in, were it not for the stress he would have melted in your hands. He dind’t know how to express to you how deeply he had come to love you. You were the sun on his rainy days, you were leaves when Fall took them from the trees. The ocean when he was stranded on a desert island. 

He wanted to walk into his house and find you curled up with a book in your hands, using his favorite blanket to keep the cold from reaching your warmth. He wanted to see you wearing the only t-shirt he owned, the one he’d been given when he had graduated from MIT; he wanted to curl up beside you on his couch like a cat and nuzzle his head in your lap.

There were so many things he wanted, but he wasn’t sure if he deserved any of them. “I–” he wanted to say I love you, but it didn’t seem like enough.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

a/n: a little quick write, i hope you enjoyed cari!!

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke

[gghostwriter]

something fluffy i thought of is how spencer never had friends his age so he never got to have a real sleepover, so reader decides to change that and does all the cliché sleepover stuff with him (building a fort, pillow fights, facemasks,...)

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Fluff w.c: 1.5k A/N: I’ve been in a writing funk lately so really took a while, so sorry about that! I wrote this with early season!Spencer in mind, think s1-s2. Not proofread cause i will second guess myself. Special thanks to @thegloryofliterature for helping me power through! Masterlist

Cucumber Slices. // Spencer Reid

Two pretty glasses on the kitchen counter, ready for use? Check.

Non-alcoholic wine chilling in the fridge? Check. 

No clutter in sight? Check.

Your eyes flitted all over the apartment, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be—no stray pair of shoes, overflowing from your cabinet, strewn all over the wooden floor. It was a problem you’d need to tackle soon or later, your lack of space in this otherwise tiny apartment and your shopping addiction, but that wasn’t top priority at this very moment.

No, the cause of concern was making sure all went well tonight with your new beau, Spencer Reid.

It was all thanks to a cup of spilled coffee down at your favorite shop that caused this new development. You remembered how wide-eyed, afraid, and guilty the FBI agent looked as he took note of your state of distress, pale pink blouse turning sheer from liquid. Your lips must have wobbled then, thinking about how your new top was ultimately ruined, that caused him to clumsily remove his plaid coat, smelling of cedar wood and worn pages, and wrapping it all over your slight frame.

With his tenor voice, he repeatedly apologized and proposed to have your top dry cleaned, hoping to salvage it, all the while offering a spare button down from his leather worn satchel. Honestly, you didn’t know why you accepted it then and why you shyly gave away your contact information. It was like his amber doe eyes, teary from stress, hypnotized you to saying yes. 

Catching sight of your reflection, you assessed the mirage in front of you. Hair casually blown dry, not too curled, and makeup kept to a minimum, a hint of gloss, that’s it. 

You didn’t want to come off too dolled up for his very first sleepover in history, a fact he humbly disclosed during your fourth date and a fact you wanted to rectify immediately, and for his first sleepover as your new official (the thought made you want to squeal) boyfriend.

Looks? Check.

The corners of your cherry flavored lips lifted into a smile just as a hesitant knock echoed through your tastefully designed apartment.

Boyfriend? Check.

“Coming!”

As you reached for the locked door knob, the excitement palpable on your face, a small inconspicuous package caught the corner of your eye.

It was a box of protection you bought, just in case.

You sucked in a breath, afraid of what could have happened if you just left it there. Quickly running to your bedroom and pulling the bedside drawer so harshly the contents rattled, you shoved the box away, face burning from the thought of being caught.

To be fair, it really wasn’t in your list to buy during the quick run to the grocery. It had caught your eye while checking out and added it to the cart without really much further thought. You definitely wasn’t expecting anything to happen tonight, knowing how fresh the relationship is and how shy Spencer is to any type of physical affection. He did once rattle off a fact how hands touching transfer more bacteria than kissing and at that moment, all you could think of was leaning in and meeting his lips with yours. 

There was another knock. 

“Just a moment, Spence!” You called out, voice cracking at the end as your feet slid against the waxed floor.

You paused, trying to catch your breath before swing the door wide open to the view of Spencer shyly smiling at you, weighed down by the amount of items on his hands.

“Uh—hi, hey,” he breathed out. “I-uh, I brought over some stuff we might need for the sleepover.” 

You giggled. “Did you bring your entire apartment with you, by any chance?”

“What? No, no of course not! I just—” he stepped inside your apartment, lowering the bags on the kitchen counter. “—I didn’t know what a sleepover would need so I did research and it—” gesturing towards the items. “—just snowballed from there.” 

You stretched on your tip toes, softly giving his cheek a kiss. “That’s sweet of you, Spence. Can you tell me more about what you found?” 

His face brightened, very much used to people not wanting to hear him talk on or off tangents. “Well, I brought a couple of games, one I borrowed from Penelope—” he pulled a chess board, a deck of cards, and Monopoly. “—I also got us assorted slice fruits to share, I read that people in sleepovers tend to eat take out, pizza or Chinese, which I brought too, and I wanted us to have a healthy dessert on hand and although chocolate seems to be the usual meal treat, it is primarily made of concentrated sugar with little to no added nutrients. Fruits, on the other hand—”

He paused, eyes slowly tracking the contours on your face. “—do you want me to stop? Usually the team would have cut me off by now and I don’t want to bore you.”

You quickly shook your head. “No, no! Not at all, Spencer! I love to hear your voice and i think its so cute that you researched.”

Rocking on his heels, he pressed his lips into a tight smile as his ears reddened in color. 

“Well,” you sidestepped to stand beside him, back facing the counter. “Should we get started?”

Spencer nodded, eyes earnestly looking at you for guidance.

“In my mind, a sleepover isn’t complete without this,” you gestured towards the ingredients laid out earlier.

A chopping board and it’s matching knife, one piece of unsliced cucumber, a tub of unopened Greek yogurt, and a bottle of honey.

“Is this for our snack?”

You giggled, bumping the side of his hip with yours. “You’ve got plenty to learn, my young padawan.”

***

“Are you sure this—” Spencer gestured to the concocted bowl in front of him. “—is sanitary? I don’t think I ran across this step when I was researching.”

Laughing, you pinched slices of cucumber between your manicured fingers and gesturing him to lean slightly back. “Of course it is, Spencer! I did trust the washing and cutting to you, didn’t I?”

“It’s just—I’m not quite sure what benefit we’re supposed to get.”

You leaned in, keeping a critical eye on your handiwork as if you were a painter inspecting the masterpiece. He smelled fresh, having taken a shower before settling on the couch in front of the opened television—he smelled of your body wash with a hint of his own scent you couldn’t describe.

Pulling back, you gestured for him to do the same to you, covering your bare face with the homemade face mask.

“Well, according to Paolo, the cucumbers actually do nothing but it’s nice to just get into the mood, don’t you think?”

The space between his brows threatened to disappear as the tip of his tongue peeked between his lips in concentration. It was absolutely adorable to see him wracking his expansive mind as to who Paolo was. 

“Should I know who that is?” 

You faux gasped. “From Princess Diaries?”

Spencer shook his head, leaning away from his finished work.

“As your girlfriend, I fear it’s my duty to get you up to date with romance movies. Which is why—” reaching for the remote to press play. “—I chose one I’m sure you’d know.” 

Classical music started to play through the speakers matched with a sunrise on an empty vast field and slowly, the title card appeared, Pride & Prejudice.

He chuckled, settling in on your off white sofa, shoulders brushing against each other.

As the movie progressed, Spencer softly whispered commentary under his breath, his voice rumbling from his chest, lulling you to ease. It felt so easy being with him. There was no second guessing the meaning behind his words, the meaning behind his actions. You still couldn’t believe your luck that you found The decent man of your dreams through a cup of spilled coffee, it was worth having your designer silk blouse as the casualty. 

On screen, Mr Darcy had reached to guide Elizabeth Bennet up to the carriage, bare handed. The camera cut then, focusing on his hand flexing from the touch of her hand.

Your heart rate picked up, this scene had always been your favorite. Such an inconspicuous move but quite scandal during their time.

Spencer cleared his throat, adjusting his position beside you, hand mirroring Mr Darcy’s. Slowly, as if he was unsure of your consent, he brushed the back of his palm with yours, intertwining the two pinkies together.

Breath caught in your chest, you wove the rest together. Both palms slightly damp from the nerves, he squeezed three times and in that minute, you knew. 

This relationship was for keeps. 

My inbox is currently closed for requests but comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[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?” 

[kisses4reid]

love language | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

r x spencer, injuries, fluff, very short

a/n: i warned yall id be posting less. sorry babes. my future kinda depends on me being an academic weapon rn.

Spencer takes a breath and smiles to himself, anticipating your reaction to his less than perfect face. You’ll start talking about your day, then as you lock eyes, your face will drop- or maybe you’ll be stunned into silence. You’ll be worried, no doubt. You always are, even when he reassures you. Spencer winced at the smile.

You unloaded the dishwasher when you heard the door open, you smiled and yelled out, “Hi honey!”

He didn’t yell back, instead heading straight towards your voice - he needed your comfort.

“You hungry? I bought- Oh my god!” You dropped a plate on the ground that thankfully didn’t chatter, but did make Spencer jump. He watched you bring your arms up to your mouth in shock, before walking towards you slowly.

“I’m fine-“

“What happened to your face?!” Your eyes traced hit features with concern painting your own, his lip busted and eyebrow cut. You hovered your hands over his small injuries and he swore he could already feel your healing aura warm his insides.

“Took down a criminal really casually-“

You slapped his shoulder, “Don’t joke right now. Come on,” you grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the main bathroom.

His shoulders were pushed down by your firm hands as he sat on top of the toilet lid. You shook your head as you pulled out bandaids and cotton swabs, which made him smile at you longingly. Before you, he didn’t know what it meant to be cared for, but now it had become his favourite thing. The only downside being your mood most of the time.

You faced him with stern eyes, mentally reprimanding him. You brought a cotton ball to his lip to wipe off any residue and dipped a cotton bud in an anti-swelling medicine which made Spencer scrunch his eyebrows together. You were silent in your focus, and beautiful.

“I love you.” Spencer whispered. Your eyes glided over his eyes and lips, yearning to connect his with yours. But alas, he had gotten himself punched.

“I worry about you.”

‘I love you too,’ Spencer was sure it translated into.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He replied softly, genuinely.

You shook your head and carefully put a plaster over his eyebrow. “I know you are, but nothing can change that. Unfortunately, I think my new love language is worrying.” You smile slightly, and lean back to assess his face again. “I love you too, Spence. Go have a shower,” you lent forward and placed a soft kiss on his uninjured nose, “I need to cut your hair soon, it almost hides your eyebrow cut.”

He stood, “Do I look tougher? Like a badass?”

You giggled and walked towards the bathroom door, taking hold of the handle, “You look like you’ve tripped over your own shoes a few too many times. Shower, stinky.”

taglist - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna @laurakirsten0502 @cultish-corner

[cerisereids]

𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗕𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲)- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

W/C- 6.5k (crazy shit)

Summary- You and Spencer have never gotten along. Yet, you can’t seem to ever take your eyes off each other.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, not super smutty but there is a sex scene (not super detailed) canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, Spencer losing all brain cells over a pretty girl, bitchy!Spencer, reader and Spencer are held captive by unsub, dramatic love confessions, kissing, some icky misogyny directed at reader from unsub but it's quite brief, guns, unsub death, honestly this reads a lot like a regular cm episode but with Spencer being down bad, this low-key turned into smut when I didn't plan on it but c'est la vie

A/N: I can’t find the OP of the divider but it is not mine!! This is a little proofread but not a lot of proofread, I am also thinking about making a part 2 w some actual smutty smut so lmk if you guys like this!

An itch of irritation crawls up your spine, a deep ache settling in your skull as you sit in the BAU conference room. You massage your temples as a rapid, grating voice nestles its way into your ears.

“The fact that this unsub feels comfortable targeted a densely populated area such as D.C. tells us he’s either impulsive or incredibly bold,” he remarks, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face as he studies the map in front of him.

Despite your annoyance, you keep your eyes trained on the profiler as he rattles on. Your eyes narrow just slightly, You’re seated directly across the table from him, and you watch the way he gets lost in the information, almost like it’s in control of him as he frantically circles different locations on the map. Spencer Reid speaks with his entire body, he always has, ever since you started at the BAU one year prior.

“Maybe it’s a comfort zone,” he stands back, leaning his weight on one leg. Your eyes drift down his lanky frame for the briefest moment, lingering on his popped hip. They furiously snap back up to his face once he starts speaking again, cheeks heating up.

“The lines of longitude and latitude at each murder sight are equivalent to the central area of the city,” he mumbles.

“Okay, so we need to know what’s there. Something clearly happened to our unsub that has made him choose these locations,” you cross your arms over your chest, “you really think our unsub measured all of the crime scenes on a map? That shows an incredible amount of organization that I don’t think he has.”

Your tone is a bit defensive, skeptical of his work. To you, profiling is a subjective art. Your best profiling comes from understanding emotions, trauma. Spencer works completely different.

While you do have to recognize his intelligence, the strict logic in which he operates in this job is not something you entirely agree with. He spouts rapid fire facts nearly robotically, like he’s reading straight from a textbook. It drives you batty.

You’re not typically someone who’s thrown off by a different approach. Normally, you accept and encourage a fresh set of eyes while you work. If it wasn’t for what Spencer said your first week…

Plus, you had an early acceptance to Harvard before you decided to go to the academy. His intelligence doesn’t impress you that much.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He’s very clearly organized, it fits the profile,” he states, his irritated gaze pointed directly at you.

You stare back brazenly, in a silent competition with the man across from you.

“I’m really just unsure how that helps us right now when central D.C. is so big. How are we going to narrow down his tie to the city?” His eyes narrow to slits at your question.

“She’s got a point,” Hotch succinctly breaks through the tension, and you’re reminded that you’re in a room with the entire team. “Give the information you have to Garcia, have her narrow it down. Afterwards, I want you and Prentiss on victimology in the bullpen,” he says.

You puff your chest slightly, sliding out from your chair to get closer to the evidence board. You feel his eyes burning a hole into your back before he huffs an irritated sigh, exiting the conference room with a harsh slam of the door. You keep your gaze on him through the window as he walks to Penelope’s.

Spencer grumbles under his breath the whole way down to Penelope. Head down, brows furrowed, he barges in there with the map. Without so much as a hello, he posts it on her wall.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor!” She chastises him as he keeps his gaze on the map, like she’s not even there.

He knows it’s mean, that she deserves more respect than that, his brain is just unable to process anything other than her. She makes him want to explode.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, continuing his previous work on the map.

“Spence, you gotta stop letting her get under your skin like that,” he hears the pity in her voice, which only makes his blood boil hotter.

“Nobody’s under my skin, I’m trying to solve the case,” he’s speaking too quickly, like that’s even possible for him.

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbles sarcastically. She begins picking up what he’s doing on the map, entering coordinates in her computer as he works.

“She just-” his pen clatters to her desk, a knowing smile growing on Penelope’s face as she types. He ignores it. “She has to question everything I do! If she doesn’t trust me, why are we on the same team together. You know?” He huffs a heavy breath.

Penelope turns to him, “Spencer, she trusts you. Hotch wouldn’t have either of you on the team if she didn’t. Just because she has a different approach doesn’t mean she’s undermining you.”

He rolls his eyes, he knows she’s just trying to help. The irritation crawling under his sweater, seeping into his skin, is suffocating. He tugs on his collar so he can breathe.

“Then why does everything she say feel like an attack?” He asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you want to impress her?” Penelope asks, and it knocks the wind out of him. “I mean, she’s like, the only person in the world who isn’t totally blown away by your incredible mind. Probably because she’s so smart herself,” she remarks under her breath. He rolls his eyes at that. “Regardless, you want her to agree with you, right? You might just want to impress her.”

Spencer’s face heats up as she raises her brow at him. His gaze immediately drops to his shoes, fidgeting awkwardly before turning back to his map.

“We need to get back to work,” he mutters.

-

To Spencer’s dismay, she stands in his exact line of sight as he’s with Emily, working on victimology. He stands at her desk, and he really should be listening to what Emily is saying. Instead, he has a laser focus on her.

She’s leaning over the conference room table, her back to the window. There’s a slight arch in her back as she pops her hip out. The silky fabric of her black pencil skirt clings to her and Spencer almost forgets why he’s so mad at her all the time.

Emily follows his line of sight and he rolls his eyes, as if she’s the one being ridiculous. The deepest parts of him know it’s not fair, but he’s never done well with his feelings on display. He feels vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

He feels exposed at the low chuckle escaping Emily’s lips. His gaze shoots towards the case file, now in an iron grip in his hands, clearing the awkwardness that has crept up his throat.

“I’m not sure who either of you think you’re fooling,” she nonchalantly mumbles under her breath, viewing her own copy of the case file.

“I’m sorry?” He snaps, his eyes squeezing shut in a long blink, as if he’s trying to unsee her.

“Y’know, if you just talked to her, really got to the bottom of your disagreements, maybe you’d see that you two are a lot more alike than you think,” she raises her brow at him, and it feels as if his heart’s been slashed open, bleeding on display for everyone to see. He always feels this way when someone shines a light on his vulnerability, his natural instinct to run from it. If it’s not there, then he can’t get hurt.

“I’m just trying to catch a killer,” he squeaks, his high pitched voice giving him away almost immediately. Emily playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles once more. His heart rate picks up, cheeks heating to an alarming degree.

The door of the conference opens, then. As if the universe is playing a cruel, practical joke on him, the click of her heels get closer and closer, until her perfume has invaded his senses.

“So, we figured out that our unsub was recently released from a mental institution in the greater D.C. area. Garcia is working on which one, but is there anything in the victimology that points toward abandonment issues? Particularly from a motherly figure?” She rattles off, the sound of her voice like a knife to the chest. It’s sharp, infiltrating every piece of him, stripping him of his defenses even further.

He stares at her, unabashedly. His eyes trail from her pink button up, sleekly tucked into that godforsaken skirt. He studies her as if it’s the first time he’s seen her, memorizing the ways her curves ebb and flow around the fabric.

His heart picks up when she looks back, but he doesn’t look away. Their eye contact is tense, as always. There’s a fire in her eyes that’s always there when they’re in the middle of a case. Her passion burns through, heating him all over.

“I think our unsub is too organized for him to be abandoned,” he replies, “typically when we see people traumatized by abandonment are reckless, but he’s taken the time to clean up after himself, even starting the dishwasher and laundry machine in his victims’ homes.”

“You still think he’s organized?” she asks right back, not missing a beat.

“He loaded the dishwasher and the laundry machine, that’s not organized to you?” His skin crawls as he answers, the usual thrill of her challenge thrumming through him.

“But if you look at these pictures…” she trails, grabbing crime scene photos of the laundry and open dishwasher from her file, “this is not the doing of an organized person. The plates are mixed with cups, there’s bowls where the silverware would be. It’s very evident he just shoved everything in there. Same thing with the laundry, we have socks with jeans. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s a mix of both,” Emily suggests, “a sort of compensating? He was abandoned by his mother so now he’s completing what could be seen as motherly duties.”

“I could definitely see that,” the voice to his right mutters, and he watches as she chews the tip of her pen in concentration.

“We don’t normally see that in male serial killers…” he trails off, trying his best to appear nonchalant as he flips through the case file. The one he’s already memorized front to back.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, the slight uptick in her tone barely there, but he catches it. He always does, a telltale sign that he’s gotten under her skin. He seems to live there these days.

He takes her in again, the glint of irritation in her eyes. A hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair near Emily’s desk. Her stance is closed off, shutting him out. Even still, he sees the way her eyes drift toward his direction. Her gaze is facing the floor, but he can tell his shoes are in her line of sight, and a strange surge of pride rushes through his chest. He can’t repress the need for her to notice him, in any capacity.

You feel his eyes the second they hit you. It’s like a sixth sense, knowing exactly when he finds you. It’s become natural, almost instinctual, for his eyes to be on you. You’re no better, though, mirroring him as you watch each other.

He’s thin, sinking into his button up, a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips. You catch the way it pulls taut where it meets his belted waist, the slightest bit of skin peeking through at his hip.

Your heart races at the sight, even more so when your eyes snap back up to his, and you know he caught you. Your body heats all over, every bit of you on fire as his gaze pierces you. The heat spreads internally, acid bubbling in your stomach. It feels as if he sees right through you, looking into the deepest parts.

You shake your head, shedding the feeling of him like a snake. “What have you guys found?” You ask, doing your best to focus on the victimology.

“We think he’s finding these women from their social media accounts. He’s targeting women who post emotionally. The last few posts from each victim were about some hardship or another. Maybe there was a woman in his life who made her emotions his burden,” Emily suggests, and you cut your gaze to her, shaking Spencer out of your system.

Then, you hear it. It’s small. Under his breath. It infuriates you.

“Wonder what that’s like.”

Something inside you snaps, like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It ricochets off your heart, piercing your stomach until you lose control over your response.

“I’m sorry, what is your problem?” It takes all the energy you have left to not absolutely screech. Your snappy tone still calls the attention of the people around you. You feel eyes on the two of you as you pierce him with a cruel gaze. You no longer have the capacity to care.

“My problem?” He retorts, knowing full well what she is talking about.

“You have been at odds with me this entire case. Actually, since I joined the bureau,” You scoff, your insides boiling over. All the frustration of bickering with Spencer for the past three years has finally come to a head. “If you don’t trust me if you don’t like what I have to say, then you need to be a man and do something about it,” the words drip off your tongue like acid.

“Like what?” He bites back, squaring his shoulders toward you, “take it to Hotch? You and I both know where that would get us. Why is it just on me? Because you’re never wrong, right? Our BAU princess is always correct-”

“Enough.”

Hotch’s stern tone cuts through the sarcasm falling from Spencer, and the two of you straighten up in record time.

“The rest of the team is going into the field to finish this case. You two are on paperwork duty until we get back. That’s an order,” he turns to collect the rest of the team, you and Spencer mirroring each other’s shock as you watch them go.

You deflate. The smack of your file hitting Emily’s desk is the only audible sound as you grab a box, hauling it to the conference room. Spencer follows suit, and the two of you begin to work in tense, angry silence.

You study him as he works, long, deft fingers moving in a rapid speed that nearly hypnotizes you. You catch his brown eyes, softer now, still focused as they flit through the endless pile of papers. You massage your heart, as if it’d ease the ever growing ache there.

“Do you remember this case?” Spencer asks softly, and you can’t recall a time he’s spoken to you in such a tone. It makes your heart flutter in a way that scares you, the giddiness warming your skin. You roll your shoulders, hoping it’d release the tension built up in your neck.

You lean a bit towards Spencer, glancing at the file that reads, ‘Plymouth Family.’ You can’t help the smile that spreads your lips, your cheeks bunching up around your eyes.

“Family of four, two girls, all kidnapped, all recovered safely,” you recite softly. You touch the pictures of the young girls, your eyes glassing over. “Four and six…” you whisper shakily, “they were just babies.”

You remember the way they clung to you when you found them in the shed they were kept in. They were dirty, smelly, and shaking. Their arms and legs were wrapped tight around you as you carried them to the medic. You sat with them the whole time the team looked for their parents. You were there when they woke up in the hospital.

“You were amazing on this case,” Spencer says. You feel the warm skin of his arm against yours, and you realize how close you’ve gotten. “You were empathetic, smart…” he trails off, eyes lifting to your face.

Your eyes dart up to meet his. “Thank you,” you mutter softly, your eyes scanning the length of his face.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone.

“Spencer,” you start, and he knows what you’re going to say before you go any further. His breath hitches, and you continue anyway.

“How did we get here?” You ask, shaking your head incredulously, “We’re two of the smartest minds on the team and we’re stuck here on paperwork duty.”

“I would argue it’s our inability to work together without high levels of conflict,” he responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Yeah, well, you made that bed, now we both have to lie in it, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

“I’m sorry, how is that so?” He asks.

“Are you serious?” You respond, your blood starting to race through your veins. His brows raise, prompting you to continue. “Do you not remember one of our first conversations after I joined the bureau?”

His brows furrow in confusion. You keep going.

“We were in St. Louis. We were working on the case with that Jack the Ripper copycat. I was so focused on analyzing the unsub’s background, digging into everything I could. You told me that if I value emotion over logic I’m going to get tunnel vision. That I wouldn’t last long if I let myself stray from the facts.” The words still sting, all these years later. You avoid looking at him, turning your back to him so he can’t look at you either.

“We’ve been like this for three years because I told you that you value emotion over logic? I thought that was a known fact,” he states plainly, as he always does when he thinks something is obvious.

“We’ve been like this for three years because you were someone I looked up to. When I was scouted for the unit by Gideon, a big reason why I agreed to join was because I’d get to work with you. The great Dr. Spencer Reid. I read about you, when I was at Harvard. I was amazed. A little jealous, too, but amazed all the same. When you said that, it-it was belittling. Like you didn’t believe in my ability to do the job. I spent everyday since trying to prove you wrong,” you rattle off in one long breath.

Spencer is still as a statue, watching you intently. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters lowly. “I’ve always used logic. It’s gotten me where I am. You came in here with a completely different approach, and it worked. Really well. It threw me off, it intimidated me…” he trails off, his cheeks tinting red as his chin drops to his chest.

“Intimidated? By me?” You saunter closer to him, a wicked grin on your face. You plop down on the chair across from him, knees barely knocking.

Spencer’s heart beats faster as she leans closer to him, her knees now slotted between his. The contact makes him dizzy.

The beep of his cell phone jolts him away from her. Spencer fumbles with his phone for a minute, before opening it with a shaky, “Yes, Penelope?”

You can hear her screech over the phone. “You and Miss BAU Princess need to turn on the news. Now.”

His cheeks heat at the nickname. He chokes on his own breath, exhaling sharply before grabbing the remote to the big screen in the conference room.

What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Multiple black SUVs, driving at top speed on the tail of a dirty, beat up grey sedan.

At first, in the pent up anticipation of the moment, he hardly registered her grabbing his hand. Once he did, the feeling of her branded his skin. A white hot sensation that spreads to the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes.

He takes a glance at her, and he wishes he hadn’t. His heart aches at the look of sheer panic on her face. Her furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and parted lips squeeze at his heart from all sides. He pulls her into him, allowing her to take refuge in his chest.

It’s not long after that he hears it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s the creak of the door. The click of a loaded gun. She must feel his rigidity, because she lifts her head up to look him in the eye.

“What?” She questions, lifting her head from his chest. She feels it too, he can tell. The lingering sense that something’s not right.

“Someone’s here,” he mutters, “stay here,” he moves to arm himself. It’s muscle memory at this point, his body moving of his own accord.

He feels the scoff she emanates deep within him. A small smile forces its way on his lips at the sound.

“Yeah right,” she replies. He feels her behind him, her own gun peeking through his peripheral.

He’s flooded with adrenaline, his blood thrumming in his veins. He moves slowly, tactical steps as he opens the conference room door. He’s met with a sharp pain cracking down on his head, rendering him unconscious.

Your hands are bound behind your back, legs tied together. Your wrists and ankles chafe raw at your resistance. You bite down on the tape plastered over your mouth, desperate to claw your way out. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try and maneuver through the conference room without being seen.

After Spencer was knocked unconscious, he was dragged out of the conference room. You’re not sure where he is, and the thought renders you dizzy. You attempt to peek out of the window, the bullpen now completely cleared, save for the agents that were caught in the crossfire.

You flinch at the sound of loud, hard footsteps nearing the door. Scrambling back into place, you avoid eye contact as the strange man drags an unconscious Spencer toward you. He props him up next to you, his chin hitting his chest.

Your eyes glass over as you take in the bruise coloring his right eye a deep blue. The split on his pouting, bloody lip is crusting over.

A pair of cold fingers dip under your chin, forcing your head up to look this man in the eye. His hard stare burns into you, but before he can do anything, his phone begins ringing.

“Saved by the bell…” a gruff voice spits out, letting go of your face with a shove.

Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for contact on the wall behind you. The blow stings for a moment, but you’re able to shake it off when Spencer starts to stir next to you. Your breath hitches as he grumbles, his eyes barely opening.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “what is going on?”

“It looks like a team,” he considers, maneuvering his body to sit up further.

"Where were you?" you hissed back, worry lacing every feature of your face.

"Hotch's office," he grumbles, "I kept...I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. But I spoke to him. He's fixated on the two of us, but he wanted a lot of information about you."

He adjusts, cracking his neck from where it rests against the wall. "Hotch is going to have to hire carpet cleaners when they get back," sarcasm laces his tone, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"You just got beat within an inch of your life, and you're making jokes?" you scoff affectionately.

"How could you tell?" his voice shifts then, seriousness lacing his tone suddenly.

"How could I tell that you got hit?" you repeat, eyes scanning over his face and body. "You're bruised in multiple spots, a bloody lip, a black eye forming..."

"You're always looking at me. You think I've never noticed?" he mutters, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

"You're always looking at me!" you hiss, no choice but to deflect.

"I know."

It's the last thing that's said before the door opens again. You sit straight up, your back pressed against the wall as the man shuffles in. You immediately clock the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Spencer.

He stalks over to you, gun still pointed in Spencer's direction. His dry, cracked finger hooks under your chin, pulling your head up to face his.

"Do you want to know what he told me in there?" his head jerks back, gesturing towards Hotch's office. He stands up, moving towards Spencer again. "Wanna know what your pathetic, disgusting, deplorable coworker told me when you weren't here?" Each insult is matched with swift kicks to Spencer's stomach and chest. He groans, rolling on his back now as he tries not to succumb to the pain.

Your eyes don't leave him. You're not sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried. You don't have much of a choice, though, as the man yanks your head back to look at him.

"He told me..." the gun comes up under your chin now, holding your head in place once again, "that he has a little crush on you. Isn't that just pitiful?" he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head.

You study the man, recalling all the knowledge you gained about him over the course of this case. He's insecure, probably impotent. He hunts women because he could never get them any other way.

"Guys like us..." he yanks Spencer to sit up by his collar, "we don't get girls like that." He's nearly spitting in Spencer's face, and you know he's slowly dying inside.

"Spencer..." you breathe out, "is it true?" You do your best to appear completely turned off, though you know you never could be. Your brows furrow in disgust as your lips curl downward.

"See, look at her," he's got Spencer's hair in an iron grip, forcing you two to look at each other. "She's disgusted, she doesn't want you. How could you be so stupid?"

"I just got caught up in it," the words spill out of Spencer's mouth, "we spend so much time together, and you're so pretty, so witty, so smart. I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."

Those words knock the air right out of your chest. A crush is one thing, but in love? You shiver, his words unzipping down your spine.

"You see that?" he growls, yanking Spencer's hair even harder, "she doesn't want you."

"He's right," Spencer flinches at your words, and you continue despite the hurt in your heart, "I don't want you, Spencer. Because I want you."

You turn your gaze to the unsub, staring him straight in the eye.

"I just can't resist you. The way you've dominated us..." you breathe out a huffy laugh, "it's undoubtedly one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. Way more attractive than anything he has ever done," you nod towards Spencer as seduction laces each word, though it tastes like poison on your tongue.

You see Spencer in your peripheral. You can barely make out the look in his eye, but you swear you see the faintest tint of insecurity lacing his gaze. The fear that maybe you mean it. Your heart clutches at the thought, and you note to do something about that later.

He lets Spencer go, his attention is now fully on you. He saunters closer, a hand reaching for your tied up ankle. His hands feel like sandpaper on your skin, gritty and unwanted.

"You really think so?" he whispers, his grip now shifting to your bicep. "Then prove it. Come with me."

He yanks you up, helping you move with your tied up limbs. You glance at Spencer briefly before you're led out of the conference room into the bullpen.

It's not long before a gunshot rings out, and you prepare for the blow. You fall to the floor, though, suddenly unsupported by the man propping you up. You turn from your spot on the ground to find Spencer wielding his gun from the conference room, miraculously unbound.

"I had him!" you scoff, rolling your eyes as Spencer undoes your hands and ankles.

"He told me what he wanted you for when he had me in Hotch's office. Believe me, I did you a favor," his brows furrow in what looks like frustration, possessiveness, as he continues to free you from your bounds.

A shiver runs through you again, shaking the disgust at the thought. You let it pass, though, he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore. Once you're free, you fall back into his chest, letting him hold you from behind. Tears slip through your closed eyes as all of the emotions of the past two hours course through every part of your body.

Spencer tightens his hold around you, soothingly rubbing his large palms up and down. Your hand reaches up to the back of his scalp, gently massaging the spot where the man had pulled.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, your faces inches from each other.

"Better now," he replies.

"Me too," you smile.

Before you can manage anything else, Spencer's mouth is on yours. It's a small kiss at first, tentative, unsure. It deepens when you turn to face him, Spencer now resting on his knees. He opens his mouth further as the kiss envelops you both. He's desperate, as if he's trying to swallow you whole. The kiss is all consuming, the corners of your brain turning fuzzy as you let yourself fall further into his arms.

"Anyone wanna tell me why you two are making out next to our dead unsub?" you and Spencer break apart at the intruding voice, like two teenagers caught in bed.

It's just Derek, thankfully. A playful, supportive brow is cocked in Spencer's direction as the poor guy next to you flushes a shade of red you didn't think existed.

"I'm not against it," he says, moving to help you off the floor, "just maybe find a better setting next time."

Your face is on fire, probably just as bad as Spencer's. You see him move out of the corner of your eye, and you grab his hand. You run your thumb over the chafing on his wrist, your heart clutching when he hisses at the sensation.

"Hey, Spence?" you mumble, exhaling a shaky breath as your eyes lock on his red wrist.

"Yeah?" he mutters back, matching your intensity.

"How did you get out of those knots? I tried the whole time he had you, they wouldn't budge." You look up at him now, his big eyes tightening at the edges as a small smile spreads across his lips.

"It was a classic prusik knot. I just had to reverse it and I was out," he states like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Right. Of course you did," you smile, no teasing in your words, just true affection. Maybe a little bit of shock as well. His mind always has amazed you, even when you were too proud to say it.

You give his hand a squeeze before separating to be checked out by the medics. The rest of your team engulfs the two of you with worried looks and comforting words. As always, you find Spencer in the chaos. As always, he's already looking at you by the time your eyes find him.

Spencer sits on the edge of his couch, a bag of frozen peas resting on his black eye. It never gets easier, the fear and adrenaline of being taken by a psychopath. No matter how hard he tries, he still has to fight that feeling at the end of each day. The feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, how good of a profiler he is, it'll never take away the visceral fear of having your life in someone else's hands.

A knock on his door snaps him out of his spiral, and he silently thanks whoever is here at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. He swings open the door to find the last person he expected to see. Her. She's here, to see him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair is up, not an ounce of makeup on her face. She's perfect.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, and he's now registering the sleep mask that must've never left her forehead the whole way here. As his eyes trail down the rest of her frame, he takes into account the stuffed animal nestled in her right elbow, the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Me either," he responds, unable to help the smallest uptick of his lips at the sight of her. She looks so soft, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab her. He would never let go.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her eyes wide, and he's not religious, but God. How is he supposed to say no?

He nods simply, moving his body out of the way so she can enter his apartment. She looks around, taking in the intricate rug, the bookshelves lined from floor to ceiling. A bolt of self consciousness strikes him. The fear of her not liking what she sees runs through him for the briefest moment. The fear is gone, though, when she turns to him with a huge smile on her face.

"It's just as I assumed it would be."

He smiles at that, his tummy turning over her imagining what his apartment looks like, over her thinking about him that much in general.

"Are you oka-" He begins his question, but she barrels right through him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" It bursts out of her, as though she couldn't control it. He knows exactly what she means, and she knows he knows. He plays dumb anyway.

"Which part?" he croaks. She rolls her eyes, though there's no malice in it.

"When you said you were in love with me. Did you mean it?" Her honesty burns right through him, exposing all of him to her without even trying.

"Yes," he whispers, "I just thought you never liked me. I thought it'd be easier to pretend I didn't like you too."

She smiles, a bit self-deprecating, a lot of adoration. "We need to get better at talking to each other," she remarks. She saunters closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Her touch makes him feel like he's on fire, his blood thrumming through his veins right to his heart. It feels like it's burning to a crisp, yet he never wants her to let go.

"I love you, too, Spencer. I think I have since before I even knew you. I was so hurt when you made that comment all those months ago. I was more naive then, took things too personally. I thought that maybe if I just repressed the feelings, they would go away," she says, and his heart grows three sizes at the confession. "Of course I didn't mean what I said, either, I hope you know that."

He nods, feeling even more on display. How could she tell he took that to heart?

"Why do you think I always look at you?" she continues, "I couldn't ever take my eyes off you, even if I was paid to. You're too beautiful."

He blushes something fierce at that. Beautiful is a new one. He's been called a lot of things, nerdy, annoying, genius. But never beautiful. It burns him hotter, a white flash of light spreading through his entire body.

"You're beautiful," he replies, his arms finally coming up to pull her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You really think so?" she teases, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.

He nods, "Prettiest woman I've ever seen," it's a whisper, and it's true. No one has ever taken the wind from his sails the way she does.

"Can you kiss me again?" she breathes against his lips, desperation punching through each word.

He grabs her then, his hands coming up to cradle the back of her head as they desperately chase each other's lips. She plants short, staccato kisses all over him. She starts with his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times. She moves to his face, then, trailing her lips and tongue along his jaw, biting lightly behind his ear.

He feels her smile at the noise he emits, a whiny breath of air that would leave him embarrassed with anyone else. With her, though, with the way she's worshiping him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

He pulls her head back as she reaches his cheeks, feeling sorry for making her do all the work. He smashes his lips back into hers, lifting her legs so he can move her to his bed.

She cuddles into the soft mattress the second she's there, her eyes piercing his. He watches the way her gaze rakes down his body, a boost of confidence pumping him up. He takes his shirt off, a swift movement that surprises the both of you.

"Is this okay?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her, settling his long legs between her spread ones.

She nods sweetly, "Of course."

His heart stutters at that. Of course. Those words have the power to knock him off his feet. Her hands drift up to his hips, lightly squeezing the tiny bit of excess body fat there. He kisses her cheek. She rakes her hands up and down his back, nails scratching ever so slightly. He shivers.

It's not long until they're completely tangled in each other, breathy moans escaping her lips as he moves in and out of her. He wants to drink up every noise she makes, every low groan and high pitched whine that escapes her the most enticing elixir.

When they're finished, he's in a state of content and peace that he had never previously imagined possible. Peace and tranquility floats through the room as they take turns glancing at each other. Every time their eyes lock, they burst out giggling like children.

She's glued to him, whining high and long whenever he tries to move. She'd nearly strangled him with her grip when he went to get her a towel. She only relented when he- very thoughtfully, he might add- educated her on the risks of UTIs after sex.

They're laying in a light, airy silence now. One that drowns out the horrors of the day. He recounts the events of the past year, everything from meeting her to where they are now. His mind plays it over like a VCR tape stuck on rewind. He's desperate to find any evidence of her feelings before today, his mind whirring nonstop.

When she shifts in his arms, though, her heavy breathing indicating a deep sleep, it suddenly doesn't matter. He's here now, with the prettiest woman he's ever seen. He's so grateful he never took his eyes off of her.

[blairenqs]

୨୧ HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT ✧ SPENCER REID

───── IN WHICH 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 !

𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖿!𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝓍 𝒻! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝟣.𝟥𝖪 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ♡ ⎯⎯ ��𝖱𝖢𝖧𝒾𝖵𝖤

IT WAS A RAINY EARLY MORNING, the worst kind of morning when you had an early briefing at the bau.

you sat at the round conference table, cold hands collecting warmth from the steaming hot cup of coffee.

across the table, jj and garcia were deep in conversation about some celebrity drama you could care less about in the moment, quite literally just wanting to be swallowed by your fluffy blankets.

their voices were a comforting background as you waited for your brain to catch up with the rest of you.

it was too early—so painfully early, and you were already debating a second cup of coffee when morgan walked in.

and there it was—that familiar gleam in his eye that immediately set off warning bells. he looked far too happy for this hour of the day, and that smirk plastered on his face had trouble written all over it.

he made his way to the rounded table and clapped his hands once, the sharp sound startling you as it echoed through the room and drew everyone’s attention. —READ MORE!

“alright guys,” he said, leaning forward against the table with an exaggerated flair that always meant he had a story to tell. “you’re not gonna believe what i just found out.”

garcia’s eyes lit up instantly, and she immediately turned towards him like a cat spotting a mouse. “ooh, morning gossip? don’t leave me hanging now!”

jj leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised in curiosity. even rossi looked intrigued, though he didn’t say anything, opting in to sip his coffee with an amused expression instead.

morgan’s eyes landed on you briefly, and for a second, his grin faltered. “uh… sorry kid,” he said with a shrug, almost like he genuinely meant it.

you frowned at his words, instantly suspicious. “sorry for what… what did you do?” morgan put a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “why do you always assume i did something?”

“because you always do,” you said dryly with a sigh, placing your now luke-warm cup down. emily chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. “she’s got a point, derek.”

“okay, okay, fair,” he armpits, holding his hands up in mock surrender—then, his smirk returned as he leaned in closer. “but i’m telling you, i didn’t do anything this time. i just… observed something very interesting.”

garcia gasped dramatically, leaning forward with her hands up under her chin. “spill it already, or so help me—i’ll hack into your google account and leak your search history.”

morgan chuckled, clearly enjoying the anticipation. “alright—fine. here’s the deal, i was walking past reid earlier—”

“oh god,” you whispered with a groan, already dreading where this was going. “—and i just happened to glance over his shoulder while he was texting.”

“derek!” emily scolded, although there was no real offence behind her words.

“what? it’s not like i meant to!” he said, holding up his hands defensively. “but listen—this is where it gets good.”

rossi raised an eyebrow. “get on with it then, geez.”

morgan looked around the table, clearly enjoying the suspense he was building. “the contact name was ‘my love.’” garcia gasped so loudly you nearly flinched out of your seat. “oh my god!”

“and—” morgan continued, raising his voice to be heard over her exclamation, “—he wrote, ‘i love you.’ i saw it plain as day before he closed the app.”

jj’s eyes went wide as she turned to look at you, sympathy practically oozing from her expression. “oh no,” she whispered, her tone soft and full of concern.

you blinked, confused by the sudden emotional shift in energy of the room. “what? why are you guys looking at me like that?”

jj reached out like she wanted to engulf you in a hug. “sweetheart, i’m so sorry. we didn’t know he was… seeing someone.”

“what?” you said, your voice practically a shriek.

garcia scooted her seat closer to you, her face full of maternal concern. “it’s okay honey,” she said reassuringly. “we know how you feel about reid. and honestly? i don’t blame you, it makes sense. he’s sweet and smart, and who wouldn’t fall for that? but—” she gave your hand a little squeeze. “you deserve someone who’s going to feel the same way about you.”

your brain felt like it had been electrocuted. “wait—pen—no, you’ve got it all wrong. i don’t—”

“it’s okay to admit it,” emily interrupted, her voice empathizing. “we’ve all seen the way you look at him. there’s no shame in having feelings for someone.”

“i—what—no!” you stammered, your face growing hotter by the second. “you guys are completely off base!”

“denial is a river in egypt,” garcia said with an upside-down grin, nodding like she just dropped some profound wisdom.

morgan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. “hey—no judgment here. it’s tough when your crush is dating someone else. but you’ll bounce back, you’re strong.”

your mouth opened and closed, trying to form a response that would shut this entire conversation down without spilling the truth—because the truth was, spencer wasn’t dating someone else. he was dating you.

he had been for months.

you barely had time to gather your scrambled thoughts before the door to the conference room swung open, and in walked spencer, the man of the hour—coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

he looked as endearingly disheveled as ever, looking the same as you left him in the morning—his tie slightly crooked, his hair falling into his eyes—and your heart did the stupid fluttery thing it always did when he was around.

“morning,” he greeted, his voice soft as he glanced around the room. then, his gaze landed on you, you who looked as if you had just seen a ghost, and his brow furrowed slightly. “what’s going on?”

everyone froze—their eyes darting to you.

“nothing!” garcia shrieked, far too loudly.

“yeah, nothing alright,” morgan repeated, though his smirk said otherwise.

spencer tilted his head—clearly unconvinced, but before he could push again, the door opened, and hotch strode in with his usual workaholic presence.

“let’s get started,” hotch said, not sparing a glance to the lingering awkwardness that seems to be in the air today.

the briefing began, thankfully putting an end to the antagonizing conversation. but throughout the meeting—you could feel spencer’s eyes on you, his gaze filled with a quiet concern.

when the briefing ended, the team quickly separated to gather their essentials for the flight. you hung back, pretending to check something in your bag, but really just waiting for the room to empty. as the last of them walked out, spencer approached..

“you okay?” he asked, his voice laced with the familiar worried tone.

you barely had time to answer before his arms slipped around you, pulling you into a hug. it was gentle and comforting, but when you relaxed against his embrace, his grip tightened, his warmth seeping into you.

you laughed softly, resting your forehead against his chest. “spence, someone might walk in.”

“i don’t care,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your hair. “you seemed tense earlier. did something happen?”

you hesitated, not sure how to even explain the bizarre situation— so instead, you tilted your head up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

his eyes widened in surprise, but they softened almost immediately. “what was that for, love?” he asked, his voice warm with curiosity.

“i’ll tell you about it at home,” you said quietly, brushing a hand over his tie to straighten it. he sighed but didn’t let go, his forehead resting against yours. “you promise?”

“i promise,” you whispered with one last kiss to his nose, smiling up at him.

he finally loosened his hold reluctantly, letting you pull away, though his hands lingered on your waist.

his sheepish smile was so full of affection it made your chest ache in the best way possible. as you grabbed your bag and headed towards the door, he followed close behind, his hand brushing against yours as you walked.

whatever misunderstanding the team had, it could wait. for now, you and spencer had each other, and you suppose you can handle the ‘broken heart’ allegations for a little while longer.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

© blairenqs 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

✧ 𝑓. tysm for 200 followers !! 🥹🫶 i’m so grateful oh m gee <3 i’m currently on spring break and i have no social life whatsoever & i was in the trenches of depression but this made my whole month. THANK YOUU ! spencer brainrotting my way thru life 🕺

𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @lcvealwayss @viennasolace ♡ thank you so much for joining !

[railingsofsorrow]

Game of Pretend

[Spencer Reid x Reader]

summary: In which friends with benefits go undercover as a married couple and they ended up playing the part almost too good.

pairing: spencer reid x f!bau!reader

w.c: 2.7K

warnings/content: criminal minds case related stuff; suggestive content (no smut!); graphic descriptions of violence and wounds; idiots in love/friends with benefits trope; their love language is touch, you'll notice that; just a little bit of angst.

A/N: and I'm back. again. this challenge motivated me to write cause I was really going through it. but anyways. this is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins “Undercover Challenge” with the prompt “Characters go undercover as a married couple” and the dialogue prompt “I'm just acting.” “Oh, so you can make your heart race on command?”

navi

masterpost

criminal minds masterlist

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“He’s looking over here.”

You looked at your partner, taking a sip of your non-alcoholic beverage slowly as you slightly inclined your neck to watch the UnSub having a drink in the other end of the bar counter.

“Let’s start the show then.” You winked at Spencer, earning a scowl that he quickly masked into a loving smile towards you.

Such an in love husband.

“He’s staring at her.”

JJ’s voice boomed into your ear as a warning as you reached for Spencer's hand, intertwining your fingers.

“My mom wants us to visit her first thing after the honeymoon.” You said, playing with the straw of your cup. “We should extend it.” That got a laugh out of him and you felt his curls tickling your temple as he leaned closer.

“We can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Yeah, baby.” You didn't know why the nickname surprised you but it did.

Spencer watched as your eyes traveled across this face in contemplation, wonder. He's just playing his part.

“Whatever I want huh?” You hummed softly, cheek leaning on your hand. Spencer knew that expression. He has lived with it these past months whenever you were going to do something you knew would piss him off. Often to tease him.

God he hated that look. Your teasing was relentless.

He pulled a strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand lingering near your cheek. His touch was warm and in spite of not really being a fan of physical touch, you'd always find yourself leaning closer to Spencer at certain moments. He represented some type of safety to you, you never really read too much into it, but you also never denied yourself to be close to him when you wanted to.

The way his eyes briefly shifted from behind you to you again told you the UnSub was closer this time.

“We could maybe do that thing in bed we were thinking of trying…”

The way Spencer choked on his own spit — he had a drink but he didn't even touch it — made you grin so big your mouth could split open. What he did with touches you were able to do with words.

“Kinky.”

You heard through your earpiece and Emily's voice almost got you to crack. You didn't.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Well, I have a few ideas I’ve been wanting to try but yeah, it's not like we have all the time in the world now.” You bit your cheek, hating the fact that he paid with the same coin. You, on the other hand, felt your neck heating up. His honey brown eyes stared you down and you saw the edge of his lips quivering in amusement. Caught you. You could read his thoughts.

“Oh, shit! I'm so sorry, miss.”

And you needed the UnSub to act to get out of your staring contest, you didn't know if that was good or bad.

First move — to accidentally bump into his victims with his drink ✓

Perfectly done.

Second move — the victim goes into the women's bathroom to clean herself up.

Now, it's your move.

Spencer heavily glared at the man as he insisted to buy you another drink, but you squeezed his arm and brought his attention back to you. Your voice was calm and calculated, a pointed gaze sent his way. I'm going to the bathroom, watch out for his partner. I got him.

“I’ll come with you.”

You halted, practically feeling the guy's gaze on your back. He had walked away after apologizing a thousand times but he was the one to watch the woman enter the bathroom while his partner stayed outside with the car, ready to take off.

They had fallen for the bait, it had been a simple stakeout. The whole reason the women were caught without any commotion was because they went into the bathroom alone. So why the fuck did Spencer want to come in with you? It wasn't part of the plan.

“Honey, it's the women's restroom.” You laughed as if that was the most funny thing in the world. Hotch’s deep angry voice resonated through the earpiece, telling Spencer off. You didn't have time to dwell on it because you were already moving away from your husband's pouty figure.

Flashforward and you were sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT tending to your superficial wounds. Nothing serious happened, a minor physical conflict when the man noticed you were about to fight back. He got a punch in your eye. You knocked him out with a swing of your leg. That was it. Still, Spencer was fretting.

“You need a head CT.”

“You need to calm down.” You told him with a sigh after pulling him away from the EMT so he would stop bugging them about your health. “Jesus Christ, I've been through worse. Relax.”

“He had a syringe to your neck—” He started and you interrupted him with a bored tone.

“Didn’t even graze my neck, Spencer.”

“It could've!”

Your voice was resigned because you were tired. All you needed was your bed and sleep twenty-four hours straight. That fucking duo of bastards had you and your team chasing them for a week. “Okay, honey, drop the overprotective husband act. We're off the stage. I'm fine.”

Spencer seemed to get the point and left you alone. After Hotch congratulated you for a good undercover job, he let you know you were not going back tonight because the jet would only be ready in the morning. So yeah, no warm bed with your soft mattress and your fairy lights tonight. Just the old musty bedding in your motel bedroom. At least it was a room for one, you didn't have to share with anyone else neither would you have patience to do it.

Emily and JJ followed you on your way to your room. You noticed their exchange of looks right away.

“Spit it out.”

JJ blinked innocently at you. “What?”

Pressing your thumb against the bridge of your nose, you tiredly said, “You two are either flirting shamelessly right in front of me or silently discussing something about me. I believe is the second option so spit.it.out.”

Emily wasn't one to beat around the bush when it was something she wanted information on.

“You and Reid at the bar.”

“You mean where we served as bait to catch the UnSub?”

“That kinky talk all of a sudden, I mean.” Emily smirked as JJ chuckled beside her.

The only thing you could do was offer her a blank expression. You also knew how to play dumb like JJ just did a few seconds ago.

“Oh, please. He didn't even bat an eye at you!” She carried on, raising a brow. “Something’s going on, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at them.

“What is this, fifth grade?”

Emily let out a groan that echoed the hallway just as you reached your door. Their respective rooms were a few doors down.

“Told you she wouldn't reveal anything.”

“I had hope.”

You rolled your eyes before pressing your key in the keyhole and opening your door. “Goodnight, girls.”

You liked certainty.

It was so much easier when people would be straight forward and simply put the cards on the table to avoid misunderstandings.

You've had that trouble in relationships throughout your life. The experience of navigating a situationship on eggshells. Am I giving too much expectations? Am I having too many expectations? Is this even worth my time? Sometimes you just wanted to take the edge off. Simple and effective. No strings attached.

Somehow, you never had that issue with Spencer. That doubt.

“Serendipity,” he said one night. Your limbs were tangled under the sheets and he just blurted out the word as if you were supposed to know what it meant without any context.

You looked up at him, your lashes barely letting you open your eyes since your latest activities had tired you out. “What?” You were used to Spencer’s random bursts of smart comments.

“It means when you…” He paused to kiss the back of your neck, causing you to squirm away only briefly, a smile growing in your lips. “... find something good accidentally…” another kiss, his hands wrap around your waist slowly. “without meaning to.”

“Oh.” You turned around as his arms caged you in, supporting your torso against his chest. You liked how his eyes seemed relaxed after you spent a night together. Ever since you met Spencer, he never had a healthy night sleep. Either because of a good book or worry. He never really rested. You had that in common. That was probably why you two clicked immediately in more ways than one. “You’re saying i’m that something good you found, Doc? Careful, I'll start thinking you’re getting attached.”

Certainty was in your agreement when you decided to turn friends with benefits. Things were pretty clear for the two of you since the beginning. Both wanted to just… forget about your jobs for a little while. And that's what you did.

That agreement was none of everyone's concern but yours. So you didn't tell anyone. It was your own thing, which was going well so far.

Too well.

You were too good at ignoring signs. All your life, you've been so focused on not getting attached that it usually worked well in your favor. But you realized you fucked up when after a bad day the only person you wanted around was him. And sex wasn't what you had in mind. Spencer’s presence was inviting and all you desired after being (barely) beaten up was to tangle your limbs with his and call it a night.

That's bad. Your brain warned. Very bad. Cut it off before it gets worse.

You stood in front of his door, staring at the wood as if it would knock on its own. Why were you even there? Maybe you should apologize because you felt like you did something wrong when he looked pissed moments before he left the crime scene. But then you remembered that he left. How dare he?

He answered your harsh knocks with a confused frown. His glasses were perched up on the tip of his nose, probably had slipped down while he tried to sprint to answer the inconvenient person at the door in the middle of the night.

“Is everything okay?” You entered without an invite and crossed your arms, waiting patiently until he closed the door. You were mad. You didn't have any reason to be mad.

“You left.”

He placed the book you only now noticed was on his hand on the nightstand. His nose scrunching up in confusion. “Left what?”

“You left the crime scene.” You left me — you wish you had say but you would've sound like a jealous girlfriend. Which you were none. “Didn’t wait for anyone.”

He didn't reply right away, his eyes accessing you carefully. He wasn't mad anymore. He wasn't even mad before. Just frustrated. You were just doing your part of the job and he let emotion go in the middle. It happens. Though the absolute terror he felt right before he got into the restroom was another thing. He never felt that before, it didn't just happen.

“I was tired, just wanted to… get some rest.” His eyes then softened which contributed to you feeling like a fool. “I’m sorry I didn't wait for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

He nodded, approaching you with careful steps. He wanted to redeem himself. You sighed in exasperation, running a hand over your face but you flinched when you touched your wounded brow.

With a gentle touch to your chin, he tilted your head upwards to check on your wound. Your eyes followed him every move. You felt like you could melt into a puddle. His touch was exactly what you needed.

“Does it hurt too bad?”

“No.”

“It may still be sore.” He observed, brushing your hair away from your forehead. Your eyes fell shut, you couldn't help it, your body had its own mind. “I’m sorry I reacted that way. It wasn't professional.” He mumbled after a long pause between the two of you. You had already given up on your tough act, resting your cheek against his chest as his fingers worked through your hair.

“Fuck professional.” You said, nuzzling against his neck while your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You fit perfectly and that would always amaze you. Spencer never rejected your touch and it made you wonder, for a moment, if you were being unbearable. That thought was quickly shut down by him pressing you closer.

“Your heart is racing.” He pointed out, both of his arms tightening around you as if that was supposed to make it better.

“I’m just acting.” You whispered, enjoying the sound of his laughter after you said it.

Spencer leaned back, quirking up an eyebrow looking down at you “Oh, so you can make your heart race on command huh?”

“I bet you got a scientific fact just on the tip of your tongue.”

“When you exercise, your heart rate increases,” he started slowly and you felt his fingers draw up your shirt slightly. You liked where that was going. His raised his hand until it was right by your chest, so he pressed his open palm right by your heart. You ignored the shivering. “It is actually very easy to raise it. When you take the stairs… When you're running on a treadmill…” He lowered his lips to your neck. “But when you're not doing any hard work with your body, let's say, it's even easier. Like now.”

The way he pressed kisses down your neck made your eyes flutter shut.

“If you're experiencing strong emotions like excitement or… stress? Which I know isn't the case right now, is it?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He chuckled, kissing the corner of your mouth. Before he could move to your lips, you drew back, but not so much.

“I came here to talk to you about something.” He withdrew his hands from your waist, his fingers traveled up your arms and he squeezed them reassuringly, urging you to go on. “So… this. Between us. It's cool, right?” Suddenly, you weren't good at communication at all. You barely remembered your own name.

“Yes?” His brows furrowed slowly. “Why? Do you want to stop?”

Your brows shot up. “No! No. That's not— it's not about that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I mean…” You place a hand on his chest, taking a deep breath so you could gather your thoughts. “It’s not that it's wrong. But. Have you ever considered…”

Spencer tilted his head so he would catch your gaze. “Considered…?”

“Becoming serious. Exclusive. Like a—you know.”

You would've pushed him back annoyed because of how his face was scrunching while he tried to prevent a laugh. He was laughing at you. He held you back, hand crawling up your back to keep you in place. You felt like a fool.

“Yes.” He whispered, cupping your cheeks to make you look at him despite your annoyance. “Yes, I do want to be a couple. Exclusive. Whatever you want to call it. I want you to be my girlfriend.”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

“But I am excited.” Spencer emphasized, pulling your face closer which made you smile a little. “I was waiting for the right time, I didn't want to pressure you. I thought you would cut me out of your life and I'd rather just… stay with our deal instead of that being the case.”

“I’d never cut you out of my life, Spencer.” You said with your shoulders slumping in disappointment that he even thought that.

He nodded, resting his forehead on yours and silence took over both of you for a moment. Just your breathing balancing together.

“Stay the night?” His request was useless because you were about to do that anyway.

“Mhm, yeah, I'll stay.”

“Good.” He kissed you, his warm hands wrapping around your waist. “Girlfriend, right?”

You let out a loud groan. “Shut up.”

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[reidmoony-toast]

We Hug Now. ౨ৎ

"The world ended when it happened to me"

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Spencer finally returns from prison, but he isn't the man he used to be

content: no use of y/n, angst (some) comfort cw: sad themes, metaphors of violence an: This is out way later than I thought it would be so I'm very sorry 😭 Anyways this is for the gorgeous @thegloryofliterature ilysm and I hope you enjoy lovely <3

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

You paced the room anxiously, jittery hands pressed to your racing heart. The apartment hadn't changed one bit since Spencer had last been inside—you had the irrational fear that if you did, you would lose those little parts of him forever. The pile of books on his night stand stayed precarious as ever, a layer of dust covering his copy of War and Peace in its original Russian—one of his favourites.

His favourite mug sat ready on the counter, as if he would walk in at any moment and pour himself a cup. It would have too much sugar, and you’d tease him for it, before he’d lean across the cool stone and kiss you softly, sickly sweetness coating his lips.

A purple scarf hung on the coat rack by the door, faded with use. It was his favourite. Is his favourite. It was a gift from his mother almost half a decade ago, and he’d cherished it ever since. The stitching on one end had come apart, and you’d sewn it back together. The new thread wasn't the perfect colour match, but Spencer hadn’t minded one bit. He said it added character, and always reminded him of you each time he wore it. You couldn't help but notice the purple scarf adorning his outfits more after that.

You glanced at your phone again for the hundredth time, and found the same text from Penelope, sitting, opened and unresponded, on your screen.

He’s coming home. Today.

Not much else needed to be said. Those few words gave everything you needed to know—except when he would arrive. Thus, you had been wearing a patch into the rug beneath the coffee table with your excessive pacing ever since you received Pen’s text.

When would he be here? You were almost sick with worry. You peered at the text again, then abruptly threw your phone onto the plush couch. It was no use reading it once again. It wouldn't help.

These last few months had been absolute torture. Knowing Spencer was in such a horrible place, getting hurt, and there was nothing you could do about it? It had to be one of the worst feelings in the world. Like you were being stabbed repeatedly with a serrated knife, and every time it was pulled out so slowly, you could feel each and every agonising groove.

Worst of all, Spencer had left you off his visitor’s list. That little fact cut the deepest. Spencer Reid, the man you loved most in the world, the one you had bared your soul to for the past three years, actively didn't want to see you. It was like one big inside joke you had been left out of.

No matter how beyond relieved you were that he was finally out of that hell hole, the pit in your stomach that got increasingly worse each time you thought about that little fact didn't abate, even now.

What were you going to say to him? After all these months without so much as a phone call shared between the two of you. All the information you received came second-hand from his team, and you didn't even get to correspond by letter.

Why had he done it, why? You had lain awake at night contemplating that question for weeks on end.

You understood Spencer, more than you understood yourself, even, but what you couldn't understand was why Spencer felt like he couldn't show all of himself to you, even the most horrible parts. Especially those parts.

With almost divine timing, the door handle turned slowly, and your head whipped to the door. You froze in place, staring with wide eyes as the door clicks, opening cautiously. There was no need for a key, you had unlocked it hours ago, anticipating this very moment.

The door opened fully, and Spencer eased himself into the entryway. You couldn’t breathe. His form was hunched, hair falling limply into his eyes, and you could spy facial hair covering his jaw in a dark shadow.

His gaze shot up, and the door slipped from his grasp, banging loudly into its frame. You both jumped slightly at the noise, but your eyes never left each other. You sucked in a sharp breath. He looked empty. Like every joy and light that once filled him so profoundly was completely extinguished. Snuffed out.

His eyes were gaunt, dark circles of unrest swept under his lower lash. Those eyes—once doe-eyed and hopeful—were haunted. Exhausted. Utterly wrecked and full of anguish.

You both stood there, unblinking and unmoving for what felt like an eternity. The harsh silence is broken with harsher words. “Why, Spencer.”

It wasn’t a question, nor a statement. It resembled more that of a plea. For what, you didn’t know.

He said nothing.

“Why didn’t you let me see you? Why did you shut me out? Do you really think I’m that shallow?” A silent tear tracked it way down your cheek, pooling on your jaw before dropping onto the rug beneath your feet. You weren't even aware of crying in the first place. “Why.”

He just stared.

“Spencer.” Your voice cracked, and your limbs unlocked enough to take a small step forward. He just shook his head slowly, swallowing harshly as he regarded you with his broken eyes, and a lone tear traced its way down the contours of his face, perfectly mirroring your own. It caught in his five o'clock shadow and disappeared, leaving only a shining track of sorrow down his cheek.

Your lip trembled and your eyes softened at the scene before you, and you forgot any prior grievances—you forgot everything, even your name, as you focused your whole being on the broken and bruised man before you.

“Oh, my love, what did they do to you?” The words come out as an almost imperceptible whisper, cracked and crazed, like a window pane just before it shatters into a million lethal shards that bite into your hands and feet—stinging and deep.

It all happened so quickly after that. Spencer's face crumpled completely, a wracking sob crawling out through his throat. He stumbled forward at breakneck speed, straight towards you, like a compass pointing to its true north.

You didn’t remember how, but you were moving too—less fast, but no less determined, and you both ate up the distance, until there was no other option than to fall right into each other.

That was exactly what happened, and he barrelled into you so hard that all the air in your lungs was forced out against your will. Momentum sent you both crashing towards the kitchen, and Spencer cushioned your fall with one arm wrapped tightly around your middle, the other flying out to catch himself on the countertop before he crushed you with his large frame.

A shattering sound punctured through your bubble of consciousness, but you paid it no mind. Everything else in the world was inconsequential compared to the man sobbing violently into your neck, arms holding onto you for dear life.

Your own limbs came up to rest—one around his shoulders, the other threading through the dull curls at the base of his neck. You rubbed soothing circles on his back, whispering incoherent comforts into his ear. He continued to shudder, choking on his tears and tightening his grip to an almost crushing embrace.

Your heart ached for him, deep and painful. You hurt for everything he has suffered. You hurt for what he had to do to survive, for what was done to him. You hurt for the utter loneliness he must have felt with no comforts and no freedom, and all for a crime he didn't commit. You hurt for the relapse that was forced upon him, and for the reason he went to Mexico in the first place.

Spencer poured out every feeling of guilt and inadequacy, of shame and disgust. Every moment he felt scared, and every moment he felt anger so powerful, it made him afraid of his own mind.

But mostly, it was the feeling of helplessness that held him captive. You knew that feeling well, had become close acquaintances with it in the past months—though nothing to the extent of his, you were sure.

He clung to you like you were a lighthouse in a storm, and you let him. Told him to let it all out—every haunting and twisted minute of the past three months.

The longer you stood there, the more you understood why he pushed you away, even as it ripped the stitches open on that wound once again. He never let others see his pain, and to be so vulnerable and so raw, stripped of your self-identity like that, was a scary thing for him to allow others to see.

While it hurt, you knew Spencer, knew his vice. Knew that he thought he was doing the best by the both of you, not stopping to consider that maybe you wanted to be there for the bad. Wanted, because you wanted inside his soul, because you wanted—needed—to be his shining light home; for your souls were intertwined, and he would have to try a lot harder to push you away.

You stayed steady now, for if you broke, you wouldn't be the rock he needed. No, you had to stand strong. For Spencer.

Your neck was sticky with hot tears, and you sent a look at the floor to your left—by pure chance—and a flash of porcelain shine caught your eyes. Then, in stillness, you realised what it was.

Spencer’s mug. The one you laid out every morning. It rested there on the kitchen tile, broken. Smashed. In Spencer's flail to catch the both of you, he must have knocked it to the ground.

You stared. And stared.

And finally, after trying so hard to be the strong one, the calm one, the understanding and soothing one, the damn burst, and a tidal wave washed away the foundations of your resolve.

You cried. Loudly. Painfully. The sobs wracked your whole body, down to your cold feet on the freezing tile. You could feel those shards of glass now.

The pain you felt, so visceral and puncturing, was no longer a metaphor—the glass cut into your feet, legs, arms, stomach and chest, as your eviscerated body sluggishly poured hot and sticky blood onto the kitchen floor in perfect tandem with your cracking heart.

You registered Spencer whispering something over and over again into the smooth skin of your neck, now wet with tears. Your next sob was choked as you realised the words. “I’m sorry.” Over and over, again and again.

You listened to those two soul-crushing words as you stared, unblinking, at the mug on the floor. It was broken beyond repair, and it could never be fixed, not fully. No matter how intricately you glued it back into one piece, it would never be the same ever again.

The cracks would still be there, even if they weren't visible. It would never gain back its strength again, and it would easily chip, easily shatter once more.

As you held the man you love in your arms, letting him sag against you, use you as a lifeline, you realised the unfathomable truth. No matter what, nothing would ever be the same again.

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @navs-bhat <3 - Comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[darkmatilda]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢'𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it's time to return the second favor. and for that reason, spencer finds himself invited by you...on a date?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist!female reader, fake date at the bar, reader's ex makes an appearance, kinda inspired by blank space taylor swift

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.5 k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

[unknown number] wake up pretty boy

[unknown number] time to pay your debt

Spencer, sitting on his bed with a book resting on his lap, stared at the message for a moment, his brows slightly furrowed. Evening, the warm glow of his lamp making it easy to read. He had the next day off, no real plans, just a quiet night ahead. The sudden chime of his phone had caught him off guard.

For a split second, he was surprised—but he didn’t have to think too hard to guess who the sender was.

He typed out how did you get my number, then deleted it before hitting send. Something else was far more interesting. And a little concerning. That second message. Pay your debt. She remembered about that now, at this hour?

Before he could ask, another text came in.

[unknown number] taking you on a date

[unknown number] dress nice

For a moment, deeply confused, he just stared at his phone, already sensing somewhere deep inside that this was going to be a really weird night.

[spencer] What do you mean by ‘date’?

A minute or two passed. He didn’t put his phone down. Didn’t even look away from the screen.

[unknown number] the one who asks questions loses his way

His fingers moved automatically.

[spencer] That’s not how the saying goes

✓ Seen 10:12 pm

Reid sighed. He had absolutely no plans to go out that evening, and he wasn’t thrilled about the fact that he hadn’t been given any details about this so-called date. Unless she was joking? There was something off about this—some kind of trick, a twist he hadn’t figured out yet.

The only thing stopping him from ignoring her messages—something he very much wanted to do—was the simple fact that he did owe her. Technically, twice. Though he had managed to repay one of those debts in an easy way, requiring almost no effort on his part.

He had a feeling this second one wouldn’t be nearly as simple.

And now he found himself wondering what exactly she meant by dress nicely.

*

"Wait, one more time. We’re going there as her… what?"

"Mental support," she said, moving forward with that usual quick stride of hers, the sharp tapping of her heels almost aggressive. Whether unconsciously or fully aware but not caring, she got a few steps ahead of him, speaking without turning back. Her voice hung in the night, street air.

Spencer hated when she did that. It made him feel like a dog on a leash. He sped up to match her pace.

"Well, I heard you," he scoffed. "Doesn’t mean I get what you mean. And maybe you should clue me in if I’m supposed to be part of…whatever this is” 

She stopped with a sigh so heavy it was as if giving him any details about something he was supposed to be part of was beyond her patience and strength. Hands tucked into the pockets of his blazer, he gave her a questioning look as she finally turned to face him.

His gaze dropped—quick, casual. Or at least, that’s how he thought it looked. Even at night, under the less-than-ideal glow of the streetlights, he could register how her outfit hugged her figure, emphasizing every curve.

At work, she dressed more formally. With her looks, that face, and the unshakable confidence she carried, she could probably make a burlap sack look like a designer gown. But Spencer had noticed something about the way she dressed for nights like this. Or rather, the way she became something else entirely. Like she belonged to the night, completely in her element.

Quick, casual glance—yeah, right.

To make the situation even more embarrassing, she snapped her fingers in front of his face, demanding his attention.

"Alright, listen up," she started, shifting her weight onto one hip. "I’m explaining this one last time. My friend, Liv—you might know her from my team…"

"Olivia, you mean," He said her full name in confirmation, recognizing the woman he had indeed seen before.

"Do you really have to correct me on how I call my own friends? Anyway, fine. Olivia has a date tonight with some guy she met online. The thing is, Olivia is a hopeless romantic who’s waiting for the love of her life to magically show up at her door, but she’s also buried in work and can’t even remember the last time she went on a date. Plus, she’s a little worried about ending up with some psycho. You know what I mean."

"All too well," he nodded, recalling all the missing persons cases that had started exactly like this—an online match gone wrong.

“Exactly. So Olivia asked me to come along. You know, for physical backup if anything goes sideways. And mental backup. Just to make her feel safer."

Well, he didn’t want to praise her out loud, but it was…nice of her. Okay, nice wasn’t the perfect word—honestly, the fact that she even had to do something like this was a little bitter at its core—but it didn’t change the fact that she was being a good friend.

He watched her for a moment, not even realizing he had gone quiet. He realized he’d never actually seen her interact with her people, her team, but he had somehow assumed their dynamic was more… detached. Not that she genuinely considered them her friends and actually cared.

"Finally caught up, genius?" she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Spencer snapped out of it. Okay, so maybe she cared about her friends—but she was still seriously unbearable.

"I get it. Except for one thing," he replied, matching her slightly rude tone, one that made him sound almost offended. She raised a brow, nodded as if giving him permission to continue, and started walking again—this time at a slower pace.

Actually, they were moving at almost the same rhythm now, nearly side by side.

"Why do you need me for this?"

Their eyes met, but this time, she didn’t look like she was about to mock him. In fact, the corners of her lips lifted slightly, as if she thought that was a very good question.

"Because tonight, pretty boy, I plan to stay completely on the sidelines," she explained. "Not interfering with my friend or her date in any way. Being completely invisible."

"Invisible?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

It wasn’t even just about what she was wearing. Drawing attention was simply an unavoidable part of her presence. She nodded in confirmation.

"Exactly. But I figured that to keep away all the desperate guys trying to get my number, all I need to do is bring one with me," she looked like she was trying not to laugh. "You’re gonna be my scarecrow."

Spencer's mouth fell slightly open, completely at a loss for words.

"You…you are just… just…"

"Amazing, smart, beautiful, wonderful…"

"Shameless. That’s the word"

For a moment, she didn’t respond, her expression filled with a strange kind of complacency.

"Love when you compliment me," she said in an overly sweet tone.

"That wasn’t—" he started, but then cut himself off, realizing there was probably no point in arguing with her. He sighed.

"You’re welcome."

*

Despite the late hour, the bar wasn’t overcrowded. Sure, there were plenty of people inside, but most were engaged in quiet conversations over their drinks. Spencer noticed quite a few couples. As if they were one of them, they found a secluded spot in the corner, right next to a small pool table made of dark wood with a striking green surface.

"That’s them," the woman discreetly motioned with her head toward the pair at the bar— a cascade of blonde curls and the man accompanying her. She fixed them with an assessing gaze, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Hm. He looks like his pictures. I’ll take that as the first good sign."

"She shows you pictures of her dates?"

"Every single time. We rate them on a scale from one to ten."

Spencer wasn’t surprised in the slightest. His gaze briefly shifted in their direction, though he made sure not to stare, not wanting to make them look weird. The pair seemed to be talking a little shyly—it was obvious this was their first meeting.

“So,” he started. “Is this what we’re going to do all night? Just stand here?”

“Basically, yeah. I mean, we don’t have to just stand around like a couple of creeps, staring at them. We can enjoy our date. Just because it’s fake doesn’t mean it can’t be fun,” she said, slowly circling the pool table until they were on opposite sides.

She slipped off her outer layer, and Spencer couldn’t help but notice that her outfit underneath did anything but help her stay invisible. Reaching for a pool cue, she nodded at him.

“What are you waiting for?”

“You want to play?”

“No, I want to duel you with the cues,” she scoffed. “I’m a professional, you know.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow slightly as he grabbed a cue of his own.

"Professional?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. World championships and all that. But that was a while ago. Then came the injury, and I had to say goodbye to my career. After that, I had no idea what to do with myself, so I became a chemist," she said, with a casual shrug.

He chuckled at the made-up story, setting the pool balls up into a perfect triangle at the center of the table. Once they were ready, he gestured for her to go ahead.

She refused with an exaggerated, almost overly generous smile. "Oh, no. Amateurs go first."

He held back a roll of his eyes, leaning over the table. The balls scattered across the surface, and from that point on, he'd play with the cue ball. It was her turn now, and Spencer watched her movements closely.

"I didn't know your story before the FBI job was so fascinating," he remarked, trying to throw her off a little.

They hadn't made any bet, but there was a subtle competitiveness in him now.

She shrugged.

"I don't think it's fascinating. More tragic. Lost dreams."

"Right, sorry for my disregard. What kind of injury was it?"

She paused for a moment, focusing on her next shot. One of the balls sank smoothly into a pocket, and a small smile played on her lips.

"Shoulder," she replied casually. "Sometimes it still acts up. I have to go for regular massages."

"Poor thing," he said, his tone teasing.

Her gaze briefly scanned the entire bar, landing once again on her friend. Nothing seemed to bother her, so she returned to the game.

"We're playing just for fun? Don't you think that's a bit boring?"

"Sorry, I don’t want to bet with you again. Paying off debts with you is never easy."

"Come on. You’re having fun with me” 

"You think so?"

“No. I know it."

She potted another ball, gaining the upper hand. Spencer puffed his lips, deciding to focus more on the game. They both did, though it didn't stop them from continuously exchanging similar comments, remarks, and jabs. And despite the countless huffs and eye rolls, he had to admit, he was really having fun. With her.

And even more fun when he realized he was close to winning.

With a certain satisfaction, he noticed she was watching his moves with more attention, her eyes slightly narrowed with cool competition. As he leaned over the table again, she moved toward him lightly, almost as if tiptoeing. She passed by almost unnoticed. In fact, he only realized how close she was when her breath softly grazed the inside of his ear as she spoke in the voice of a social commentator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, to the surprise of the entire audience, amateur Spencer Reid has managed to take the lead," her whisper was laced with feigned suspense. Of course, he refrained from moving, making sure not to make a mistake from distraction. "Will he manage to win today's tournament?"

He straightened up with a sigh, which made her step back slightly. He gave her a look full of mock pity, and she responded by slowly blinking her eyes, imitating the gaze of an innocent angel.

"I'm pretty sure this counts as sabotage," he remarked.

She raised both hands in the air, as if defending herself against the accusation.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything," she denied, a subtle spark in her eye. She gave a quick nod toward the table. "Come on, finish it."

Spencer, uncertain and sensing she was up to something, tried to refocus. When he found the perfect angle and was about to hit the white ball, something nudged his elbow, causing it to roll in the completely wrong direction.

He directed a look at her, mouth open in indignation.

"This is... this is cheating, pure cheating..."

"No idea what you're talking about!" she shot back. She pretended to be serious, though in an incredibly clumsy way. Her lips kept trembling, trying to form a smile, and she struggled to suppress it. "I didn't do anything. Your hand must have slipped..."

At the sight of the expression on his face, she couldn't hold back anymore and burst into laughter. It mixed with the sound of his incessantly muttered, mildly irritated comments under his breath, which absolutely didn't reach her conscience. In fact, it seemed to only make her feel more smug. Spencer finally gave in, letting out a sigh.

"I demand a fair rematch."

With her arms crossed over her chest, she raised an eyebrow.

"Go ahead, then," she said, grabbing the cue stick again.

Her friend and her date were still deep in conversation, sitting much closer than before, with small smiles on their faces. They didn't seem like they were in any hurry to end the evening. A few new people had arrived at the bar, making it louder, but Spencer didn't even notice. He was completely focused on this small, occupied space between them where they were slowly giving in to the growing rivalry, even though nothing had been wagered. It was probably just about pride.

His opponent was doing everything in her power to make his game harder. He'd abandoned all pretenses of fairness and stood right beside her whenever she leaned over the pool table. He didn't even intend to nudge her—but when he was close, she assumed he would and became incredibly cautious, often elbowing him in the ribs to make space for herself to focus. Despite all of this, they were laughing. He even forgot for a moment that he had planned to spend the evening entirely differently.

They played a few more rounds, each of them winning the same number of games. He announced the next one, but before starting, he briefly disappeared into the bathroom. Simply because, well, he needed to use it.

As he washed his hands, he could hear the hum of conversations, laughter, and music, all muffled by the door. It felt a bit warm, despite the fact that he'd taken off his jacket a while ago. For some reason, he suddenly became self-conscious about how he looked, though he hadn't thought about it at all before. After all, it wasn’t like he was on a date with some woman he was trying to impress. Still, driven by some inner impulse, he fixed his hair and smoothed the fabric of his shirt with his hands, rolling up the sleeves so they wouldn’t get wet while washing. He hesitated for a moment before lowering them again, surprised to sense someone's gaze on him.

The tall man with black hair, a rather sturdy build, and narrow glasses on his nose didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring at him. Spencer wasn’t sure if he should just walk away, but something made him raise an eyebrow skeptically. He had no idea what was going on.

“Do we know each other?” he asked, genuinely considering the possibility.

He couldn’t recall this man from anywhere, which, given his memory, pretty much ruled out the idea.

“No,” the man replied briefly but confidently, still not breaking eye contact. After a moment, he added, “But I know your friend. I know her well.”

Reid stood still for a moment, embarrassingly slow to realize which friend the man was referring to. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that it struck him—this guy had likely been watching their game for a while and was talking about her. Before Spencer could say anything, the man continued.

“Actually, I used to date her. And listen, I’ve got some advice for you. Just give up on her.”

Spencer blinked, trying to process if he’d misheard.

“Beg your pardon...”

“I’m serious, man. Not because I’m jealous or anything like that,” he quickly clarified, raising both hands as if to declare his sincerity. “It’s just simple, you know, guy solidarity. Don’t waste your time.”

He was struck by a strange feeling that his conversation partner had some mistaken idea about their relationship. Besides, even though the man had clarified that he wasn’t jealous, he sure sounded like a jealous ex. Spencer knew he should just laugh it off and walk away. After all, he wasn’t dating her, didn’t intend to, and whatever the guy had to say about her shouldn’t matter. Yet, his legs refused to simply walk away.

Some curiosity, one he couldn’t shake off, took hold of him.

“What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

A slight smirk appeared on the man’s face as he noticed he had Spencer’s attention.

“I get that you might see something in her. She’s pretty, you have to give her that. At first, even...kind of charming in her arrogance. But once you get to know her...it’s a strong word, but you need to know, she’s fucking insane.”

The language seemed to twist strangely in his mouth.

“That doesn’t tell me much,” he replied dryly. “I mean, anyone could mean something different by saying fucking insane.”

The man scoffed with a bit of contempt. Spencer was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the whole conversation.

“Okay, you’re probably going to deny it and defend her because you like her, I’ve been there, I get it.”

Because I like her? He almost denied it but stopped himself, letting the man continue.

“She’s just insufferable in the long run. She acts like she knows everything, gives orders, always has to have the last damn word. And you know, at first, you think she’s just playing that part. And then she’ll start acting, well, you know…”

Spencer felt the urge to laugh.

“Submissive?” he suggested, the missing word that seemed to want to spill from the man’s mouth.

“Normally. Just normally.”

Something started to smell between them. A distinctive scent. Wounded male ego.

That alone was enough for Spencer to know not to take this conversation seriously. That alone was enough for him to know he could end this conversation whenever he wanted. But before he could take a single step away, he thought about the entire evening he'd spent with her. Everything, from the first message he’d received while still at his apartment.

He counted how many times during their meeting he’d just laughed, having more fun than he’d had in a while. In some unclear way, he felt he owed her that.

“Let me sum this up,” Spencer began, gesturing with his hand and never breaking eye contact with the man. “Because this, in its way, is strange to me. Funny, even, when you think about it.”

The man furrowed his brow, listening. Spencer remained unfazed as he continued.

“First, you met a commanding, confident, and, okay, a little cheeky woman. That didn’t scare you off, though, and you decided you wanted to start a relationship with her. And when it happened, you were surprised she was commanding and cheeky? You know, she doesn’t pretend she’s not like that. You knew what you were getting into.”

"Fine, you know what, this doesn’t make sense," the man sighed. "Do whatever you want. Just remember, I warned you. One day, you’ll be grateful for this."

"Maybe you're right," Spencer admitted, nodding slowly. "It doesn’t make sense."

The man gave him one last look before scoffing and walking away. Reid was left in the bathroom alone, actually reflecting for a moment on the entire conversation. He didn’t think he should have been a part of it at all. The guy must’ve assumed he was interested, or that they were dating. He didn’t have any insight into what their relationship really looked like. In any case, Spencer imagined what it would be like if another guy were in his place. Her actual date. I wonder if a conversation like that would make him turn away, push him away entirely.

After a moment, he concluded that no, it probably wouldn't have. Assuming, of course, that the other guy wasn’t a complete idiot, blindly believing the words of a hurt, maybe even a little jealous ex.

Though, maybe he couldn’t really judge from his position. The position of someone who wasn’t planning on dating her, and who wasn’t interested in her in that way.

He thought for a moment about whether he should tell her about the conversation. He decided against it, not wanting to spoil or ruin the good mood of their evening. Instead, he straightened his hair and, completely unfazed by what he'd just heard, returned to the pool table where she was leaning, clearly growing impatient with his prolonged absence.

"Finally," she hissed at the sight of him. She almost shoved the cue stick into his hand, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "I thought you were trying to escape me. The thought of another loss scared you, huh?"

He paused for a moment, staring at her face—the slightly parted lips, the warm bar light reflecting in her eyes, and the familiar, confident gleam. For a brief moment, a fleeting thought crossed his mind—what did she even see in that guy?

But almost immediately, he dismissed it, considering it none of his business, and took the cue stick from her, ready to start the next game.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

morbid meeting - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader runs into a stranger in a coffee shop—a very smart stranger

genre: fluff wc: 800 warnings: reader is supposed to be alt/goth, mentioned kissing, kidnapping of an umbrella, mentions of serial killers and morgues a/n: requested by @westanleovaldito!!! ty:) also it's come to my attention that not everyone knows what a london fog is????

The rain made your hair much flatter than you had in mind when you back-combed it this morning. It’s a miracle it managed to not get soaked completely if we’re looking on the bright side.

But who are you kidding? You suck at looking on the bright side.

So you pat down your hair and shake off your umbrella.

You wonder to yourself if the craving for a London fog was really worth the wet tights (not to mention the scribbled-on Converse that most definitely don’t have stick men on them anymore). You’ll have to remind yourself to hold a wake for said stick men.

The shorts you put on this morning were a better idea before you saw Mother Nature’s idea of a good time.

Your feet move quickly to the back of the line.

“Excuse me?” You turn to see a tall man with shaggy hair and a satchel. An awkward smile adorns his boyish face–a face you could see yourself kissing. But that’s irrelevant.

A tilt of your head conveys your confusion and you're sure your wide eyes do too.

“Sorry, just–uh–is that your umbrella?” he asks, pointing toward the door.

When you look in the direction he’s gesturing toward, there’s–of course–a man walking out the door with your black and white polka dot umbrella.

“Shit!”

His head dips as his eyes lock onto his shoes. With your jaw slack, your head shifts back to him and, naturally, you follow his gaze down.

A complete 180, you grin. “Nice shoes.”

Your eyes meet and he mirrors the curve of your lips. “Thanks. You, too.”

“They–um–used to be nicer but, y’know, rain,” you shrug awkwardly.

“I understand,” he nods, that same smile on his face, “I’m really sorry about your umbrella, by the way.”

The way his nose scrunches makes you want to look at him longer. You’re blushing and you don’t even know his name.

“It’s okay! I like the rain.”

An honest, adoring look lands on you right before he says, “me, too! Did you know that the average speed of rain is fourteen miles per hour or twenty-two point five three zero eight kilometers per hour?”

Something about how he knows that makes you admire him. You mean, who just has that knowledge tucked away? Except maybe you.

“Did you know that the chainsaw was originally invented to assist in childbirth?” you chime happily.

His jaw goes slack in what you assume is impression.

“I did! Uh, th–there are roughly fifty active serial killers in the United States at all times.”

You giggle. “I knew that, I watch my crime shows. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting quite a response but he recovers. “Okay… Did you know that, in the mid eighteen hundreds, morgues brought in more onlookers than museums?”

“They did?” you narrow your eyes in curiosity.

He nods eagerly, a curl falling loose in front of his face. “Around forty thousand visitors a day! Children drew the largest crowds.”

“Wow,” you smile. You bite down on your crimson lip bashfully before muttering a soft, “you’re smart.”

You watch his throat bob as he swallows. A meek, gentle–and honestly adorable–”thank you,” leaves his lips.

You nod and your pupils dilate while they trace every curve and slope of his face. He has on a button-down and a tie, a cardigan on to keep him warm. The rain outside has started to dry, leaving messy but defined curls behind. His shoes are also muddy, yet, still cleaner than yours.

“Box Jellyfish possess at least twenty-four functional eyes,” he whispers under his breath as if to defeat the silence.

A soft giggle leaves your lips. “You just… know that?”

Proud of himself, he nods. “I read a lot.”

“Oh, yeah? What–”

“What can I get for you?” the barista asks.

And you’re pulled out of your real world reverie. The dreamy haze you found yourself in with a complete stranger.

How curious is that?

Your mouth opens to speak but you find it near impossible to get a word out. “Oh! Uh–” you clear your throat, “a medium London fog, please? Extra foam.”

The change in your red leather wallet practically hits the poor girl in the face with how quickly your manicured fingers ruffle through it. But the swiftness in which you pay doesn’t help you, because the minute you tell her the name for the order, the stranger–the one that’s not so strange–his phone starts ringing.

“It’s–uh–work, I’m sorry, I have to–I have to go,” he rambles, hand slipping into his satchel for a cellular device you haven’t seen in five years.

“It’s okay! I… it was nice…” and he answers the call, tongue sweeping across his lips. You continue to yourself, “talking to you…”

Peculiar.

Yet, you find yourself interested.