#Spencer reid x reader

[luvrgirls]

I miss my wife

[parfaitblogs]

in a world of boys, he's a gentleman ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your night out comes to an end, and your boyfriend has to try to keep your wandering hands off of him. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: alcohol consumption. reader is drunk. reader is a brat. spencer is so exasperated. but he loves you so bad. age gap probably. suggestive content. word count: 2.1k a/n: oh my god i miss having a man to pick me up and love me when im drunk #thisshouldbeme final boss level 1000. simple fun fluff i love when he's nice to us i should do this more often. circa summer 2024 ass title i'm rebuilding spencer reid tumblr brick by brick. 

You were never meant to be this drunk. 

Truly, you had grandeur plans for it to be a one and done night. Entertain the birthday girl — your best friend — with your presence and take care of her, for it is her night, and then go home and pass out early enough in dark green sheets and the sound of your boyfriend sleeping next to you. 

You'd even told him about these plans. 

Instead? He's staring down at his phone with a locked jaw, and four different messages from you glaring back up at him. Incomprehensible, if he weren't as smart as he were. If he weren't as attuned to you and your mannerisms down to the way you text. A man who doesn't even like texting, and he's memorised how you do. 

Something about him picking you up, maybe, if he wants. Another thing about you finding him pretty. Another with a photo of the — and he quotes — really good vodka coke the bartender made you (he's certain it tastes the same as the last three you mentioned drinking). Finally, a photo of you in the bathrooms, arms around your best friend, grinning at the mirror through your phone, showing off your outfit to him. As if he hadn't memorised, documented, the way the skirt looked on you when you left hours earlier. 

When he doesn't reply to a single message, you call him, and endearment for you grows, for he can hear the pout on your lips as you speak into the phone. 

"Why're you ignorin' me?" you mumble, which isn't much help considering how loud the world around you is, your voice nearly drowning out. 

"I'm not, honey," he says. "I only just checked your messages. I was about to respond."

"Liar. You're ignoring me. You hate me."

"I can assure you I don't," he's amused. He's so stupidly amused, you want to kick him for it. You don't. You can't. Instead, you let him keep sweet talking you out of your predisposed anger. "Are you having a good night?"

"Yes!" you brighten almost immediately. "Did you see the photo I sent?"

"Of your outfit? Yeah, angel. You look pretty," he's practically perfected how to talk to you when drunk. You're oblivious to it, always too intoxicated to register he is extra nice when you're barely able to hold yourself upright. 

"Thank you," you reply, and he can hear the fluster. "Look prettier in—in person."

"I know. I saw you before you left, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah," your cheeks heat, and you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. The bricks are a juxtaposing cold against your back. Rough, too. Oddly comforting. "Are you busy? Am I keeping you from somethin'? S'that why you were ignorin' me?"

"No," he replies. "I'm waiting for you to be ready to come home. Is that why you're calling?"

"Mm-mm," you shake your head, giggling to yourself because you remember he can't see that. He doesn't know why you're laughing, but he smiles at it nonetheless. "Jus' wanted to hear your voice. Miss you."

"I miss you too, honey," he says, and you can hear that smile in his voice. 

"What're you doin' then?" you ask, staring at the door to the club you had deserted, keeping an eye out for your friends to emerge. 

"Reading."

"Reading what?"

"Sofia Petrovna," he tells you, and, as if he can see the way your eyebrows furrow, he adds, "Russian novel by Lydia Chukovskaya. I'll find a translation so you can read it, I think you'd like it."

"You should jus' read it to me right now," you mumble, crouching down to the floor, resting your head on your knees. "Translate for me."

"You most certainly won't remember a thing I'm saying. Where are your friends?"

"In the club. It got overstimulating," you tell him. 

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and an excuse about how you can actually see your friends still — you can't — manifests on your tongue, preempting the scolding he's no doubt formulating. 

However, two simple, stern — but not too scary — words kill the faux reassurance immediately. "You're alone?" 

You hesitate. "...No?"

"Can you go find your friends, please? I don't want you outside alone."

"Yes, sir," you stand back up. His jaw clenches, biting back his reprimand. He doesn't have the energy to lecture you about the dangers of being this drunk alone, and he's sure you wouldn't appreciate it anyways. Or remember it. "I will call you back later! Bye! Love you!"

He continues to hear from you for the two hours following. A photo once you find your friends to assure him you're safe, a mistyped message about how you love him more than anything in the world, another asking if he's mad at you when he doesn't reply. Eventually, you're calling him again, chatter from the smoker's lounge you'd disappeared into loud, but he can faintly make out you asking him to pick you up. 

He finds himself in an empty enough street just a block away from the last club you told him you were going to, waiting. 

There were people everywhere, just past the corner of the street. Girls with their bags hanging limply down by their calves, fast food paper bags held up to some of their mouths. Never his scene, but he's shown up enough for you since you started dating to know what he's looking out for. 

He can see you before you spot him, but when you do, he can't fight the smile at the sight of you brightening up in an instant. Distantly, he hears you call his name, pointing him out to your friends and stumbling towards the car. 

"Hi!" you collapse against the passenger's seat door, window open and waiting for you, as you lean into the car. 

Recognising the offer for what it was, he leans across the console to kiss you before you can start drunkenly accusing him of not loving you. Or whatever you can come up with to start a baseless, completely harmless argument with him. 

"Hi, honey. Good night?" he asks as you finally pull open the door, settling into the seat with a sigh, head nodding as you peel your shoes off of your feet and curl up. 

"I think so," you murmur, hair covering your face as you drop your head, and a yawn stretches your mouth open. "I'll tell you all about it t'morrow."

"Can't wait," he muses. 

"You never answered me," you then say — which is generous, considering he could barely make out a word — looking over at him. "'Bout if you're mad."

"I wasn't mad," he reassures you. "Just worried. Thought we talked about not being out and alone when you're this intoxicated?"

"Yeah. I know. Sorry."

Tomorrow, as it turns out, follows a quiet drive home for you to collect your thoughts, and his helping hands at removing your makeup and getting you into the shower. A year old promise that he will always force you under the water before bed no matter what protests you come up with.

Now, here you are, rambling his ear off animatedly on the edge of the bathroom sink, as he brushes a wet comb through your hair. 

He's listening intently, soaking in every word you were saying about your night out, even if it entirely made no sense to him. Your attempt at stringing together your night's events was poor at best, and he's pretty sure you've re-explained four times that you went into then night with fake names and backstories to try and fool everyone.

"And then we went to... um... I forgot the name. But it was free entry, so we went in, obviously, and this guy bought us drinks because of the birthday sash she was wearing, so that was awesome. That was the vodka coke I sent you, it was so goo—can I have a kiss?"

Your request catches him off guard, and the comb clatters to the basin beside you when his hand drops from your hair. 

"Is that all you want?" he hums, leaning forwards. His lips brush against your own, and you smile.

"Yep. Just a kiss," you chirp, slouching your shoulders so you could look up at him with wide eyes you know all too well he can't deny. "Please?"

You just had to ask so nicely, and he was left with very little choice in the matter in the end. 

He kisses you for only a second, aiming to pull away and successfully get you into bed before you can take this any further. 

Ever so sneaky, though, you catch your fingers into his hair and tug him back into you, legs hooking around his waist to keep him locked. His hips knock the cabinets, but he's distracted by your lips back on his to fully register the hit. 

"Honey," he mumbles against your lips. A warning, you think. It sounds it. 

You don't listen. 

Instead, you inch closer to the edge of the basin until he's forced to roll his hips into yours to push you back, saving you from falling off. 

You whine, and the sound has him coming back to reality, deftly pulling away from your lips. You protest, quietly, and he's forced to tangle a hand in your hair to tug your head back, keeping you away from him.

"No," he says, firmly. If you were sober, maybe you'd back down under the demand. Then again, if you were sober, he wouldn't be saying no to you. Instead, his tone of voice only makes your smile widen, and your skin tingle. 

"It was just a kiss," you protest, slipping off the sink once he steps back, letting him guide you like a lost puppy back into his bedroom. "Spencer?"

"No it wasn't," he says, hand on your back as he navigates you over to his bed. "We've talked about this."

He sits down before you, and despite the scolding, lets you climb over him into the bed anyways, hips straddling his waist as he lays back on the bed. 

"Just a kiss. I promise," you affirm, breath warm against his lips. 

He gives in, as he always does, and lets you kiss him again. 

Hips square above his, chest pressing on his, fingers ruffling the sheets beside his head. You kiss him until you're out of air, and convinced he's drunk enough on your taste to let you go further. 

He isn't. 

"Behave," he quips when your hand drops to his waistband, his fingers catching your wrist and lifting it back up. You're too focussed on the way his hand fits around the joint to argue. 

"I am," you huff, tilting your head with a lopsided grin. "Didn't do anything!"

"Brat," he pinches your hip, and you squirm, bursting into a fit of giggles. "Go to bed."

"Can't. You've got me caged up on top of you," you jut your chin out. "Maybe you're the problem."

"Yep. Sure am," he confirms, letting his arms around you go slack, just to watch you fall off his chest and to the mattress beside him. "Sleep."

"Or what?"

He pushes air out of his nose, but it's all too difficult to stay frustrated with you when you're staring up at him with the hugest smile on your face. You know exactly what you're doing — and he's just letting you.

He thinks he will forever.

He pauses in choosing a response. "Do you want me to be nice when I wake you up tomorrow?"

"Depends," you study him, eyes narrowing; drunken skepticism. "What's your version of nice?"

"You're a smart girl. Figure it out," he kisses your nose, "and go to sleep."

"Are you being suggestive?" you sit up abruptly, and his palms find comfort in his face, running down it. "Spencer."

"I'm not answering that. Go to sleep, honey."

"I can't. Why would you say that? You're such a tease. Oh my God. I hate you," you moan, dramatically falling back down to the bed, head finding the space between his shoulder and his neck. "Do you promise?"

It's like he knows you're giving up, for his voice has dropped into a drawl, exhaustion he'd been expertly masking coming out as he speaks. "Promise what?" 

"To wake me up nicely?"

"If you're good and go to sleep now, yes."

"Pinky promise?" his eyes are now closed, but you still search his face with keen interest. He smiles. He can feel it. 

"Pinky promise," he affirms, and he finally — finally — fully relaxes as he feels you curl into him. "Goodnight, honey."

"G'night, Spence."

[gf2bellamy]

Could we as a whole agree that spencer would take his gf to get some surgery/procedure done (even as simple as wisdom teeth) and fawn over her as shes comming out of anesthesia and just generally baby her??? Idk i just love this idea and i ADORE how you write him

i think this req is like 2 months old and i'm so so so sorry completely lost sight of it but yes, i completely agree

he probably reads every single medical article about the procedure beforehand, just so he can be prepared.

he insists on being the one to take you. he schedules the day off, shows up with a neatly packed bag (complete with soft tissues, water, your favorite lip balm, and a fluffy blanket.)

the nurses love him. he’s polite, softly spoken, maybe a little anxious, and very clearly smitten with you. one of them says, “your boyfriend’s a keeper.”

when you’re coming out of anesthesia, he’s already by your side, eyebrows drawn in concern, holding your hand while gently stroking the back of it with his thumb. you just look at him like he hung the stars in the sky and immediately start gushing about how cute he is.

spencer’s just red-faced, smiling, brushing your hair back gently

“you’re a little out of it,” he says, and you pout at him. “i’m not out of it, i’m in love,” you argue.

once you’re home, he makes sure you're propped up comfortably, gets your pain meds ready on schedule, and reads to you in that soft, voice of his. either your favorite book or a random article from his brain bank.

you’ll catch him watching you while you sleep, just to make sure you’re breathing okay and not in pain. he's got his hand resting over yours even while he's reading.

and when you fall asleep on him (which you do), he doesn’t move for hours. he just reads quietly with you curled up against him, making sure you're warm and comfortable and safe.

[darkmatilda]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: upon waking up next to a certain unexpected person, spencer barricaded himself in the bathroom, trying to piece together the events of the previous night and come to terms with the fact that he had just gotten married in Vegas.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, non-explicit nudity, alcohol consumption, they just went with the vibe and even slept together #imbeciles, everything is spencer’s drunk and dumb idea and even he has no idea what he was trying to achieve with all of it, lots of spencer's inner monologue, and quite a lot of just awing over our gorgeous reader (can you blame him?)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.9k

𝐚/𝐧: shoutout to vegas anon for the idea. i’ll never stop thanking for it, it’s so dumb and it only works because it’s THEM. requests for the aftermath (and honestly the whole series) are open now <33 masterlist

There was a certain blissful feeling accompanying Spencer from the moment he cracked his eyelids open.

A blissful feeling that overshadowed something else lingering in the background—a weight pressing against his head, like the prelude to a brutal hangover that hadn’t yet caught him in its snare. A weight softened by the conditions in which he had awoken. The mattress of the bed in this upscale hotel seemed to mold perfectly to his body—naked, as it turned out. Comfortably warm, to the point where the blanket only covered a sliver of his hip, and yet he didn’t feel the slightest chill. No morning stiffness in his muscles—only relaxation…still drowsy, he rolled onto his back and realized that wasn’t entirely true. He was, in fact, sore in a few specific places, though he wouldn’t call it a bad feeling. If anything, it felt…welcome. Almost wanted.

Soon, he forgot even about that.

More precisely, when his gaze started to orient itself in space and cooperate with his sluggish mind, it almost immediately stopped on the divine sight right in front of him.

She must have woken up shortly before him. Also with skin fully exposed to the sunlight seeping through the balcony window, she lifted herself into a sitting position, shifting so she could end up face to face with him, hair flowing smoothly to one side of her head as she gently tilted it.

Looking at him, with a truly unreadable expression.

For a brief moment, Spencer’s body seemed unable to move, frozen in place.

He responded to her gaze with hesitation, but—as he had already managed to gather—they had slept together, so he should probably let go of the shyness. Let go of the shyness—he had to repeat that phrase in his mind to realize that, without taking his eyes off her, he had stopped breathing. Slowly, he let the air out, barely noticing that his lips had shaped themselves into a small, gentle smile.

“Good morning,” he finally said, his voice barely louder than a mumble, but soft.

What followed was a wave of confidence—or rather, an irresistible need to confirm that this wasn’t just a drunken dream (although he doubted that an alcohol-clouded mind would be capable of painting such a masterpiece as she was—something he had always sort of known, but only now became fully aware of)—and his hand wandered toward her, not yet knowing where it would land.

He didn’t care about any specific place—he simply wanted to feel again the miraculous smoothness of her skin and what it felt like under his fingers.

But she firmly brushed his hand away, and it felt like a slap straight to the face. Or rather, like a needle popped the blissful bubble that had surrounded him since waking. Even all the symptoms of a hangover began to come crashing down on his head like an avalanche, now that the barrier holding them back was gone.

“Oh, I’ll give you good in a minute,” she said quietly right on the dangerous edge of a hiss. Spencer blinked blankly, completely lost. The woman suddenly drew in a breath, her fingers digging into the skin at the side of her head.“I’m afraid…I have a suspicion we did something absolutely fucking stupid.”

Spencer felt his body tense up in an unpleasant way, and with it, his jaw clenched too. Not out of anger—of course not out of anger—just… ust suddenly it became so clear to him that she must really regret spending the night with him, which, to put it mildly, was a fucking awful feeling. It hit him and trapped him in its grip, a grip that only loosened when he looked into her eyes and, surprisingly, didn’t find regret there.

The first memories from the night before (a night, but not a night) started coming back to him.

And then the hand he hadn’t even realized was still hanging in the air dropped loudly onto the sheets.

“Oh fuck.”

She drilled her gaze into him.

“Oh fuck? Seriously, oh fuck is all you’ve got to say?”

“What else could you possibly say in this situation?!” he asked, his voice an octave higher, almost squeaky, as panic began to fill him, his mind bouncing off the walls of his head in chaos.

Trying to regain some composure, he lowered his head with a sigh and realized he was completely naked.

The earlier blissful, carefree, and contemplative mood was now nothing but a memory.

“I need to...I need to—”

Reid realized he wasn’t lying in bed anymore, but standing beside it, looking around for his clothes on the floor. He gathered them, pulling up the same pants at least three times, feeling so deeply awkward and pathetic that he disappeared into the bathroom, avoiding looking at her face.

It wasn’t until the door was closed, clothes slipping from his suddenly too weak hands, that he realized how hard his heart was pounding. Okay, bolting like that was honestly a pretty pathetic move on his part, but in order to even start thinking about the inevitable consequences of what they’d done the night before, he first had to force himself to open those events—lay them out—and figure out how the hell they’d even gotten there in the first place.

And he couldn’t do that while exposed to the sight of her, especially with absolutely nothing on.

And yes, they could literally have had sex just a few hours earlier, but as the alcohol was leaving his system, virtue came rushing in to take its place.

Spencer pressed his back to the door, already picturing the woman he'd just hidden from rolling her eyes in quiet disbelief and pity over how he'd acted. She was definitely going to make fun of him the second he came back out—that was a given. For now, though, he decided to focus on something else. First, he wiped a hand down his face.

You’re probably wondering how they even ended up in this situation.

Well, it all started with none other than Derek Morgan. Derek Morgan and his grand vision of proposing to his girlfriend—where else but in a massive, high-end hotel in Vegas. So what were he and she doing there? You could call it moral support for this big step in his life. Also, their presence helped throw Savannah off the scent and made the upcoming proposal a little less obvious. Besides, they just wanted to chill out in a nice hotel.

“Okay...so I was planning to do it like this.”

With those words, Morgan dropped to one knee in front of them and reached into the pocket of his black blazer to pull out the ring. It was proposal night, and the three of them were hiding out in Spencer’s room, away from Savannah, so their friend could rehearse everything one last time.

Reid looked at Morgan—down on one knee and clearly stressed out—and honestly, he didn’t have much to say. It was a knee drop. Whatever.

But there was someone who had something to say.

“No, no, no, totally not,” she said, waving both hands in dismissal and shaking her head with the face of a seasoned critic.

Spencer raised an eyebrow at her, but she ignored him completely, continuing as she motioned for Derek to get back up.

“You need to have your hand already inside your jacket as you go down on one knee. Grab the ring box then. That way it’s smoother and there’s no awkward moment of fumbling around trying to find it.”

Their friend sighed but got up and did it again—and then four more times.

They couldn’t stay there rehearsing forever, though. Eventually, the man rose for the final time, lacing his fingers behind his neck in a last wave of worry.

“What if she says no?” he asked aloud.

Reid exchanged a glance with the woman; they both knew that question was coming and that it would fall on them to say whatever it took to boost his confidence.

He even opened his mouth to start, but she beat him to it.

“You’re proposing in a restaurant,” she pointed out. “In front of dozens of people. Poor Savannah. Even if she wanted to say no, she wouldn’t, because of the pressure.”

Spencer stared at her, jaw dropping in disbelief.

“You didn’t have to say that!”

She just shrugged. Morgan stared at her for a beat before letting out a short laugh. Spencer, however, felt compelled to add:

“She’ll say yes. I mean, she loves you, you’ve been together long enough, and even statistically speaking…”

“Thank you, guys,” Derek said, glancing at his watch and sighing—the time was getting close for his date with his (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée.

They both hugged him, wishing him luck. And there was nothing Spencer hoped for more than for everything to go exactly as planned. Because his best friend, Derek Morgan, absolutely deserved it. 

But before Derek left, he looked at them one last time, raising an eyebrow in that signature way of his.

“And you two? What are you gonna do?”

Reid had no idea what to say—he’d been so focused on Derek’s evening that he hadn’t thought about his own.

She looked at him, tilting her head slightly.

“Casino? I mean, we’re in Vegas. It’d practically be a sin not to go. Besides, I heard this guy’s pretty good with cards,” she added, raising her eyebrows at him meaningfully.

A strange wave of excitement passed through Spencer as it dawned on him—she had basically just told him she wanted to spend the evening with him.

But then he quickly grounded that feeling, telling himself it was just because she was a familiar face in a place he didn’t quite know yet. Then suddenly, another realization hit him, and this one made him uneasy. And no, it wasn’t her flattering words.

“Thing is…” he began, sighing. “I’m kind of…banned from every casino in Vegas.”

As he expected, she stared at him for a few seconds, motionless, then turned her gaze to Morgan, silently asking for confirmation. And when she found it, her eyes widened as she shook her head with a disbelieving scoff.

“Like, literally every casino in Vegas?”

 He shifted uncomfortably and gave a small nod.

“And Laughlin. And Pahrump.”

She made that scoffing sound again, and there was something accusatory in her gaze.

“And I’m only finding out about this now?”

She stood there for a moment, lost in thought as she came to terms with this new piece of information. Then she looked back at him, locking eyes—and maybe it was just his imagination, but he could’ve sworn he saw the hint of a genuine smile flash across her face.

“Well, now I have to play against you.”

Spencer finally tore himself away from the bathroom door, although he had to admit it had taken him an embarrassingly long time. What he had just opened in his mind had happened the night before, but it felt as if he were summoning a decayed memory from years ago. Still running on its fumes, he pulled on his pants, missing the leg hole on the first try and nearly toppling over on the second. Then he threw a white shirt over his back and, approaching the sink, began fastening the buttons.

When suddenly he froze—along with the breath in his chest.

He stood face to face with the mirror, and no, his hangover wasn’t so destructive that he didn’t recognize himself. On the contrary, he knew perfectly well he was looking at himself, and it made it even harder to connect the face that stared back at him every day from the subway window with the rest of his body. Or rather, with what was covering it.

A corner of his shirt slipped from between his fingers.

The first…let’s call it a signpost, since it marked the beginning of a long but consistent road, was located just below his jawline, partly overlapping it. Red, in the unmistakable shape of lips, nearly a perfect imprint. One might even think the surface had been a sheet of paper, a thin, unmoving plane — not his living, breathing skin. Funny how, instead of taking in his whole reflection at once, he gently traced his finger from one to the next, as if discovering an unexpected message written in Braille. The letters ran down his neck, chest, and stomach, fading downward into a more and more careless shape and a paler color — as if the hand that had written them had been struck by sudden inspiration and couldn’t quite keep up with all the mind wanted it to say.

Translating, of course, into nerd speak.

In reality, each next touch of her lips had simply been more impatient, wilder, and the lipstick had smudged more and more with every one of them.

The last of them were barely more than traces, faint smudges that could easily be mistaken for nothing more than flushed skin. He didn’t find out exactly where their journey had ended—when he spotted the lipstick just below his belly button, a sudden heat rushed up the back of his neck, almost instantly spilling beneath his skin and tinting it the same color as the lipstick that had marked him.

Spencer turned on the tap and nearly plunged his face under the stream of cold water.

"I've never played blackjack with just two people," the woman said.

Spencer focused on shuffling the cards carefully, yet as nonchalantly as possible. Right, he was showing off. Any problem with that?

"I've never played blackjack for drinks," he replied.

"Well, then this will be a first for both of us. You know the rules, right?"

He glanced at her briefly out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow.

"Please."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to insult your skills, card king," she scoffed.

He nodded silently, holding back a smirk. He didn’t know what exactly was affecting him, not a drop of alcohol had touched his lips yet, but he felt unusually confident. And above all, in the perfect mood to take on this sarcastic dance.

"Well," he muttered, with feigned seriousness. "At least you feel remorse. Rightfully so."

Her loud chuckle echoed through every corner of the bar in their hotel. They couldn’t visit the casino, so they decided to head there together instead, to play something quietly in a secluded corner, which by no means meant it would be any less fierce. They sat across from each other, and whenever he glanced at her, and her eyes, focused on his hands dealing the cards, met his, he saw a sharp glint in them, a sign of the competition to come. 

A competition he fully intended to take on.

After nearly submerging his whole head under the faucet, droplets of water slid down the back of his neck, soaking the fabric of his white shirt. He finally managed to button it all the way up; it was visibly wrinkled — both from the eagerness with which it had been taken off and from spending the entire night lying on his bedroom floor. Spencer felt a fleeting moment of relief, during which he allowed himself exactly one calm breath.

Right after that, more pieces of the previous night pushed their way into his mind, and he had the urge to grab his past self by the shoulders for that competitive streak. His present self too, for ever having been his past self in the first place.

Drinking games have this particular trait — the drunker you get, the more often you lose. And the more often you lose, the more you’re forced to drink, which makes you lose even more — and so the cycle spins.

Spencer never had a particularly strong tolerance, mostly because he usually avoided alcohol altogether. So it didn’t take long before he began to feel the first signs of intoxication. His tongue loosened significantly, and everything he said became more chaotic — sometimes even intimate. Not in a way that he started spilling secrets or handing out his credit card number, but he was far more willing to back up a point with personal experience rather than plain statistics or scientific proof.

He was also far more willing to laugh.

Though…maybe, in that particular case, alcohol wasn’t entirely to blame.

Luckily, his card skills and a bit of luck early in the game meant that he and his companion were at roughly the same level of awareness. That is to say — drunk enough to occasionally lose track of the conversation and forget they were playing anything at all.The initial rivalry had quietly faded into the background when she suddenly glanced at the time on Spencer’s watch—still holding her cards—and fell into thought.

She looked so pretty.

It meant, well, she always looked. But that was just a statement of fact, an observation of reality.And as we've already established, drunk Reid had a much greater tendency to speak from the heart—from his worldview and feelings—not just from dry data and objectiviy.

So, yeah. She looked so pretty.

And he could stare at her!

Because when a person gets drunk, their expressions and reactions become so lethargic that what, on the inside, feels like drinking someone in with your eyes, on the outside just looks like a casual glance.

So, yeah. She looked so pretty, and he got to notice it not once, not twice, not three times, but an infinite number of times — each one sending that same otherworldly wave of awe rushing through his bones.

Bless the alcohol!

He realized she had said something to him, and like an idiot, he hadn’t even registered the movement of her lips. Which—fair enough—he had been consciously avoiding looking at. Reasons. Private.

He shook his head, snapping himself out of it, and asked her to repeat.

“Do you think it’s over already?” she repeated — surprisingly without the kind of venomous tone that would usually ask if he could maybe, just this once, listen to what she was saying.

But if she had asked that, the answer would have been yes. He could. Just not that time.Not when she had one leg crossed over the other, her foot bobbing to a rhythm only she seemed to know (which he, of course, tried to match to hundreds of songs filed in his head—eventually settling on Chopin’s Ballade in G minor, Op. 23—though it was entirely possible he was reading too much into it), not when her skin shimmered in the warm bar light, not when her head tilted gently to the side, a direction her hair seemed to follow, that evening choosing a wilder path he adored.

Seeing he was still lost, she rolled her eyes.

“The engagement,” she clarified. “Do you think it’s happened already? Did Morgan chicken out, or did he actually go through with it?”

Oh, a concrete topic of conversation. A reference to reality and their friend's character. The brain kicked in. The brain stopped being pathetic, the brain started braining. Focus returned. Spencer cleared his throat.

"Hm, it’s Morgan," he noted. Don’t judge the eloquence of this statement too quickly—it really was developing into something sensible! "Y’know, he doesn’t chicken out. I’m sure he did it. He could have totally and utterly embarrassed himself, but in the end, he did it."

"Totally and utterly embarrassed himself?" she repeated his words, looking as though she was holding back a snort of laughter, her eyebrows raised in skeptical amusement. "Don’t be so cruel to your friend. You’d probably trip over your own feet. Face first. Right in front of your fiancée."

Reid froze for a moment, for some absurd reason feeling genuinely offended by the remark. He felt a sudden duty to defend his honor in this alternate universe where he had a fiancée.

"I would not," he denied, folding his hands on the table between them and leaning forward slightly. He had already set his cards down on the table earlier, completely forgetting the game. "I could totally pull it off with real class. Even without all that planning. Just buy a ring on a whim and propose at the first opportunity, and it would still end up being the perfect proposal. Though personally, I’d prefer to have something prepared. But, you know, we’re discussing a specific scenario here."

She didn’t look even the slightest bit convinced, no matter how much drunken conviction and seriousness he was pouring into his words. She just nodded, with a mockingly sympathetic kind of agreement.

“Mhm. Sure you would,” she muttered.

Spencer’s fingers tapped nervously against the surface of the table between them, trying to shake off the wildly silly idea creeping into his thoughts. It wasn’t just silly—it was completely unnecessary and, if anything, didn’t prove a damn thing. Even his own arguments weren’t convincing him.

His hand suddenly stopped mid-tap, coming to rest flat on the wood. “I can prove it to you,” he declared.

“Prove what? That you can bend one knee? Spencer, baby, you’re not quite old enough for that to impress me.”

“That I can do it properly,” he clarified, not even bothering to roll his eyes at her jab. “Do it right the first time—what Morgan spent an hour rehearsing with us in the hotel room. Reach for the ring at the perfect moment…”

“...sounds like someone was taking notes.”

“...and not fall on my face in the process. Do it all smoothly. So,” he shrugged, feeling unexpectedly nonchalant about the whole thing—which only made her watch him more closely, with a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, eyes focused solely on him, like nothing else around them mattered. For a second, it was easy to forget there were other people in the bar at all.

“Show me one of them,” he said, tilting his head toward her hands. She followed his gaze to the rings scattered across her fingers.

A moment of silence passed before she looked back up at him. Her expression suggested she was fully aware of how ridiculous the situation was, and yet…something in her wouldn’t let her end it. Slowly, she bit her lower lip in thought before slipping one ring off her left ring finger and pushing it into his hand—no hesitation, with a challenge. 

“Lights, camera, action,” she said.

The ring suddenly seemed to weigh a ton in his grip, burdened now by the full weight of Spencer's own idiocy. He had no idea what he was doing—indulging some stupid, alcohol-fueled whim that was meant to be a joke, and yet it settled over him with a strange kind of pressure. For the three seconds he remained in place, unmoving, a weird sensation twisted in his stomach, and he suddenly understood why Morgan had been so scared earlier. He practically had to yell at himself mentally. None of this was real.

So he got to work playing out their little scene, dropping to one knee after first slipping his hand under his blazer to mimic pulling the ring out from beneath it.

A heavy, awkward silence fell—for him, at least—as he suddenly realized he had no idea what to say.

She had been sitting with one leg crossed over the other, but now adjusted so that her knees touched. Her gaze pinned him down even further into the floor he was already kneeling on, though not in a humiliating way—more of a grounding one. With one corner of her mouth curled up, she leaned in slightly, speaking in a quieter tone.

“And how do you want me to react in our scenario?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Are we playing our friends now? Do you want me to do it the way I think Savannah would?”

"No," he said quickly. He wasn’t playing anyone else in that moment. As if this were real. He shook his head sharply, side to side. "No. I want you to react like you."

Her brows rose slowly and steadily, the rest of her face remaining almost completely unchanged.

“Like me if you were proposing to me right now?” she asked. Without waiting for confirmation, she let out a laugh. “I’d laugh in your face.”

Spencer didn’t even feel offended. He knew that’s exactly how she would react—she didn’t even need to say it. His sigh carried nothing but impatience, mostly because he hadn’t anticipated having to kneel for this long.

“C’mon. Just use your acting skills. I can pretend I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so you can pretend you’re in love with me.”

Another long stretch of stillness and silence from her. But it lacked any trace of awkwardness or discomfort. He started to wonder if she was doing it on purpose—keeping him in that position just to mess with him. If anyone was watching them—and someone probably was—they’d likely assume she was going through the greatest dilemma of her life, weighing all the pros and cons in her head. Wondering if she loved him. Their thoughts, not his.

“How much in love?” she asked.

Reid closed his eyes in frustration. Yep, she was definitely doing it on purpose. He shook his head, not even knowing what he could possibly say to that.

“You decide,” he said shortly—because really, that was the least important part.

Seriously, whatever.

Apparently not for her. She was still staring at him thoughtfully, not moving, not blinking—until finally, she did.

Spencer was sure this was it—that she would extend her hand, finger outstretched, so he could slip the ring onto it. The same ring he’d been holding out between them all this time. He even lifted his other hand, ready to do it smoothly, just like he promised.

But that wasn’t why she moved.

One second she was in her chair, the next she threw herself into his arms with an exaggerated, emotional sigh.

The suddenness and speed of it nearly knocked him off balance. He wobbled and had to drop to both knees to steady himself. Her arms locked tightly around his neck, her hair brushing his face, her scent flooding his senses.Over her shoulder, he saw his own hands frozen in the air. Hesitating, unsure whether to let them fall against her back. One of them still held the ring.

It simply froze him in shock. And he was the one who in such a cocky way told her to use her acting skills. A wave of self-pity washed over him, questioning what he had even wanted to achieve with all of this. Then she pulled away. Wrists crossed on the back of his neck, a brief meeting of their eyes, calling him an idiot and a reminder, a reminder with a small sigh, that it was him who had proposed this game. And then she kissed him.

Well, the way she did it was too monumental for him to keep his hands in the air. He closed the ring in a secure fist, as if it really were an engagement ring, both hands settling on her lower back to keep them from tipping backward.

“I thought you’d never do it,” she pulled away in the span of a second, speaking before he had time to open his eyes. When he did, he blinked and exhaled. Okay—more like gasped for air. “Ten years, fourteen weeks and three days. That’s how long I’ve waited for that ring. I was beginning to suspect you were just playing with me.”

Her loud voice, the fake outrage, and the completely made-up role. She was—she was brilliant.

And he was Spencer Reid, considered a genius, but in his own way, very, very stupid. Her lips looked at him again, and as he slid the ring onto her finger, he wondered whether anything he did now could still be counted as acting. She stretched out her hand, pretending to admire a massive diamond the ring didn’t even have.

You could feel the script slowly making its way to the end, and soon they'd be forced to get up and argue about whether he’d managed to make a point or not (he hadn’t), so he leaned in to cover her smile with his mouth. But before he could, someone appeared above them.

They both turned their faces toward her, wearing identical expressions—as if someone had stomped into their living room in muddy boots while they were sipping tea from delicate floral cups.

“Congratulations,” said some woman with a somewhat uncertain smile. She scratched the back of her neck. “You really do make a great couple. I mean, good-looking. You fit together. Did you know this hotel has its own chapel?”

In their very strong defense, they only went there after a few more drinks—when neither of them could’ve spelled the word M-A-R-R-I-A-G-E let alone remembered what it meant.

Time kept passing, and Spencer’s fingers were still struggling with the same button on his shirt. Eventually, he let out a heavy sigh and just gave up, no longer caring that half of his chest was exposed. He was acting like they hadn’t just seen each other naked a few hours earlier. Like they hadn’t woken up in that exact state, in the same bed, right next to each other. Still, he found it oddly difficult to leave his hiding spot—meaning the bathroom—not yet ready to face a certain possibility he still hoped wasn’t real.

They couldn’t have actually gotten married.

It had to be a dream. Just one of those hyper-realistic dreams that bleed into reality a little too well. And if it was a dream, then—sure, still questionable, but nowhere near as bad as actually getting married! In Vegas, no less, driven by nothing but alcohol, and not to the love of his life, but to… to…her. His hand was resting on the doorknob, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it down, too overwhelmed to make even the slightest move.

He shook his head, trying—unsuccessfully—to shake it all off, and with his jaw clenched, he stepped out of the bathroom.

Spencer wasn’t even going to pretend his eyes didn’t immediately land on her. He’d expected—was absolutely certain—that by now she would’ve done exactly what he just had. Got dressed, remembered everything, went through the initial shock and, riding its fumes, started wondering what came next. But that didn’t seem to be the case.

She was sitting on the bed in the exact same state he’d found her in when she woke up, only covered by the curtain of loose hair, rubbing at her calf—which was exactly where Reid’s gaze ended up lingering. There was a sizable bruise blooming there.

“No idea where that came from,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. She didn’t even look his way, and his steps were quiet.

A dumb little Oh slipped out of Spencer’s mouth, and only then did he manage to draw her attention.

“I know where that came from,” he said, swallowing hard. “It, um. You hit your leg when you were going over the chapel threshold. I mean, when I was carrying you over the chapel threshold.”

Their eyes met—long, steady, and real—for the first time that morning.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Spencer wiped a hand down his face, only now truly confronted with all of it. They had to… they had to… what did you even do in a situation like this? He paced the room in a tight, restless circle.

“This is stupid, we’re so incredibly stupid, who even let us do this, how could we—” he burst out, voice high with panic. He threw his arms stiffly to the sides, overwhelmed as another terrible thought struck him. “And we’re leaving today, I don’t know if we’ll even be able to get it annulled…”

He lost his train of thought watching her stretch out her legs on the bed, as if she were about to get up—but she didn’t. Her entire face was drawn in sharp, quiet fury, the kind of look that could burn straight through the fabric of his shirt, just to punch him in the gut with an invisible fist and set him straight. Not to undress him.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said slowly, with a firm little nod—like she had already crafted the one and only logical solution. “Sit down.”

Spencer looked at her without even a shred of belief that she might be right. Everything was too illogical for her to come up with a logical solution that quickly. First, they needed to focus.

“Maybe you could put something on?”

“I said sit. Your pacing around like a pissed-off fly isn’t helping me think.”

Frustrated, he raised both hands, ready to snap something back at the fly comparison, even opened his mouth, but suddenly everything felt so senseless he just let them fall loosely at his sides. And yes, he sat.

“Happy now?” he asked bitterly, taking a seat right at the edge of the mattress, so that there was a practically professional distance between them. As if they were representatives of two opposing factions who had just realized they weren’t up against each other, but something fucked up on a completely different, worse level than anyone could’ve assumed. Which didn’t mean they suddenly liked each other. “So I’m listening. Tell me what we’re going to do, because I—mark this moment, I don’t say this often—I don’t know—”

“Shut up. I’ll tell you what we’re doing,” she repeated once more, eyes locked on him and barely blinking. The irritation was radiating off her and only slightly faded when, after a long moment of silence, her chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “First of all, not a word to Morgan. We’re about to see him, we’ll let him go on and on about his engagement, congratulate him, smile, and don’t you dare say a word about this, you hear me?”

Spencer responded to her hard stare with one of his own, though the sharpness in his gaze faltered, and he caught himself giving a small nod.

“Makes sense. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t survive his comments. And the jokes. And those looks, especially those looks…” He almost shuddered just at the thought.

Her reaction was identical.

“Second of all…” she continued, suddenly snorting, “second and actually, last. We’re going home. First thing we do after leaving the airport is…”

“...divorce.”

“...picking up the cat from Penelope. Then divorce. I really hope you don’t have any objections to that.”

His mouth fell open, the scoff catching in his throat.

“What possible objections could I have to that?” he asked, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm.

She gave a casual shrug.

“Good then,” she replied. Her back slowly sank into the mattress with exhaustion, and as her head hit the pillow, she let out a low, groggy sigh. “Since it’s all settled, I’m going back to sleep. It’s too early.”

She turned her back to him, lying on her side. Spencer stared at her spine, genuinely unable to believe that after everything, she could just lie down and fall asleep like it was nothing. It struck him as almost dismissive, and for a moment, a wave of anger surged within him—only to fade just as quickly.

Because really, what else were they supposed to do?

He, personally, didn’t have it in him to follow her lead—his mind was far too loud for that. But after a long moment of stillness, the mattress dipped under his weight as well.

Right on the edge, his hands folded on his stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

[pittsick]

SAY THAT AGAIN.

summary: Spencer is known to talk a lot, always spluttering facts and analysis to people. Everyone always gets annoyed at him for that, except you, who thinks it’s so hot of him. So what happens when you start to flirt shamelessly with Spencer and tell him to use that mouth between your legs?

pairing: spencer reid x afab coworker.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.4k words. praise. submissive spencer. soft dom reader. oral sex (reader receiving). workplace setting. semi-public. light hair pulling. soft mocking & teasing. dirty-talking.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @talsorchard @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste

The bullpen was always a little too loud on Fridays. Even with the weight of the week dragging on everyone’s shoulders, the team still found ways to stir up banter between case files. You were on your third coffee and second round of edits to your victimology when Spencer started talking again.

"Actually, there’s a statistically significant link between victims who are last seen leaving bars alone and offenders who grew up in households with substance abuse. It’s often a subconscious association—they target vulnerability they recognize from childhood experiences."

You didn’t even look up from your computer screen. You didn’t have to. You could see him in your periphery, perched on the corner of your desk like he always did when he felt like talking but didn’t want to be annoying.

Everyone else groaned.

"Reid," Morgan said without looking up. "No one's trying to psychoanalyze the bar scene, man."

JJ gave him a tired smile. "Maybe just let us finish the file first?"

But you? You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. Because while everyone else rolled their eyes at Spencer’s endless supply of facts, you were quietly, wildly obsessed.

You liked the way he talked. Not just the cadence, fast and breathless, but the certainty in it. The pure, unfiltered excitement he had about things most people barely noticed. It made your brain light up.

It also didn’t hurt that he was cute as hell, with his tie always slightly crooked and his curls getting messier as the week went on. You’d had a crush on him since your third day at the BAU. That was eight months ago, and somehow you were still holding it together.

Sort of.

"Keep going, Reid," you said casually, eyes still on the screen. "You were saying something about behavioral mimicry?" Spencer froze, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

Then he leaned in, voice lower now, almost conspiratorial. "Right—uh, yes. Behavioral mimicry. So there’s this phenomenon where serial offenders, especially disorganized ones, subconsciously recreate aspects of their own trauma. So if, say, they were abandoned at a train station, they might pick their victims from transit centers or leave the bodies there as a symbol of—"

You looked up slowly, smiling as your eyes locked on his. "God, that mouth of yours."

His lips parted. "What?"

You tilted your head. "Nothing. I just like hearing you talk."

His brows pulled together, confused. You watched the blush crawl up his neck and knew exactly what you were doing. "Actually, most people find it annoying," he said, a little too fast.

You stood up, brushing against his knee as you moved to grab another file. "I’m not most people." He swallowed hard.

By the end of the day, he was visibly short-circuiting.

You weren’t mean about it. Just a little flirty. Soft touches on his arm when you passed by. Compliments about his tie, his lecture from the week before, the way he’d handled the victim’s family. Spencer, being Spencer, didn’t know what to do with it.

It wasn’t until the two of you ended up alone in the briefing room, long after the others had left, that he finally broke. You were leaning against the table, flipping through photos, when he hovered near the door.

"You, uh… you keep complimenting me today," he said quietly. You looked up with an amused smile. "Is that so weird?"

He ran a hand through his curls. "Kind of? Yes? I mean, not—uh—not in a bad way. I just—"

You dropped the photos and stepped closer. He stopped talking immediately. You looked up at him—he was taller—and reached to tug lightly at the knot of his tie. "You want me to stop?" you asked.

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. "No."

"Good." You pulled him in by the tie and kissed him.

He made the softest, most surprised sound, mouth moving eagerly under yours. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently. He melted into it. You pulled back slightly, grinning at how he was acting. Almost like a puppy.

"You ever kissed someone who wanted to shut you up and hear you talk at the same time?" you murmured. He looked wrecked already. "I… I don’t know."

"Well," you whispered, brushing your lips over his again. "I’ve thought about that mouth between my legs more times than I can count. So maybe it’s time you give me a little demonstration, Dr. Reid."

He blinked, stunned. "Y-You want me to—"

"Use that brain and that mouth," you said. "Be a good boy for me, yeah?"

You didn’t even make it out of Quantico.

You pulled him into one of the unused consult rooms, the door locked behind you. There was a couch along the back wall, and it was just big enough. The room smelled like dry-erase markers and stale coffee, but all you could focus on was Spencer kneeling in front of you, hands shaking slightly as you guided him.

You sat back, thighs spread, skirt pushed up.

"Take your time," you said softly. "But I want you to look at me the whole time, okay?" He nodded, so eager it almost broke your heart.

And then he leaned in.

His hands rested on your thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them, until you grabbed one and laced your fingers through it. "Start with kissing," you said. "Everywhere. Take it slow."

And he did. Lips brushing your inner thigh, trailing higher, then back down again. He paused at the waistband of your underwear, kissing right through it, a little tremble running through him.

"You're doing so good," you murmured, stroking his curls. "Don’t be shy."

He licked his lips, eyes wide as he hooked his fingers into the fabric and tugged gently. You lifted your hips to help him, watching as he pushed them down and stared like he’d never seen anything so perfect.

"You smell so good," he whispered, blushing immediately after he said it.

You laughed softly, brushing his hair back. "Do I, now? Why don’t you show me how much you like the smell?"

Spencer lowered his head.

The first drag of his tongue was cautious—gentle, exploratory. He moaned, actually moaned, into you, like the taste had short-circuited his brain. He licked again, slower this time, then circled your clit with delicate, deliberate pressure with the pad of his tongue. Taking his time with you were his last meal on Earth.

"Just like that," you breathed. "Yes, Spencer—just like that. God, you’re so good at this."

The praise made him whimper.

You kept a hand in his hair, guiding him when he needed it. He settled into a rhythm quickly, a little desperate, his tongue working you open like he was memorizing every reaction. When you gasped, he did it again. When your thighs tensed, he moaned against you.

"Such a quick learner," you said, voice breathy. "No wonder you finished multiple PhDs before thirty."

His groan vibrated against your clit. You tugged his hair gently. He looked up at you, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide. "You like when I talk about how smart you are while you eat me out?" He nodded, dizzy.

"I knew it. God, Spencer, you’re a mess down there. So eager. You could lecture me on criminal psychology while making me cum, couldn’t you?"

"I-I could try," he mumbled, voice muffled against your thigh. You smiled, pulling him back in.

He sucked your clit this time, tentative at first, then harder when you moaned. You let your head fall back against the wall, hips grinding against his mouth, hands gripping his curls with just enough pressure to let him know you were in charge.

"Don’t stop," you whispered. "I’m close. Be a good boy and keep going—make me cum, boy genius."

He moaned like it was his name.

You came hard, thighs clenching around his face, his tongue working you through it with unrelenting devotion. He didn’t stop until you pulled him back by the hair, gently, catching your breath. His mouth was red and shiny, chin soaked.

"You okay?" you asked, brushing his hair from his face.

He nodded quickly. "Yes. Very okay." You pulled him up onto the couch with you and kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips. He melted into it again, arms winding around you like he never wanted to leave. "Spencer," you said between kisses, "if you want to do that again sometime… just start talking."

He grinned shyly, breathless. "I usually can’t stop."

"Exactly," you whispered, nipping his lower lip. "That’s what makes you so good at it."

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── VISITING HOURS ♥︎

♥︎ pairing: husband!spencer x wife!reader

♥︎ summary: what your life was like during and after your husband’s time in prison.

♥︎ warnings / tags: angst, fluff, comfort WC: 2K

♥︎ author's note: rewatching season 12 made me do this…

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST ♥︎

seeing your husband relieved the pit in your stomach whenever you visited, but you hated seeing him like this. the bags under spencer's eyes were more pronounced than usual, his curls frizzy and a stubble had started to grow on his face, a glass pane between you two. it took everything in you not to burst into tears, but you knew you needed to be strong for him.

"nice beard. you finally look like a grown-up." you said with a shaky chuckle, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. your husband responded with a quiet chuckle on his own. "it's kind of sexy. maybe you can keep it for a bit when you get out."

"alright, i will." spencer said with a small smile. he looked at the floral dress you'd worn, noticing how carefully you'd done your hair… you made an effort for him, even though he was in prison "you look beautiful." spencer said; it wasn't even a compliment in his eyes, but a statement. "thank y-" "you shouldn't." he interrupted, making you furrow your brows in confusion, "i can feel everyone watching you. i don't like it." spencer's words made you chuckle softly, even if he was being accurate. a lot of the inmates were looking at you.

"how... how is everything?" spencer cleared his throat, "it's... complicated." you bite down on your lower lip, "penny doesn't understand why you're not home, but i'm telling her it's because you're away on a vacation. your mom's been having some good days lately. even though i'm staying with my parents, i still go visit her as often as possible."

you pursed your lips, starting to dig through your purse for something. after a moment, you held up a paper photo, one of your daughter with diana, both smiling at the camera, "i told them i'd send this to you."

"aww." spencer's smile perked up at the photo, "did you cut penny's hair?" "yup. little peach said it was getting itchy. i think i should give you a little trim once you get home. or, i'll at least wash it with something that isn't a bar of soap."

"what, you don't think i'm handsome?" "fishing for compliments?" you raised your brows. "you're always handsome. but you could use a little shampoo, sweetheart. and i miss washing your hair." god, how you wished you could reach over and run your hand through his hair like you used to every night to help him sleep. "you're gonna be home soon. and then i'll wash it. deal?" "deal."

"visiting hours are over!" the guard called out, and suddenly, the pit in your stomach returned.

"amor vincit omnia." you said softly, pressing your fingertips to the glass.

"amor vincit omnia." spencer replied, pressing his fingertips against the glass.

the moment you heard that spencer's team had gotten him released, you nearly burst into tears, making your way to the BAU headquarters, unashamedly breaking the speed limit. and when you finally saw him, you actually burst into tears.

the quiet "spencer..." that left your mouth was muffled by your hand, tears starting to fall down your cheeks. it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulder when you saw him in one of his suits instead of the grey prison jumpsuit you'd seen him in lately, and before he could utter a single word, you rushed to him without caring at his teammates around you, wrapping your arms around spencer and squeezing him as tight as possible as if he'd disappear any given moment.

"i love you, i love you, i love you..." you muffle through your tears, making the man let out a huff of a laughter, squeezing you hard, spencer's hand on the back of your head, stroking your hair. you pulled away to look at him, your hands going to the sides of his face, one of them stroking his hair back from his forehead. spencer looked even more tired than the last time you'd seen him and his eyes were glimmering with tears, but there was still a small smile on his face. "god, i missed you."

"i missed you too." he mumbled quietly, his hand going to rest on your cheek, stroking the soft skin with his thumb, "so much." "i didn't wanna bring penny because i know it's hectic but she misses you so, so-" "i know, i know." the small smile on his face widened slightly. "i wouldn't want her here, the team's working on finding my mom." "they will, spencer. they will." you nod your head until he starts nodding his head back at you.

"mommy, why did you make me put on my new dress?" penny asked curiously, her little legs swinging as she sat in the dining room, nursing a juice box, the little girl's hair done all prettily with a white bow, the color of it matching the new floral dress you'd gotten for her, watching as you placed the cake you'd baked onto the table. "what's that for?"

"it's a surprise, sweetie." you smiled softly, ruffling her curls. you heard a key turn in the door, followed by the sound of someone pulling it open. penny furrowed her little brows when she heard the door close, "who's that?" "well, why don't we go check?"

penny eagerly skipped towards the door and you followed her, the little girl letting out a loud gasp when she saw who stood at the door. "daddy!" she squealed loudly, and just like you had, she rushed to spencer, the man leaning down to lift the little girl into his arms, holding her close to his chest. you felt tears pricking in your eyes, trying to swallow down your emotions, wanting the moment to be just about the two people you loved the most.

"i missed you so much, daddy!" penny exclaimed, crossing her arms in front of her chest in feigned anger once spencer finally put her down, her tiny bottom lip pushed out in a pout, the girl facing away from him, but spencer found this all the more endearing. your little girl had clearly gotten your attitude, and although most people wouldn't like that... he adored it.

spencer scooped penny up into his arms, the little girl giggling as her father spun her in the air before settling her against her chest, "you've gotten bigger, penny pie." spencer tickles her stomach teasingly, "mama been feeding you well?"

"staaaaawp!" penny pushed his hand away and rested her head on his shoulder, "no... she makes me eat the yucky vegetables we usually give to catterina."

you gasped in feigned shock as you watched the black cat walk into the foyer when her name was called, circling spencer's leg and purring as she rubbed her jaw on it, "have you been feeding your veggies to the cat?" you asked, crossing your arms across your chest. "nooo!" spencer said with an exaggerated shake of his, winking at your daughter, "we would never do that."

"well, there's some cake in the kitchen. but only good, vegetable-eating people get to have cake." "i love vegetables!" penny exclaimed, lifting her arms in the air and making you snort.

spencer was back in the prison laundry room, being held back as he watched louis delgado's throat being slit in front of him, rushing to the younger man and kneeling next to him, pressing his hand against the boy's throat, feeling the warm blood gushing out of the wound as he screamed for the guard in desperation, the life leaving delgado's eyes...

"guard!" he woke up shouting, sitting up in bed, breathless. he immediately felt a pair of arms envelope him, "spencer, you're at home." you said with a steady voice, turning his panicked face so he was looking at you. "you're with me, penny, and your mom. you're not there. no one can hurt you here." your hand went to his cheek, "you are at home. with me, penny, and your mom."

"i'm at home..." spencer said, his heart still beating against his chest, "with..." "take deep breaths and say it with me. who are you with?" "i'm with you..." he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, "you are. who else?" "penny..." spencer took another deep breath, "who else?" he took another deep breath, "my mom..." "that's right. take a deep breath and say it again, in one sentence." "i'm with you... i'm with penny, and i'm with my mom..." "and no one can hurt you here." you pressed a kiss on his forehead, pulling him close.

but then came a soft knock at the door, and the two of you turned to look as the doorknob twisted, your sleepy daughter standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her plushie bunny in her arms.

"oh, penelope..." spencer breathed out with an air of guilt, "did i wake you?" penny nodded her head shyly and you pursed your lips slightly, holding out your arms, "c'mere, penny pie."

penny padded to your side of the bed, and you lifted her up onto the bed inbetween you and spencer. "i'm sorry i woke you up, penny..." spencer said slightly ashamedly, "no, daddy. i was having a bad dream that i couldn't get out of. it was good i woke up." "what happened in your bad dream?" your husband asked, stroking her curls, watching as the little girl's features twisted into a frown, "mommy accidentally left me at the store again and then a scary clown with big sharp teeth tried to chase me..."

"again?" spencer furrowed his brows, and you turned to look at him, "there's only one time i left her in the store and it was when she was one. remember?" the two of you turned to look at your daughter, who was innocently hugging her bunny toy. "fu- heck." you corrected yourself, leaning to the nightstand and opening the top drawer, grabbing a twenty-dollar bill and handing it to spencer, the man easily remembering the bet you two had made when penny first started crawling; would she have the memory of her forgetful mother or her genius, eidetic memory father. spencer chuckled softly, taking the money and placing it on his nightstand.

"daddy?" penny said softly, fiddling with her bunny, her father looking down at her in utter reverence, "yeah, penny pie?" "do you wanna share benny the bunny with me tonight?" she smiled at him with such sweetness it could've rotten your teeth, with such sweet words it nearly made you burst out into sobs. "he keeps me safe at night. he'll keep you safe too."

spencer took in a slow, deep breath, his eyes glimmering in the pale moonlight, a slow tear rolling down his cheek that he quickly wiped away and nodded, "i'd love that. you're very kind, penny."

the little girl beamed at her father's compliment, setting benny the bunny down between her and spencer, the large stuffed bunny she'd had since she was one-month-old, who used to be bigger than her, the toy that she cared for as if it was her own baby.

the three of you laid there, penny pressed against your chest, benny the bunny pressed against hers, and spencer pressed against his. soon, penny's soft snores filled the bedroom, and spencer's hand went to the side of your head, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear with a small smile.

"i'm at home. i'm with you, i'm with penny, and with my mom."

[callsign-coolsquirrel]

📚

local boyfriend gets lunch for gf even while on crutches🫵

addition to this

also im setting up a patreon and i already have a lineup of stuff that you can hopefully see in a week or so if everything goes to plan for my account🗣️🗣️

[foxy-eva]

Seven Minutes

Summary: Seven minutes stuck in a closet with Spencer really feel like heaven

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Fluff, Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) alcohol consumption (responsibly), Reader is a little tipsy, flirting, truth or dare, suggestiveness, forced proximity, playing seven minutes in heaven, heavy kissing, grinding, allusions to sex

Word count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: I wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins Stuck Together Writing Challenge

Masterlist

The alcohol was buzzing in your veins when you let your sight wander over the room. It was to be expected that Penelope's birthday party would be a blast but you hadn't quite expected how much a certain someone would catch your attention. 

Any remaining inhibitions were suppressed by the two glasses of wine you just had. It was not enough to make you lose control, but enough to become more blatant with the object of your desire. 

And damn, Spencer really looked desirable tonight. 

Relaxed against the cushions of Penelope's couch and deep in a conversation with Luke, he had never looked more handsome. A smile was blooming on his face, obviously excited to share whatever random fact had just come to his mind. 

You watched him from a few feet away before you decided it had been long enough. Craving his attention, you walked over to the couch. He looked up at you and you noticed a slight rosy shade spreading over his cheeks. 

All the seats around the coffee table were taken by party guests. That didn’t stop your plan to finally close the distance between you and your favorite coworker, though. 

You pointed at his lap and chirped, “I'm sorry, is this seat taken?” 

Spencer looked up at you wide-eyed, making the confusion your question caused apparent. 

“Uh, I can get up if you want to sit here,” he offered as he attempted to stand up. 

You were quick to place your hands on his shoulders to push him down again. “No need,” you snickered right before you plopped down in his lap. 

Spencer froze underneath you while the people around you gasped and laughed and playfully sang ‘ooooh’. Your boldness surprised not just him but yourself too. 

His face was mere inches away when you turned your head to look at him and quipped, “I hope you're comfortable.” 

“I bet he is,” Luke chuckled and playfully hit Spencer’s shoulder. 

“I uh…,” he muttered, still looking at you like a deer caught in the headlights. 

It was then that you noticed how his arms were hovering over you and he seemed incredibly tense. You felt bad for just invading his space like that, a knot forming in your stomach at the thought that your proximity might be unwanted. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled as you tried to get up again.

To your surprise, Spencer’s hands flew around your waist, hindering you from moving away from him. 

“No, please stay,” he finally managed to say. 

Your heart began beating so loud you were sure Spencer could hear it. The way his palms were placed on your body, his fingers burying into you ever so slightly, let your head spin. 

Spencer leaned back against the backrest of the couch, relaxing his body so you could comfortably lean against him, one arm resting on his shoulder and your side pressed into his chest. 

Your eyes fell to the coffee table at Spencer’s drink, expecting to find an alcoholic beverage. That would at least explain the way he reciprocated your action. But unless he had spiked his tea, you were certain he must have been sober.

You turned back to look at him. “Is this really okay?” 

He nodded as a smile spread over his face. “Yeah, I like having you close.” 

You could feel how your cheeks began burning, if from the alcohol or his words was unclear, though.

Luke suddenly got up from his spot beside Spencer, chuckling, “I think I'm gonna give you two some space.”

With the seat beside Spencer now vacant, it felt odd to stay in his lap, so you slowly slid off his thighs to sit beside him instead. In an instant your heart protested, yearning for his touch again. 

By the way a quiet sigh fell from Spencer’s lips, you hoped he might already miss your nearness too. He was quick to shift in his seat until the side of his thigh touched yours, creating a connection that would soothe your longing for now. 

Before you could overthink whether or not that had been intentional, Penelope approached the group of people sitting around the coffee table and loudly sang, “Time for truth or dare! And nobody gets to say no because it's my birthday!”

She sat down opposite from you and placed her tablet on the table. “I already put everyone's names in,” she announced when she pressed the start button of some colorful app. 

Your heart began racing as you watched the display, relief washing over you when the name Tara appeared. 

“Truth,” she said while pressing the button on the display. 

Penelope read the question out loud, “From all the people here, who would you like to kiss?” 

Tara began laughing, “What, is this a special matchmaker version of Truth or Dare?” 

Penelope glanced over you and Spencer and snickered, “Perhaps.” 

Her reaction made you a little suspicious but you decided to let it slide for now. Instead you took another sip of your wine while curiously waiting for Tara's answer. 

“Emily,” she finally said and even you had to chime in when the others reacted with a playful ‘oooh’. 

Two more rounds and you learned that Penelope's neighbour fantasized about his librarian and laughed while Rossi presented his worst pick-up line. 

Then Spencer’s name lit up on the screen. To your surprise he picked dare and froze in place once the words appeared on the screen. Penelope began giggling uncontrollably, unable to read it out loud. You leaned forward to see what the dare was. 

Seven minutes in heaven with-  

You gasped once you saw your name. It became very obvious very quickly that Penelope must have messed with the algorithm somehow (or maybe she had programmed the app altogether).

“Come on, you two lovebirds,” she laughed. “My closet is waiting for you!” 

Your heart sank when you saw Spencer shake his head and shoot her an angry glance. “Come on, Garcia. That's not funny,” he scolded her. 

“We're just following the rules,” she protested. “Come on, don't be a killjoy.”

“Yeah, Reid. You loved having her in your lap earlier,” Tara quipped, very obviously already tipsy as well. 

Spencer found your eyes, an apologetic look in his eyes. “Are you okay with this?” 

It felt like the room was spinning when all eyes were suddenly on you. The bravery you displayed earlier was long gone but the thought of being alone with Spencer excited you more than you could bring to words. 

Tentatively, you nodded as you got up from the couch. Everyone began squealing and gasping when the two of you followed Penelope to her bedroom closet. Before you realized what was happening, she shoved the two of you in and closed the door while exclaiming, “See you in seven minutes!” 

You leaned against the wall and Spencer stood right in front of you, a few inches away. The light inside the closet was dim. It felt too awkward to look at him, so you decided to let your sight wander over Penelope's colorful dress collection while mumbling, “Seven minutes, huh? So what do you want to talk about?” 

“I'm not in the mood to talk,” Spencer grumbled, his tone shocking you. Your eyes found his to scan his face. What you initially interpreted as anger was actually something else. 

Something even more dangerous. 

The heat his body radiated was overwhelming and you noticed how his lips parted. His eyes were dark and filled with desire. The way he looked at you let shockwaves run through your body. 

Despite already suspecting the answer, you still whispered, “What do you want to do then?” 

Instead of answering you, his hands flew to your face, gently cupping your cheeks before he leaned in. 

“This,” he breathed right before his lips met yours. 

The kiss was soft and timid at first, almost as if he wanted to give you a chance to back down. That was the last thing you wanted, though. Without hesitation you reciprocated the kiss, your arms grabbing his shirt to pull him closer. 

Kissing him felt like tasting the first droplets of water after a lifelong drought. Soft lips brushed over one another while gentle hands didn’t dare to let go. When a silent sigh escaped your throat, the atmosphere shifted. Spencer tongue begged for entrance and you granted it, melting into him with a vigor that knocked the air out of his lungs. 

Spencer pressed his body into you, a soft hum vibrating against your lips. It was mesmerizing to be kissed like that, a sensation so phenomenal it made your head spin and your heart flutter. 

Spencer leaned back just enough to groan, “Seven minutes with you is not enough” 

A breathy laugh fell from your lips. “Depends on your skills,” you quipped.

He chuckled before placing a chaste kiss on your lips. Then, he whispered,  “Are you challenging me?”

Your hands wrapped around his neck as you pressed your body flush against his and snickered, “Why don’t you find out” 

Spencer sighed when he felt you press your hips against his. His nose tenderly brushed over yours when he cooed, “I'd much rather take my time with you.” 

You expected him to capture your lips once more but instead his mouth found your neck. He kissed and nipped on sensitive skin until you whined so desperately it made him smile against you. 

“To learn all about you,” he whispered into your ear.

As if your knees hadn't already felt wobbly enough, one of Spencer’s hands brushed down your waist and over your hip before hoisting one of your legs up, making space for him to press his body even harder into you.

Heat rushed through your body and down between your legs when you sensed his desire burning for you. Even through several layers of clothing you could feel how his hardness pressed against your center. 

His lips found yours again, but just for a second. Then, he murmured, “To find out what makes you sing my name.” 

The way he ground his hips against your sensitive core let a moan rip right through you, immediately followed by his name.

“Spencer…” 

“Hm exactly like that,” he hummed before getting lost in another deep kiss. 

Time stood still as you got lost in this sinful embrace, rocking your hips against him ever so slightly, creating enough friction to sooth your desperation for now. 

This really felt like heaven.

Until Spencer suddenly and without a warning broke the kiss, having you whimper in protest. He let go of your thigh, gently placing your foot back on the floor before taking one step back to look at you. Your arms reached out immediately to pull him closer but he shook his head and took your hands in his, placing an innocent kiss on each of them. 

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “Only two minutes left and I need to uhm… cool down.” 

His sight dropped down to his crotch for a split second to make clear what he meant. Then, he found your eyes again. Spencer had never looked more beautiful with his lips plump from kissing and cheeks blooming pink. 

You looked up at him with widened eyes as you bit your own lip, struggling hard not to rip off your clothes and jump him right then and there.  

“Please stop that, you're making this impossible,” he chuckled as he averted his eyes to the wall behind you.

You took pity in him, aware how embarrassed he'd be if Penelope saw how riled up he'd gotten. Taking a deep breath, you tried to ground yourself.

“Do you want to talk about baseball?” You joked. 

Spencer laughed at your words, “Not really, no.” 

His smile was soft and so, so cute when he looked at you. “You’re very beautiful,” he said. 

His words let your heart flutter. “So are you.” 

Comfortable silence filled the confined space until your attention was captured by high-heeled footsteps approaching.

“You good?” You asked Spencer who took a deep breath and adjusted his pants before nodding.

Penelope swung the door open, a wide grin spread over her face. “Oh boy!” She squealed. “You two look like things got a little heated!” 

“Not really, no,” Spencer lied. 

“I hope you used protection,” she giggled as she stepped aside to let you walk out of the closet.

In a warning tone, Spencer grumbled, “Garcia…”

“Oh! Oh! You know what would be even better! Cute little curly-haired baby geniuses! Giving me another godchild would be the perfect birthday present!” She continued babbling, making the both of you laugh.

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment to show your support and help me stay motivated to write more stories!

Taglist: @adoredfromafar @grumpyy-bearr @frickin-bats @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @xserenax-13 @alexxavicry @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @reidsbookclub @lover-of-books-and-tea @sebs-oxygen @nomajdetective @kobaltdragon @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @castiels-majestic-wings @spensreid @silversprings-mp3 @person-005 @kittyisick @siriuslyval03 @sleepysongbirdsings @brownbunnyb @thegoodwitchs-blog

[blluesiide]

Your hand pushes softly through his curls, your expression quiet and thoughtful. His eyes open, shifting to you, as if he could hear your thoughts. "What are you thinking about?" He gently prompts.

You remain quiet for a moment. "You." You reply as you tilt your head, hand continuing it's ministrations against his scalp.

"Yeah?" He asks, that little high pitch lilt in his voice

"Yeah." You confirm softly.

He watches you for a moment. Then, "You gonna tell me about it?"

You breathe, "I'm just thinking about everything that has happened to you. How everything that happened also lead you to be here. Right now." He blinks, waiting for you to continue, so you do. "Is it bad to consider myself lucky? To be with you?"

"No, why would it?" He asks, eyebrows furrowing a little.

"It's like I'm saying I'm glad you went through so much because it landed you here."

He lets out a soft huff, catching your wrist softly, "I survived all my worst days," he presses a warm kiss to your palm. "So I could spend my best ones with you."

It's cheesy, but it's so Spencer. So you slide a little closer, kiss the corner of his mouth, and linger, waiting for him to press his lips to yours. When he does, your thoughts quiet, overcome by adoration for the man in your arms.

When you part, you trace his jaw. "So, you think I'm lucky to be with you, huh?" You tease.

His face flushes immediately, "That's not what I-"

You laugh, and he stops talking. He knows you aren't serious. The sound of your laughter makes it all worth it. All of it.

[qivrae]

through the lens - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: reader gets turned on my spence’s glasses ugh so real so me. anyways, request pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

It had been an easy day. The kind that snuck up on you, slipping by like water through your fingers. No cases, little but of paperwork and no strings tugging at your minds. Just the two of you, a shared day off with no real plans. No agenda but each other. You spent most of the afternoon in that lazy, effortless way that couples do when they know each other too well to pretend.

Grocery shopping turned into pushing the cart into Spencer’s legs just to see him scowl at you. Cooking dinner became you making fun of how seriously he measured out the ingredients, right down to the gram until he finally handed you the measuring cup with an exasperated “Fine. You do it then.” You didn’t even really eat at the table. Just perched on the couch, thighs brushing, sharing a plate, stealing bites straight from his fork. Talking about nothing. Laughing at bad movies you only half-watched. It was easy.

And Spencer— God, Spence was wearing his glasses all day, the ones he usually reserved for late nights and fine print and it did things to you. They sat low on his nose when he was focusing, occasionally pushing them back up with his knuckle when he thought you weren’t looking. His hair was a mess by dinner, and he didn’t even bother fixing it. Like he knew you liked it that way. By the time night finally crept up, the world outside your apartment windows going dark— you were too full of him to even notice the time. The kitchen was half-cleaned, the TV was still on, casting flickering light over the room but neither of you had really been paying attention for hours.

You ended up in bed earlier than usual, mostly because Spencer was fighting yawns behind his book and you weren’t too far behind him. He pulled the covers back without a word, slid under them with that soft grunt he always made after a long day. Glasses still perched on his nose, hair wild, book in hand, a whole universe away and you couldn’t stop looking at him.

You tried to read too, for about five minutes. Maybe ten. But your eyes kept drifting. Every time he turned the page or shifted to get more comfortable— the way the loose T-shirt he wore clung to his chest in the most distracting ways, the way his boxers rode low on his hips. It was like something inside you wound tighter. Hotter. You squirmed under the covers, stretching your legs out like you were getting comfortable. But all it did was press your body closer to his. He didn’t even seem to notice or maybe he did but he was so deep into whatever old philosophy book he was devouring that he didn’t care.

You bit your lip, debating. Say something. Your toes nudged his ankle under the covers. Soft. Playful. Testing. He didn’t look up but his mouth twitched.

“You know,” you said, voice light, “there should be a law against you wearing those glasses in bed.” That got his attention. His head tilted slightly, eyes flicking over the top of the frames to glance at you. His mouth twitched again, the beginning of a smile he tried and failed to suppress.

“Oh?” he said, turning a page without looking away from you. “And why is that?”

“Because,” you said, inching a little closer under the covers, “you’re making it very, very hard for me to behave.”

He snorted a breath of a laugh and shook his head, dropping his eyes back to his book like he was immune. But you caught it— the way he shifted slightly under the sheets, the subtle way his free hand tightened around the edge of the comforter. He wasn’t immune to you or your words. Not even close. You dragged your nails lightly over his thigh under the covers, just barely there. Casual. Innocent. He twitched.

“Spencer,” you said, voice lilting now, teasing, “you look so good. It’s criminal, really.”

“Mm,” he hummed, low and distracted like he was pretending to read still. But you could see the tips of his ears going pink. You sat up a little, leaning over him until your hair brushed his shoulder. Your hand slid over his thigh again, deliberate this time and you felt him stiffen.

“What’s the book about?” you asked sweetly.

He swallowed. Hard. “Uh… Descartes. Mind-body dualism. Basically—” His voice cracked a little and he had to clear his throat. “Basically, whether the mind and the body are separate entities.”

You smiled wickedly against his neck, your lips barely brushing him. “I don’t think there’s much separation happening right now, Doctor Reid.”

The hand holding his book trembled slightly. He flipped a page he definitely hadn’t finished reading. “You,” he said, voice a little rougher now, “are distracting.”

You giggled softly and pressed a kiss to his neck. Then another. Then another, trailing slow and lazy up to his jawline. Spencer’s breathing hitched. His head finally tipped back against the headboard. His book slipped closed in his lap, forgotten. His chest rose and fell under his T-shirt, a little faster now. You kissed the hinge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “You’re so hot like this,” you murmured. “God, Spence. You have no idea.”

His hand found your waist under the covers, tentative, squeezing lightly like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to pull you closer. You moved for him anyway, swinging one leg over his lap so you were straddling him under the thin covers— the book now discarded somewhere onto the mattress. His hands slid up your sides. Reverent, shaking a little. His fingertips curling into the soft fabric of your sleep shirt.

“You’re… insatiable,” he breathed, eyes dark behind the lenses. Voice still soft, but strained now.

“You’re asking for trouble,” you said sweetly, grinding down the tiniest bit against him just to feel him twitch beneath you. He groaned so soft you barely caught it and his head thunked back against the headboard again. You dragged your fingers through his hair, glasses slipping slightly down his nose until you could see his eyes over the tops. His pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted in the prettiest little desperate expression.

“You gonna stop me?” you teased, tracing the line of his throat with your mouth. His hands gripped your hips tight but he didn’t push you away. Didn’t even try.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

The tension wrapped around you both thick and heavy, almost humming under your skin. He wanted you. You wanted him. It was late. You were tired. You should have been sleeping. But instead you were already soaked against him, the heat of him under you, the feel of his body surrendering to you without a single word. You smiled against his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your mouth.

You dragged your fingers lazily over his ribs, feeling him twitch under your touch. He shifted beneath you, glasses catching the lamplight, his thighs tensing when your palm smoothed over his stomach. He wasn’t trying to hide how hard he was anymore— hadn’t been for a while now. His cock was straining against his boxers, pressed up against your inner thigh where you sat straddling him.

“You still wanna read?” you murmured, trailing your nails lightly down his side.

He shook his head, a soft and breathy laugh escaping him. “I can’t focus when you’re—” He cut himself off with a low groan as you shifted your hips just enough to make him feel the slickness of your panties against him. “When you’re like this.”

“Like what?” you whispered, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, nudging his glasses slightly.

He caught your face in his hands, tilting his head back against the pillow to look up at you—eyes glassy, lips flushed, his body practically vibrating under you. “Like you’re trying to kill me.”

You smiled and kissed him properly this time, swallowing the little whimper he let out. His hands wandered, hesitant at first, then firmer when he realized you weren’t going to pull away. They smoothed down your back, found the edge of your shirt and pushed it up so his fingers could skim your bare skin. You pulled away just long enough to peel the shirt off and toss it somewhere behind you. He watched you, wide-eyed and reverent, glasses still slipping down his nose as if he couldn’t bear to waste a second looking anywhere else.

“Touch me,” he whispered, so soft you barely caught it.

You obliged, reaching down to hook your fingers under the waistband of his boxers. He lifted his hips for you without thinking, helping you push them down just enough to free his cock. He was already leaking, the tip flushed dark and wet and twitching when the cooler air hit him. His stomach jumped under your hand when you brushed your knuckles along his length.

“God,” he groaned, hips stuttering upward.

You bit your lip, savoring how desperate he sounded. He wasn’t shy with you like he used to be. Not anymore. Not when you could see the way his body shivered under your hands, not when you could hear how wrecked his voice already was. You shifted your weight, nudging your panties aside and sinking down slowly, both of you gasping at the first contact.

“Fuck baby,” Spencer choked, hands scrambling to grip your hips. Like he was trying to steady you, trying to steady himself. You paused once he was fully seated inside you. Breathing heavily against his mouth, feeling him pulse deep inside. His fingers flexed on your hips, a little shaky.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “Feels so good—”

You smiled, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I know,” you said, just as breathless. “You feel so good too, Spence. Never gonna get over how big you are.” You rocked your hips slowly, savoring the drag of him inside you. He moaned, hands tightening their grip but not guiding you— letting you set the pace, trusting you completely.

It was slow. Every movement sent shudders through both of you. His glasses slid down again, hanging precariously at the tip of his nose and you kissed him messy, open-mouthed and feeling his breath hitch against your tongue. His hands were everywhere. Your thighs, your waist, your back— touching like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most. His hips rolled up into you in time with your movements, desperate for more friction but unwilling to push you faster.

“You ride me so good,” he mumbled against your mouth, voice wrecked and eyes dazed behind his glasses. “Takin’ me so good.” You whined softly at the praise, your own thighs starting to tremble from the effort. He felt so deep, like he was everywhere at once and filling you up so perfectly it made your head spin.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” you teased, reaching up to nudge his glasses back up his nose before they could fall completely off.

He nodded frantically, eyes shining. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice cracking on the words. “Please don’t stop.”

You weren’t planning to. You rocked harder and faster, your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage. Spencer’s mouth dropped open in a silent moan, his whole body tensing underneath you. His hands slid down to cup your ass, squeezing gently, encouraging you without demanding.

“That’s it,” he whispered, mouth slack.

His moan broke into a gasp and he let his head fall back against the headboard again. He didn’t care. His only focus was you— your body moving on top of him, the wet slide of you around him, the soft and filthy sounds filling the room. The tension was building between you, thick and heady. Every thrust, every grind of your hips drew another desperate groan from Spencer’s lips. He clung to you like he might fall apart if he let go.

“God, I love you,” he gasped suddenly, so raw it made your heart stutter. “Love your pussy— love everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered back, kissing him fiercely. You were swallowing the needy sounds he made when you tightened your walls around him.

Your movements grew sloppier and needier, both of you chasing the high without rushing toward it. You wanted to make this last. You needed to make it last because the way he was looking at you, the way he was touching you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, was better than anything you could imagine.

“You feel so good,” he kept whispering, over and over like a prayer. “You’re perfect. You’re perfect.”

You were close, both of you trembling with the effort to keep going, the bed creaking quietly under you, sweat slicking your bodies together. The sounds filling the room had turned wet, desperate, the slap of skin, the slip of your panties barely clinging to your thigh now, the way Spencer’s hands gripped so tight at your hips like he could keep you from flying apart if he just held on. His glasses had slipped almost all the way off and the way his mouth hung open— the way he kept blinking up at her, glazed and glassy— it just made everything somehow worse. More overwhelming. More real. You could feel it building inside you, slow and unbearable like something coiling deep in your gut. Every roll of your hips was dragging you closer to the edge. And he was right there with you. You could feel it in the way his thighs kept tensing under you, the way his breath kept catching at the top of every thrust. The way his cock would pulse with every movement.

“God—” Spencer’s voice broke, raw and wrecked and his head tilted back into the pillow, glasses nearly falling off completely now. His fingers flexed, digging into your skin, like he was grounding himself. “You— you‘re so good—”

You whimpered, tightening around him without meaning to and he made a sound that went straight through you, like it physically shook the air between you. His hands slid up, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin fabric of your (his) shirt, not even trying to get you undressed anymore— just touching, just feeling you.

“Spence,” you whispered, voice cracking from how close you were and how stretched out the tension had become. Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling his heart hammering against your palms.

“I’m close,” he gasped, voice thready, falling apart. “I’m so close.” It wasn’t begging. It was need. It was helpless, helpless need— something you understood down to your bones. Because you needed it too. Needed him. Your movements sped up without even thinking, chasing it now. Chasing the way he felt under you, inside you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. The wet slap of your bodies was obscene now, his cock slipping so deep, so perfect, hitting every right spot inside you.

He made a choked noise, hips jerking up into you. All out of rhythm now, completely and you knew, knew he was right there falling with you. And when it hit you, it was blinding. Your whole body locked up, clenching so tightly around him that Spencer moaned out in a voice breaking desperate sound as he finally let go too. His hands flew to your hips again, pulling you down hard to bury himself as deep as he could go while he spilled inside you, gasping your name into your shoulder. It was messy. It was beautiful. It was everything.

You slumped against him after, both of you panting, sweating, trembling. His arms wrapped around you immediately, like his body just knew to hold you close. His heart was still pounding against your ear where you lay against his chest, both of you sticky and hot and wrecked. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, your pulses trying to find each other again. Spencer shifted slightly under you, brushing your hair back from your face with a shaking hand. His glasses had finally fallen askew and you reached up, laughing a little breathlessly as you gently pulled them off his face, setting them aside on the nightstand.

“You okay?” you whispered against his skin, still trying to find your own voice again.

He nodded immediately, almost frantic with it. Pulling you even tighter against him. “Better than okay,” he rasped. “That was…”

“I know,” you said, kissing the side of his throat, tasting the saltiness of his skin. “I know.”

He cradled your face in his hands after that, tilting your head back just enough to kiss you all slow, deep and grateful. His lips were still trembling a little against yours and you could feel the way he tried to pour every unspoken thing into the kiss: the trust, the love, the complete surrender of it all. When you finally pulled back, you caught the faintest trace of a sleepy smile on his lips.

“Come on,” you whispered, nudging him gently. “Let’s get cleaned up, Spence.”

He groaned softly but let you lead him, let you coax him into the bathroom. You took care of each other. Wiping him down carefully with a warm cloth, he’s kissing your forehead and flushing shyly at your touch. He kept mumbling little apologies for the mess and you for how desperate you’d been and he just shushed you, kissing every inch of you he could reach. Back in bed, you curled into each other again. This time skin to skin, warm and clean under the sheets. Spencer’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you against him like he was afraid you might slip away in the night.

“You’re not getting away from me,” he mumbled into your hair, voice already thick with sleep.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you murmured back, smiling against his chest.

He was asleep within minutes, breathing slow and steady, his glasses still sitting safely on the nightstand where you’d left them. The last little reminder of the night you’d both fallen apart and found each other all over again.

[mggslover]

SWEETER THAN DREAMS — spencer reid

In which Spencer helps you make your wet dream come true.

genre smut (18+) cw established relationship, consensual somnophilia, groping, grinding, male masturbation, kinda perv!spence, tit play, oral (f receiving), p in v wc 3,2k a/n this turned out a lot sweeter and cuter than i expected it to be (still hot though) (hopefully) let me know if you enjoyed it! kinkfest: somnophilia

Spencer wasn’t made for summer weather. He hated how stuffy and thick the air felt. How it seemed to cling onto him, warming his skin like his sweater vests used to do during winter. 

Getting through the day was difficult enough, but the nights? Those were horrendous. 

You had bought him a cooling pillow, knowing how much he struggled in bed. In theory, it should work. They were made of a phase changing material, similar to the ones NASA invented for the temperature fluctuations of astronauts, but it seemed like the one you bought was a total scam. Or maybe he was so hot that he burned right through the fabric. 

He turned his pillow over for the millionth time that night. He kept still as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the peaceful sounds of your sleeping in an attempt to find rest again. 

For a minute, it seemed to work. He even closed his eyes, ready to drift off, but then his eyes shot open when he heard a small noise coming from you.

He tilted his head on the pillow, eyes adjusting to the dark room as your figure slowly materialized. 

“You okay?” He whispered, carefully reaching out to brush a sticky strand of hair from your forehead. 

You responded with another soft whine, followed by a small moan.

Spencer sat up straighter, slightly hovering over your form. “Having a nightmare, baby?”

He leaned in to press a kiss to your face, and that’s when he noticed it: you were burning up. You hadn’t mentioned being bothered by the heat before, probably seeing no use to it after his endless complaints. His stomach churned in guilt. 

“Let’s get these blankets off of you, okay? It’ll help,” he speaks to you, although he doubted you heard him. 

Carefully, so as not to disturb you, he pulls the thick material away. His hand stops mid-motion, swallowing when he reveals your naked upper body. It’s then that he notices your top and pajama pants are thrown in a heap on the floor, probably having taken them off in the middle of the night. 

Enticed by curiosity, he pulls the blanket further down, and indeed, he finds you to be completely naked. The curve of your ass and the length of your legs are bare, covered only in a light layer of sweat. 

For a moment he doesn’t know what to do. He just takes you in, counting every freckle on your skin. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked, far from it, but he usually sees you naked when having sex. And with sex comes him being too horny to take his time. Sure, he worships you and pays attention to your body. But it’s not like this. Now he has all the time in the world to just look at you. 

Or, well, that was his plan before his cock started stirring in his pants. 

Morning wood isn’t a rare occasion for Spencer. When he’s on his own, he’s a restless sleeper. It’s inevitable that all his moving and turning around leads to the stimulation of rubbing himself against the mattress. Not forgetting to mention the dreams of you. When he’s with you, though, there are other things plaguing him, like the warmth of your body, the sweet scent of your hair. He’s pulled in like a moth to the flame, and it’s only natural that his length stiffens when it’s pressed against the plush curve of your ass.

He’d often wake with your plump lips wrapped around his cock. Tongue swirling around the head before pulling back with a giggle. It was his favorite way to wake up, but he had never returned the favor. You’re so lucky, you know that? I spoil you too much, you had commented after one of your morning sessions. Your tone was playful, but he could tell there was a hidden annoyance. 

It’s not like he didn’t want to return the favor. Jesus, there was nothing he wanted to do more than to wake you by making you come all over his tongue. His cock, even. But his mornings were either a rush to get to Quantico, or he was so fast asleep in your arms that you awoke before him. 

But a situation like this has never occurred. Maybe he could—

Another small sound left your lips. “Spence.”

No. 

You having a nightmare is not the moment.

Still, he could touch himself. Right?

There was not a lot of time to ponder over the decision, his hand already having made its way under his loose pajama pants, gripping his shaft tightly. 

He hissed at the touch, his cock feeling hot and heavy in his fist as he tightened his hold around himself. 

His head fell back onto the pillow, tilting his face to take you in. Your lips parted as you breathed softly (a sound Spencer couldn’t hear because of how hard his heart was beating in his chest), your chest rose and fell in the same gentle manner, and Spencer’s gaze fell to your breasts. He let out a grunt, seeing how your nipples stood perfectly peaked despite the warmth of the room. 

With slow strokes, Spencer moved his hand along his length. All the tension and frustrations of the day melted away under his fingertips as he felt himself sink deeper into the mattress.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he muttered to the silence, swiping his thumb over his slit, coating the digit in precum. 

He grew into a rhythm, intently watching you while pumping his cock. Every time you moaned or let out a small whine, he groaned in response, closing his eyes and imagining your moans were ones out of pleasure. It felt like he was dreaming, a dream so real he could almost reach out and touch it. But the only person who was dreaming was you. 

Whatever fantasies were playing in your head, they led you closer to Spencer. He actually shuddered when the bare skin of your back made contact with the expanse of his chest. You hummed, wiggling your ass against his thighs and nudging further into him. Spencer gasped, fisting his hands to keep himself from pulling you flush against where he needed you most. He softly whined, cock aching in desperation now that he had removed his hand. A mirrored sound came from you, and he noticed the frown on your face and the pout on your lips. 

You always wanted to be held, and your body instantly notices when he doesn’t have his arms wrapped around you. In no universe would he be able to deny your needs, so with a small sigh — one that started as resignation but he breathed out in content — he pulled you in. A sweet hum left your chest as he pressed a kiss to your collarbone. 

Momentarily, he believed that he could forget about his situation. But you kept making those sweet, little sounds and rolling your hips into him.

“Baby,” he cried against your neck. “Can’t resist myself when you do that.”

He nipped at the curve of your neck, palm splayed flat across your stomach as he moved his thumb in soothing circles.

You wiggled in his grasp, legs moving around until you locked them around the covers. It was then that he noticed that your restlessness wasn’t a result of the heat, nor a result of needing his closeness, but a move you made out of pure desire. 

With your thighs wrapped around the sheets, you start grinding your pussy. Moans tumbled from your lips each time you rubbed your swollen clit against the fresh cotton.

Spencer watched, slack-jawed, as you got yourself off right in front of him.

“Mhm, Spence—“

His brain finally caught up, and he let out a deep sound of longing, tightening his hold around you. 

His hand trailed up from your stomach to your breast, firmly squeezing the skin. “My sweet girl, is this what you wanted?”

He watched the way you bucked your hips. A shiny, wet spot has formed on the cloth between your thighs. 

Spencer tested the waters, twisting your nipple with his thumb and pointer finger, enticing you to sweetly moan his name.

“That’s right,” he hummed, attaching his pink lips to your neck. “It’s me. Even in your dreams you know that it’s only me who can make you feel this good.”

Spencer rasps his light stubble against you as his kisses make their way down the slope of your neck. He darts his tongue out at your sensitive spots, applying a wet pressure and heightening your senses by blowing gently on the skin. 

You whined, arching your back into him. It was so easy to turn you around, pin you down on your stomach, and slide his throbbing cock into your warmth. But then he’d make the situation about him again, and today was all about pleasing you.

The bed creaked underneath you as Spencer hovered on top of you, placing a knee on each side of your body. He unlocked your legs that were wrapped tightly around the covers, groaning loudly seeing how your pussy glimmered in your wetness. It had dripped down your inner thighs, creating a reflection in the dark room, guiding Spencer precisely to where you needed him most.

Carefully — so not to wake you — he changed positions, lowering himself on his stomach in between your thighs while placing your legs on top of his shoulders. Your body easily obeyed, feeling light in his arms as he held you by your hips and scooted you forward.

He licked his lips, fighting the urge to attach them to your pussy and not stop until you’ve come on his tongue. Twice.

Instead, he diligently trailed a finger over your folds. He watches you clench around nothing, lifting your hips in search of more. 

“Not yet, angel,” he teased. “Let’s warm you up first.”

His words were ironic due to the fact that it was the heat that had gotten you to this point. 

Spencer traced his lips over your inner thighs, mapping out a road and marking his favorite locations by leaving red and purple bites, until he eventually reached his destination.

“Jesus, baby,” he muttered as he spread your folds open with his pointer fingers, revealing your aching cunt. Your clit stood swollen, begging for attention, and your labia looked just as puffy from your earlier ministrations against the blanket. 

Driven by desire, Spencer stuck his tongue out and firmly lapped your clit. You twisted in the sheets, legs pulling up and a whine leaving your mouth.

“It’s okay,” Spencer cooed, placing a soft kiss on the bud. You moaned at that, a sweet, gentle sound, and he repeated the action until your body relaxed under his touch. Spencer drew lazy circles on your hips as his lips kissed you all over, coating his chin in your wetness as you got more and more excited.

Then, he tried again: tongue flicking out to tease your clit. This time a little whimper falls from your throat, and you keep your legs spread open. Spencer hums in satisfaction, circling the nub once more before closing his lips around it, gently sucking. 

There was no sweeter sound than the moans you made. No sweeter taste than the honey that dripped out of your needy hole. With a groan, Spencer curved his knee on the mattress, the other leg still lying flat as he found himself in the perfect position to get off: his cock rubbing against the sheets every time he pulled himself up to drag his tongue over your folds.

“Spencer,” you murmur, your feet locking over his back.

He looked up at your face with hooded eyes, catching the fluttering of your eyelashes. You were waking up.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he spoke ever so softly, as if he wasn’t ravishing your cunt just a second before.

Little by little, you gained consciousness. You blinked. Once. Then twice. And then your lips curved up in the most lovable smile Spencer had ever seen. 

“Good morning to me,” you breathed out in a pleased tone.

Spencer laughed, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Good morning, angel.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you groan playfully, your hands tangling into his brown locks and pulling him in as you lift your hips.

“Not gonna,” he whispered, his mouth finding your pussy again.

A warm sensation spreads through your body, the feeling igniting sparks in the places you’re most sensitive. Spencer was so, so good at this, and with your mind still feeling sleepy, there was nothing to overthink. You could just lie down, accept the pleasure, give yourself over to the feeling, and let go.

Your orgasm doesn’t come in one smooth, long wave but in several shakes of your body, each one pulling you under more. Your toes curl around his back, the back of your head presses into the pillow underneath you, and cries of his name leave your lips as you grab fistfuls of his hair. 

“Oh, that was so nice,” you giggle as you catch your breath.

Spencer returns your smile, sitting up on his knees and carefully taking your shaking legs off of his shoulders. Looking at his frame, you catch the length of his cock that’s proudly standing up. His tip shines an angry red, making you imagine how long he’s waited to take you.

With a firm grip, Spencer bends your knees and presses your legs toward your chest. The curve of your ass is slightly lifted off the mattress, and your pussy is on full display as your boyfriend hovers over you. 

“Not done with you yet,” he announces and takes hold of his cock before rubbing the thick head over your folds.

With your cunt still soaking wet, it didn’t surprise you when he accidentally slipped in.

“Oh, angel,” Spencer whined. He folded you double by pressing his hands harder on your knees, giving him access to smoothly thrust into you. 

In an instant, you had your hands on his face, pulling him in and roughly meeting his lips. Spencer didn’t waste any time, invading your mouth with his tongue, quickly dominating yours. Eagerly you returned the kiss. It was sloppy, not only the kiss, but the whole occurrence. Your whines matched the wet slaps of skin against skin, the rustling of the sheets sounded just as soft as the moans that tumbled from his lips, and the creaking of the bed frame added as a background noise to the melody that you created.

He slightly pulls back, his mouth attaching to your neck before a disappointed groan can leave your lips. 

His hot breath tickles your ear. “What did you dream of?” 

In hazy flashes, the memories in your mind returned, showing pictures of dreams where Spencer’s body was entangled with yours. “You.”

Spencer moaned, muffling his own longing sound by grazing his teeth against your ear. “And what did I do?”

Apparently it was possible to get more turned on than you already were. 

“You… hmpf… you woke me up like this. With your mouth on me.”

His eyes searched for yours, hazel irises turned dark. “Yeah?”

You nod your head into the pillow. “And then you fucked me,” you recalled, letting your nails roam over his back. “Fucked me so deep, Spence.”

“Fuck,” he breathed out, and you could feel his cock twitch inside of you. He swallowed, leaning back and adjusting your legs so that they were wrapped around his torso. Then he leaned back in, his cock sinking into you.

“Like this?”

A sharp cry escaped your throat, feeling Spencer fill you up to the hilt. His hot body pressed against yours, your soft breasts embracing his solid chest. 

“Y-yeah, like that. Fuck, that feels good.”  

His thrusts are minimal. He wants to stay inside of you. Can’t even handle the idea of pulling his hips back before he dives back in. Instead, he grinds himself into you, rubbing that sweet spot inside of your pussy over and over again. 

“I touched myself to you,” he admitted sheepishly, eyes locked onto yours as his curls fell over your face. 

“You just— you looked so beautiful. You look so beautiful,” he corrects. “Couldn’t help myself.”

It was easy to picture: his large hand wrapped around his cock, thumb stroking the head in the way he likes so much. Hips bucking into the air. His teeth biting down on his bottom lip, turned pink and plump, trying to swallow his sounds of pleasure. Next time you’ll pretend to be asleep just so you can catch a glimpse of that.

“Did you know you moaned my name?” He asked in a groan, heart fluttering at the memory. 

“Studies proved that dreams show a subconscious reflection of how you feel about a person.” He pressed his forehead to yours, looking at you in full awe. “Means so much to me, angel. That you think so well of me.”

“You are good, Spence,” you affirm. Tears pricked in your eyes because of the intimacy. “You are so good to me.” 

He nodded, believing you, and then locked his lips with yours. You clenched around him in response, resulting in him pounding into you faster. He reached for your hands, intertwining your fingers, and then placed them above your hand, keeping the both of you grounded as you got lost in the heat of the moment.

At some point you had lost your ability to kiss him back, your lips too busy singing a melody of moans. That didn’t stop Spencer from kissing you, though. He had kissed the side of your mouth, his kisses then trailing to your chin and eventually ghosting over your neck. You felt him everywhere. He had enveloped all your senses, and besides that, your mind was fully consumed by him and the growing heat that flamed deep in your core.

Your nails dug into his skin, creating crescent moon indents as a reminder of tonight. 

“Coming,” you gasped. You arched into his grasp, feeling like you were levitating as your orgasm washed over you. 

Your vision was hazy, but you could make out the way Spencer’s mouth opened, the way his eyebrows scrunched. Your hearing was muffled, but you could understand his cries of your name. Your body felt numb, but you could feel his warm release filling you up. 

Spencer’s legs gave out, and he gently let his head fall onto your chest, covering you up with his messy, sweaty curls. 

You detached your fingers from his, wiggling them around to relax them from his tight grasp. When you got some feeling back in them, you used the back of your hand to gently caress his face. 

“Should’ve returned the favor sooner,” he murmured, placing a kiss to the side of your breast.

You let out a breathy chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. This really made up for it.”

He tilted his head to look up at you, his hair tickling your chest. “Oh, we’re not done yet, angel. Just catching my breath.”

[appledressing]

😳

Very much incognit0slut of you to write this. I don’t know I thought this was funny bc it’s lie Spencer then is The incognito slut in this piece . Very very something!!! Of him!!!

Please!!! I was very invested

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

-

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words. 

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

[heavenlybodies333]

The Vest Stays On - S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | Secret Relationship |

The first time you saw Spencer Reid in the tactical vest, it short-circuited your entire nervous system.

It happened during a joint task force case with SWAT, just outside of Portland. You were half-caffeinated, bloodied from crawling through brambles to get a GPS fix on a suspect’s last drop point, and very much not expecting to be visually assaulted at seven-thirty in the morning. But then he stepped out of the SUV, FBI gear snug around his narrow chest, the black straps cinching in just right, the embroidered letters bright against the navy blue. Hair tousled. Glock holstered.

And you? Useless. Every neuron in your brain screamed: climb him.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Morgan had laughed when you choked on your water. JJ had side-eyed you when you pretended to stare at the street signs just to avoid looking at Spencer’s chest. “That’s the fifth time you’ve looked,” Emily mutters under her breath beside you, handing over her report.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh please,” she snorts. “You’ve been ogling Reid like he’s the last glass of water in the desert.”

And Hotch—of course Hotch—was the only one oblivious, laser-focused on briefing SWAT while the rest of the team collectively ignored how suddenly, unfairly hot Dr. Spencer Reid looked in tactical gear.

Which brings you to now. Because apparently the BAU’s got a knack for hotel fuck-ups. There’s only one room left tonight, and surprise—it's yours and Spencer's. Two twin beds, one broken thermostat, and five days into a case that’s frayed both of your nerves to ribbons.

And Reid? He’s still wearing the damn vest.

It’s past midnight. You’re in a tank top and boyshorts, pacing in front of the single working AC unit like it’s your job. Spencer’s sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees, posture impeccable—like he’s trying not to look at you. Like the thought of you in so little isn’t killing him. It’s mutual.

“I can take the floor if you want,” he offers.

You raise a brow. “Why? Scared I’ll kick in my sleep?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I just—I figured you’d be more comfortable. With space.”

You stop in front of him. Your eyes drift to the vest. It’s still zipped up, snug over his chest, the collar slightly popped against the base of his throat. “You gonna sleep in that thing?” you ask, stepping into his space. “Or is it permanently fused to your body now?”

He swallows. “I was—I didn’t want to—I didn’t think—”

“I don’t think I ever told you,” you interrupt, running your hand through his hair, “how unfairly hot this vest is.”

“I-I got that impression.”

You grin. “You know what I want?”

His breath hitches. “What?”

You lean in close, your mouth brushing his jaw as your fingers trail over the vest’s chest straps. “I want you to fuck me in it.”

With a firm hand, you shove him backward onto the mattress. He goes willingly, vest thudding softly against the cheap polyester sheets. You climb over him, knees straddling his hips, your fingers curling around the edge of the vest to anchor yourself. You roll your hips down, slow and deliberate, grinding against him. He groans.

“Tell me something, Doctor,” you murmur, tugging at one of the black buckles. “Statistically speaking, how many times can someone come in a single night?”

He chokes on a laugh—half arousal, half disbelief. “I—uh—five to six, depending on... variables.”

You smirk. “Let’s test that hypothesis, shall we?” He grips your hips tight. You grind against the hard line of him through his slacks and he groans—a soft, helpless sound that goes straight to your core.

Spencer kisses you again—slower this time, purposeful—then pulls your arms above your head. He grabs his belt from where it hangs on the bedpost and uses it to bind your wrists, leather tight but not painful.

“You move,” he murmurs, “and you don’t come.”

Your thighs squeeze together, aching. “What if I beg?”

“You can beg all you want.” He leans down, lips brushing your collarbone. “I like the sound of it.”

He trails kisses down your chest, nips at the waistband of your shorts. His hands skim your thighs, teasing, torturously slow. He drops his gaze to your boyshorts, now pushed aside, and hums softly under his breath like he’s filing away the image for later. You arch involuntarily when he strokes a thumb across your clit, featherlight. Just enough to make you crave more.

“You’re already so wet,” he murmurs. “Is it the vest?”

You whimper. “Spencer…”

He tilts his head, mock-serious. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes. God. Yes.”

“Noted.” He leans down and kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and indulgent. You twitch in his hold, desperate for friction, but he tuts. “I said don’t move.”

You nearly whine. “You’re torturing me.”

“I’m teasing you,” he corrects, licking another maddening stripe up your center. “Big difference. Trust me—I’ve done the research.”

You buck your hips before you can stop yourself. Spencer freezes. You feel his breath against your skin, just before he pulls away entirely. “No,” you plead, straining against the belt.

He raises a brow, expression cool behind the heat in his eyes. “I warned you.”

“Spencer, please—”

He slides back up your body until he’s straddling your hips and fuck, he’s so hard. The fabric catches on the outline of his cock as he pushes them down just enough to free himself. He doesn’t bother undressing further. The vest stays on, snug against his frame, and you can see his chest rising with each breath.

He fists himself once, twice—lining himself up with you—and then pauses, cock pressed at your entrance. Sliding it up and through your wet slick before slowly pushing in. You moan—loud, wrecked, your head tipping back against the pillow. He’s big and slow about it, pushing in deep and staying there, letting you feel every inch of him.

You whine under him, tugging instinctively at the belt binding your wrists. “Spence baby please—”

He groans deep in his chest and leans down, the hard ridge of his vest pressing tight against your nipples, the friction causing you to whimper.

“Yeah?” He thrusts harder. “You like the vest?”

You nod wildly. “God, yes.”

“I’ll wear it every day if you want.” You laugh—breathy, desperate—then cry out as he hits just the right spot.

The headboard slams into the wall. You both freeze. From the hallway, a door slams. Spencer presses his forehead to yours, panting. “We’re gonna get caught,” you whisper. He thrusts again. Hard. “Not if you stay quiet.”

You bite your lip. He watches, transfixed. “Be good for me,” he whispers. “Stay quiet. Let me fuck you like this.”

Your eyes roll back. You’re going to come, and he knows it—knows by the way your hips stutter, how your fingers curl into the Velcro on his chest.

“God, you feel good,” he groans against your jaw. Spencer doesn't stop—grinds you through it, cock buried deep, watching you like you're unraveling every scientific principle he’s ever believed in.

“Fuck,” he pants, low and harsh. “You’re so—God—”

You feel him start to lose rhythm, hips jerking erratically. “Inside,” you manage to gasp. “Come in me. Please.”

He groans your name, deep and broken, and spills into you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks as his head drops to your shoulder. You feel it—hot and thick and endless.

When he finally lifts his head, you’re still trying to catch your breath. He brushes damp hair from your forehead and presses a kiss there, soft and startlingly tender.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You tug weakly at your wrists. “Untie me before I find a way to punish you.”

Spencer grins—actually grins—as he reaches for the belt. “Promise?”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a dangerous game, Doctor.”

He drops the belt to the floor and pulls you into his chest, arms winding around you, vest rough and warm against your cheek. You settle there, content and fucked-out, and sigh.

“You know,” he says, absently running a thumb over your thigh, “in the Victorian era, women were diagnosed with ‘hysteria’ when they experienced… symptoms like yours.”

You lift your head. “Symptoms like what? Being feral for their boyfriend in tactical gear?”

He nods earnestly. “Exactly. Increased heart rate, flushing, rapid breathing, erratic behavior. The prescription was often—well, manual stimulation. Administered by physicians. It’s where the invention of the vibrator comes from.”

You gape at him. “Spencer.”

He shrugs, still tracing nonsense patterns on your thigh. “Just a historical fun fact.”

“You are the weirdest, hottest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive, you know,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Intelligence and arousal activate adjacent neural circuits in the limbic system. That’s why people find brains sexy. It’s science.”

“You’re science,” you mumble, tilting your head. “So. Statistically, how long is the average refractory period for men your age?”

He flushes, then smiles like he’s being challenged. “Well, the median is about fifteen minutes. But there’s a huge variation depending on stimulation, emotional connection, hormone levels—”

“So we could test the upper limits of that, is what I’m hearing.”

He pauses, eyes darkening. “Do you want to?”

You lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, your voice honey-sweet and dangerous. “Only if you keep the vest on.”

He practically groans. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

And it’s only round two.

a/n: raw raw rawwww

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[vaginalvr]

Hiii I was wondering if you could you do one where bau!reader and Spencer are in a relationship and one day she risks her life to catch an unsub. Spencer gets mad at her and gives her the silent treatment. She gets mad at him as well for his reaction, and they have like a little hate oral sex situation but are still angry afterwards. Then, a couple days later, reader maybe drops a glass and cuts herself accidentally or something of the sort, and Spencer panics and runs to make sure she’s ok, showing that he’s just scared to loose her. They finally open up and have sweet makeup sex. 💕💕

oh how sweet

cw: Smut, oral sex (f/m, angry), arguing, blood (minor injury), angst, comfort, makeup sex, language, creampie, established relationship

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The jet was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat on one side, head leaned against the window, watching the ground slowly blur beneath the clouds. Spencer sat across from you, one leg crossed, reading a book but not flipping a single page.

He hadn’t said a word to you in almost five hours.

You knew exactly why.

You’d chased the unsub down a dark alley alone. You’d gone against Hotch’s orders, but you’d made the call when the man ducked into a narrow side street, the kind no backup could reach in time.

You caught him. Tackled him to the ground. Disarmed him even when he pulled a knife and slashed at you.

You came out with a ripped vest, a bruised rib, and a few scrapes. But you came out alive.

Spencer, however, had watched it all from the other end of the alley, frozen, wide-eyed, and terrified.

He’d kissed you when the cuffs were on, held you too tightly in the SUV ride back, then said nothing since.

Now he was silent, eyes flicking over the same line of text over and over again.

You finally broke.

“You’re really not going to talk to me?” you asked.

He didn’t look up. “I have nothing to say.”

You scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

His eyes flicked up, narrowed, but he said nothing again.

You leaned forward. “I saved a life today. Would you rather I just stood there and let that girl die?”

“I’d rather you didn’t fucking risk yours,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

A few heads turned. Hotch shot you both a look. You fell quiet again. But you were seething.

And so was Spencer.

Back in Quantico, you barely spoke a word. When you got to your shared apartment, Spencer dropped his bag in the hall and walked straight to the bedroom.

You followed, fury still pumping through your veins.

“You don’t get to punish me for doing my job.”

“I’m not punishing you,” he said, taking off his watch, methodically setting it on the nightstand. “I’m processing.”

“Oh, give me a break. You’re mad, and instead of talking to me about it like a grown man, you're throwing a tantrum.”

He turned, jaw tight. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have. You chose to. You didn’t even wait for backup. You—”

“I knew what I was doing!”

“You don’t get to make that call without thinking about what happens to me if you don’t come back!”

You both fell silent again.

Chest heaving. Eyes locked.

The tension cracked, not with peace, but with lust, heat, rage, need.

“I hate when you do this,” you snarled, stepping forward, pushing at his chest. “Act like you care so much, then shut me out.”

“I hate that you think I can just watch you throw yourself into danger and not feel like I’m losing my mind.”

You shoved him. Harder.

He caught your wrist. Gripped it tight. His chest pressed to yours.

“I hate you,” you hissed.

“I hate you more,” he growled back.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“No—fuck you, Spencer—don’t think this fixes anything,” you stammered, heart racing as he shoved your pants down, dragging your panties with them.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise. His mouth was hot and angry as it latched onto your clit.

Your hand flew to his hair.

“Oh my God—Spencer—fuck—”

He didn’t tease, didn’t warm you up. He devoured you like he was mad at your pussy for tempting fate. His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking with sharp, precise intent, and his grip didn’t let you move—didn’t let you run, didn’t let you think.

You came too fast, trembling and gasping, thighs clenched around his face.

He pulled back, mouth slick, eyes still burning.

You shoved at him. “Don’t think this fixes anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Walked past you to the bathroom.

You stared at the wall.

And hated how wet you still were.

Two days of silence.

You slept on the couch one night. He did the next.

The air in the apartment was heavy, static, thick with everything unsaid.

Until Tuesday night.

You were reaching for a glass in the kitchen, exhausted from a long case debrief, when your grip slipped.

It hit the counter, shattered.

You gasped and jerked back—too late.

A shard sliced across your palm.

Blood welled fast.

“Shit,” you hissed, grabbing a towel, trying to stop the bleeding. It stung, hot and deep, and your knees buckled a little with the sudden pain.

“Y/N?” Spencer called from the study.

You didn’t answer. Just hissed again.

Then you heard footsteps—running.

He rounded the corner, saw the red staining the towel, and panicked.

“Jesus—what happened?!”

“I dropped a glass, I just—fuck, it hurts—”

He was already grabbing your wrist, inspecting the cut with trembling fingers.

“I’m fine,” you tried.

“No, you’re not—God, you’re not—come here—sit—sit down—”

He guided you to the kitchen chair, voice shaking.

“Spence—”

“You could need stitches,” he muttered. “You could pass out from blood loss. You could get an infection—fuck—”

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

You’d never seen his eyes like that before.

Terrified. Raw. Vulnerable.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered.

And suddenly, it wasn’t about the cut.

It wasn’t about the alley.

It was everything.

“I can’t lose you,” he said again. “I can’t.”

You reached out with your good hand, cupping his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—about what it would do to you.”

He exhaled, eyes falling closed. Leaned into your palm like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“I’m scared all the time,” he said. “But that night—watching him pull that knife—I felt it. I felt what it would be like if I didn’t get to kiss you again. If I didn’t get to argue with you, or listen to you snore, or make you coffee. And I—I didn’t know how to come down from that.”

You swallowed hard. “So you shut me out.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just… scared.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

His hand slid to your knee.

Yours slid into his curls.

He kissed you like an apology and a prayer.

You kissed him back like he was breath after drowning.

He pulled you into his lap right there in the kitchen chair, cradling your bandaged hand gently against his chest as your mouths moved in sync, desperate and soft and slow.

His hands roamed your back. Yours fumbled with his belt.

“I missed you,” he murmured, forehead to yours.

“I’m right here,” you breathed.

He lifted you, carried you to the bedroom with reverence.

Stripped you gently this time. Like you were precious. Like you were made of the most fragile porcelain.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice breaking.

“Yes. Always.”

He entered you slowly, stretching you with care, making you both gasp at the intimacy of it. There was no anger now. Just love.

His hips rolled into yours, long and deep and rhythmic, each thrust a confession.

“I love you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you moaned, arms wrapped tight around him.

He made love to you like it was the last time he ever would. Like he had to memorize your body with every motion.

You came around him, clenching and pulsing, and he held you through it, breathing you in like oxygen.

“I’m close,” he warned, breath ragged.

“Come inside me,” you whispered. “Please.”

And he did—shuddering, trembling, heart pounding against yours.

After, he held you close, your face pressed to his chest, your bandaged hand resting over his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.

He kissed the top of your head. “I know.”

But he held you tighter anyway.

Just in case.

[miedei]

roommate!spencer gets home late and you know each other so so so well <3

drabbles mlist | roommate!spence fic

roommate!au drabble inspired by an alisha (@siriuslylantsov) voice message and our shared roommate au obsession

When Spencer walks in, the apartment is quiet, but not silent. It’s not the mute nature of an empty home, but instead there’s a lived-in undertone to it. 

The faint sound of your white noise machine reaches him from your room, the car noises that float in through the kitchen window you always forget to close, and, if he strains his ears, he can hear the repetitive, rocking sounds of your breathing. 

Despite the exhaustion that weighs down his shoulders, he feels warmed from inside out. Seeing the living room in the dim moonlight sends a tremor of deep affection and comfort through him. After days and days on this case, sleeping in the unfamiliar hotel room, hunching over maps and interviewing suspects, he’s been craving the ease of home. 

Glancing at the grandfather clock shoved up against the left wall, Spencer winces. Three am. Setting his messenger bag down on the couch, he slowly pads through the apartment, darting into the kitchen to close the window (and to scarf down a handful of dry cereal). Next, he heads for his room, tapping in the code to his gun safe. Removing his holster, he carefully places it inside, locking it away. 

His mind seems to go on autopilot at this point, all his thoughts quieted into a low buzz in the back of his head. Without much contemplation, he goes through the motions of changing, brushing his teeth and washing his face (with your cleanser). Just as these actions are routine, so is his next one. 

Quietly, he walks across the hallway from the bathroom, softly pushing open your door. Pacing slowly over to your bedside, he can’t help but smile, seeing how you’ve tangled yourself up in the sheets, half your body uncovered. 

Like he does most nights he’s home, he picks up the water bottle on your nightstand, the weight of it indicating that it’s empty. He knows that you’ll probably wake up obscenely early, your throat dry. If the bottle stays empty, you’ll have to get out of bed for a glass of water, and then you’ll be too awake to go back to sleep. 

So, like he’s done countless times before, Spencer grabs the bottle, walks into the kitchen to fill it up, and returns to your room. 

Placing it on your nightstand again, he lingers for a moment, feeling the fatigue of the last few days wearing him down. He reaches down slowly, making sure his touch stays light. Brushing against the hair that covers your face, he can feel himself trying to return to his body. His mind is still far, far away, however. A sigh rushing past his lips, he retracts his hands, walking out of your room and shutting the door behind him. 

When you wake up, sleep weighing down your eyelids, the first thing you notice is that it’s pleasantly warm. There are no sounds coming in from the street. Instead it’s more quiet, as if all the windows have been closed. 

The next thing you feel is the nagging dryness at the back of your mouth. Rolling over in bed, you grope blindly on your nightstand. Despite remembering draining your bottle dry before you went to sleep, you’re hoping against hope that there’ll be a few drops left at the bottom. 

When your fingertips find purchase against the metal, you’re surprised to find the bottle heavy to lift, somehow full. After gulping down several mouthfuls, it's only then that you have the wherewithal to actually process what you’ve noticed. 

It’s still dark. The windows are closed. Your bottle filled. This has happened before, and you know exactly what that means.

Somehow tired out by that feat of cognitive excellence, you place your bottle back down, shifting to sit up on your bed. Allowing your mind to fall back into the welcome embrace of half-sleep, you grip your blanket around your shoulders, standing with a wobble. 

Following the route that your feet know better than your brain, you shuffle into the hallway, down a few doors before pushing open the wooden door. 

Half-lidded eyes fall on the lump under the navy-blue covers, and your shoulders droop impossibly further, drawn to the softness of that bed. Without another thought, you pad forward, flopping unceremoniously on the bed next to Spencer. 

Drowsily rearranging both your and his blankets so that you’re both covered up, you slot in behind him, your knees flush against the backs of his. Burying your face in the surprisingly wide expanse of his back, you exhale, melting against his warm body. 

A sleepy grumble emanates from his chest, and he shifts, one large hand moving to rest atop the forearm you’ve got slung over his middle. 

The apartment is quiet, the windows are closed and both of you are quickly caught by the tendrils of sleep.