This Was So Beautiful

💋💋

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your relationship is still very new, and you're getting ready to tell the rest of the team about it. in the meantime, you find yourselves again in another unusual hotel...where suddenly spencer starts acting very strangely?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: glasses spencer reid x newbau!female!reader, fluff, intimacy conversation, spender being adorably shy

𝐚/𝐧: 'matilda how many more times are you gonna write that one bed trope' AS MUCH AS I CAN TILL I DIE btw i wrote this fic over a pretty long period of time, had a main idea (supposedly), but in the end i'm not happy with how it turned out—kinda all over the place. anyway, enjoy

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.8k

"My five dollars"

Spencer sighed and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the slightly crumpled bill. You closed it in your hand, a triumphant smile on your face.

"Let's make bets more often, darling," you suggested.

When you used that nickname, his gaze briefly flickered over your face, as if studying whether it had been said purely in jest.

"You’re puffing up like you just invented the wheel," he said, gently shaking his head from side to side. "And just to remind you, all you did was park parallel."

"Parked parallel, indeed. And my coffee?"

He also handed you the paper cup he’d been holding while you performed those incredibly complicated car maneuvers that the bet was about. It was morning, the first day back at work. January, the first days of the new year. You had just arrived at the office parking lot in your car, after spending the night at your place. Everything around you still seemed to smell of that melancholic blend of the past mixed with the fresh scent of the coming months. And coffee, bought at the café on the way.

You took a tiny sip of the hot drink. Spencer, it seemed, hadn’t touched his even once. Both of you, consciously or not, were stretching out the moment just a little longer. And, truth be told, you could afford to. The parking lot around you was only beginning to fill with cars, suggesting the early hour. It was nice to sit there together, sharing the quiet without any discomfort.

You realized this was supposed to be your first day at work as a couple.

A warm, pleasant feeling spread through you at the sound of that word, even though you hadn’t said it out loud. It still felt a little unreal. You had grown closer during the New Year’s Eve party at your place. It was only after that shared—and not just one—kiss that a new perspective dawned on you about the past months of your relationship, revealing some undefined emotions.

"I was wondering..." Spender suddenly began, his brows furrowed slightly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

His gaze suddenly fell on his watch.

"We still have some time," you reassured him calmly. "Let me guess. You've been wondering what would happen if we crossed the DNA of a jellyfish that can reverse its life cycle with the human genome?"

A small smile flickered across his face, a touch of affection despite the rather serious expression on the rest of his face.

"That too," he admitted, nodding. Then he opened his mouth, with some visible hesitation, as if a particular question was troubling him. You shifted in the driver's seat, preparing for whatever he wanted to discuss, whatever he wanted to ask. "How...how are we supposed to act...you know, towards each other? At work?"

For a moment, your brain didn’t understand what he meant. But then, a fleeting oh escaped you as the meaning of his words sank in, and you realized that it was indeed something worth considering. Somehow, over the past few days, neither of you had brought it up. You had just gone back to work, without any reflection on the fact that none of your colleagues knew about the progress in your relationship. About how it had suddenly taken a step to a completely different level.

Spencer studied your face in silence, waiting for a response. As he looked at you, coming up with a logical solution became incredibly difficult. Before you finally said anything, you let out two half-intelligent mutters, like a fish thrown onto the surface.

"We have to tell them," you finally said, stating the obvious. "Somehow. Maybe...we can meet at my place this weekend. All of us. Or we could go out somewhere, and then tell them calmly."

"This weekend?" Spencer repeated cautiously.

It was Monday.

Suddenly, it became incredibly hard to read the expression on his face. He was facing you, his brows slightly furrowed, a look of uncertainty, almost withdrawal. The air inside your car thickened, making the silence even more palpable. He seemed almost concerned, downcast. You froze, wondering if you had really said something wrong.

"So until then," he started more quietly, "are we just supposed to hide it from them?"

“I'm not sure hide is the right word," you replied with a grimace. "I just...I meant, maybe we should wait. For a better moment, you know? Instead of walking into the office on the first Monday of the year, when half the people are still nursing hangovers, and saying hey, guess what? we hooked up!”

His expression hadn't changed, despite your pretty honest explanation.

"You don't like the idea," you stated, rather than asking. You made sure your voice sounded gentle, adjusting it to the situation. "I can see that, Spencer."

"Okay, you're right, I don't like it," he admitted with a sudden coolness, his lips tightening slightly between sentences. "Because...I don't get your reasoning. Or, maybe I just don’t know if this is really what you mean."

Slightly surprised, you shook your head.

"What else could I—"

"I don’t know if it's really about that, or maybe..." he cut off, looking into your eyes as if hoping you'd understand by now. But you didn't have the skill to read his mind, no matter how remarkable it was—it was also incredibly complex. "Or maybe...I don’t know, you just don’t take it seriously. That's why you don't want to tell anyone about it."

You gasped, finally understanding his behavior. Realizing the hidden concern.

"You’re worried I don't take us seriously?"

Spencer shrugged briefly.

"You know, if that's really the case, I'd rather know now..."

You leaned in to catch one of his hands, which had been clasped over his chest. You broke his defensive stance, pulling him toward you by his long fingers, simply holding it for a moment before speaking again. With a smile. A slightly amused smile.

"Of course, I take us seriously, you idiot," you snorted. A sense of relief washed over you. Earlier, he’d seemed genuinely worried, and you’d been expecting far worse things than the fact that your guy literally paled with anxiety over worrying you weren’t as invested in your fresh relationship as he was. Well, out of context, it sounded like a very serious concern. But the context was, you took it seriously, and you were incredibly happy he did too. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Why should we make idiots out of ourselves for the next week? Let’s just walk in like this."

You motioned toward your intertwined fingers, raising them as if they were a trophy earned through sweat and tears. Spencer followed their movement with his gaze, initially surprised, but then the corner of his mouth twitched, and he tilted his head with a quiet chuckle.

"We can do it your way," he said, taking control of your hands, clasping them with both of his. He looked relieved; your reassurance and the sincerity in your voice clearly calmed him. You smiled too, finally seeing that peace on his face. "I really don't mind waiting a few days. It might even be… interesting. One of us might not hold out and accidentally slip up."

You raised an eyebrow in a teasing manner.

"Another bet, Reid?" you clicked your tongue. You kept eye contact with him, feeling his thumb gently tracing circles on the back of your hand. He seemed so unaffected, as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. "You already lost five bucks about…ten minutes ago. At this rate, you'll be broke within a month, and we'll have to skip that overpriced coffee downtown. Now that would be a real horror story, speaking as a citizen of the first world."

"Didn't say anything about another bet!”

"Too late," you shot back, turning his hand and taking it in a more formal handshake. "Handshakes sealed the deal."

He rolled his eyes, but a half-smile lingered on his face. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

"I think we should get going," he said reluctantly.

You sighed with the same enthusiasm. You really felt stuck to that seat, right next to him.

"You know, being late on the first day of the new year should be fully justified..."

"We really need to go."

He was right. But before either of you could move to get out of the car, he leaned forward. Gently cupping your cheek, he drew you in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his touch, and for a brief moment, the world outside seemed to vanish—just the two of you, in that quiet, perfect stillness.

His face suddenly turned to the side, noticing something through the windshield. You frowned and looked in the same direction.

"That's Gideon," you remarked out loud, even though both of you had already spotted the silhouette of your coworker stepping out of a car that had just parked a short distance ahead. He wasn’t looking your way yet, but he could at any moment. "Quick, hide!"

Okay, you were completely honest with yourself. It wasn’t about being afraid of getting caught. After all, there was nothing strange about two coworkers arriving at work together in the same car—it was even very eco-friendly. You just liked the idea of shoving Reid under the seat. And the poor thing, so thrown off by the mock authority in your voice and the situation itself, did it without a second thought.

When Gideon finally noticed you, you cheerfully waved at him.

"Fuck," you muttered suddenly.

"What is it?" Spencer returned to his seat, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Do you think he saw me?"

You shook your head.

"I just realized…this is your car."

*

"Okay, draw a straw."

"Morgan, how old are you?" You shook your head in disbelief, staring at the man standing across from you in the motel lobby. The place where you were spending the night this time was very tidy, with subdued colors, but, as tradition demanded, there had to be some sort of problem. You had one room for two, but one of them only had a double bed. So, you had to decide which two lucky people would share it. "Five?"

"And a half. Listen, we have to decide somehow. Let fate do it. The two who pull the shortest will sleep together. Simple as that."

Before you could say anything else, Garcia approached, weighed down by her bags. Yes, her—rarely did any case require her to be on-site, but it wasn’t completely unheard of.

"Oh, come on, Sweetie," she muttered to you, setting her luggage down and hunching slightly to catch her breath. "Let him feel like a kid again for a moment. He doesn’t get the chance often."

You sighed in resignation, but before you could pull one of the purple straws (how did he even get them?) that Morgan was holding in such a way that their lengths were hidden, you glanced around briefly. Sometimes you arrived at hotels at different times, some getting there faster, others later. Spencer and JJ had just walked in, both wearing coats to shield them from the cold January air. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him and his fogged-up glasses, which he quietly cursed under his breath—judging by the movement of his lips. However, you quickly composed yourself, returning to a neutral expression. It had only been two days since your agreement to keep the details of your relationship hidden, and so far, neither of you had slipped or forgotten to keep quiet around the others. Well, out of the two of you, you were probably struggling with it more—being a bit of a clinger, sometimes even your body would naturally gravitate towards his when standing next to him.

“Why are you standing here?” Spencer asked, approaching you. “Is there a problem with the rooms?”

“Is there ever not a problem with the rooms?” you responded, laughing. “Some poor souls are going to have to share a bed,” you explained, making brief eye contact with him. You were sure only he could catch the emphasis you placed on poor souls.

Of course, you wouldn't mind ending up in the same room. It wasn't about the fact that you were together—before, you’d shared rooms and even beds, and you were used to it by now. You would've probably offered it yourself, if it weren’t for the potential suspicion and that silly bet, which was starting to lose its point in your eyes. Maybe you should’ve just told them a few days ago?

“Oh,” he said shortly, crossing his arms with a bit of stiffness. His brown bag hung from his shoulder. He held your gaze for a moment, but his expression wasn’t as amused as yours. His brows furrowed slightly as he cleared his throat. “Poor them. Who’s it going to be?”

You slightly puffed out your lips slightly, watching him with a sharp look. What was it that made him so uneasy—the fact that you might not be in the same room this time?

“We were just about to decide,” Penelope replied, glancing at her friend with a teasing smile. “Morgan’s going to show us a game he learned today in kindergarten."

 JJ couldn't help but snort.

 “Just draw a straw…!”

You couldn’t recall another moment when all of you, every single one, rolled your eyes in perfect unison. But that’s exactly what happened when Derek once again enthusiastically explained the rules, as though they weren’t already ridiculously simple. In the end, each of you reached for one of the straws he was holding.

JJ went first. She pulled hers quickly, and it was of regular length, so it was immediately clear she wasn’t one of the poor souls. She raised her hand in a mock display of triumph, earning a few amused chuckles from the group.

Your turn came next. You approached the task with a certain gravity, as though the fate of the night depended entirely on the straw you chose. You studied each one carefully, as if their lengths could somehow be deciphered from the way they were arranged.

You wouldn’t have minded drawing the shortest straw. But only on one condition. 

Morgan looked at you with mock sympathy. Your straw wasn’t even half as long as JJ’s, which seemed to settle things. Now, it was just a matter of figuring out which of the remaining two—Reid or Garcia—would end up joining you.

Spencer reached out with a calculated, deliberate motion, his eyes immediately darting to yours when his straw turned out to be...one of the longer ones.

You shot him a look of bitter disappointment before your gaze shifted to your soon-to-be roommate. Penelope didn’t seem disheartened—on the contrary, an enthusiastic smile lit up her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but you caught the fleeting shift in her expression and the subtle flicker of her eyes.

“Oh no,” she suddenly gasped, her voice filled with exaggerated horror, even though she’d just seemed perfectly content, or at least not displeased, at the idea of sharing a room with you. “No, absolutely not. There’s no way I’m sleeping in the same room with her. Do you guys even know how loud she snores?”

Lies! You wanted to yell, but stopped yourself as realization dawned. Garcia was a good actress—you had to give her that—but her flair for dramatics always bordered on overkill, making it far too easy to catch her in a lie.

“I’m not used to traveling as often as you guys are,” Penelope continued in the same over-the-top tone. “I barely get a wink of sleep in a new place when it’s quiet, let alone with someone next to me snoring like a steam engine…”

“Love you too, Pen,” you muttered dryly.

“Someone has to switch with me, please,” she concluded, clasping her fingers together in a dramatic plea and pulling off the best puppy-dog eyes you’d seen in a long time. Well, at least since the time Reid had tried to coax you into reciting one of your old, cringe-worthy high school poems—the existence of which you’d only ever confessed to him.

“JJ?” Penelope turned her hopeful gaze toward her.

“Not a chance. My straw was the longest,” JJ replied, smug and immovable.

“Don’t even think about asking me,” Morgan chimed in before anyone could so much as glance in his direction.

And so, all eyes inevitably fell on Reid.

He awkwardly scratched the back of his ear, not looking directly at you.

“Well, I always carry earplugs with me…”

“Then it’s settled!” Garcia declared, hoisting her luggage with sudden determination. One of her heavy bags was thrust into Morgan’s arms so abruptly that he staggered backward under its weight. “Sweet dreams, everyone! Don’t let the bedbugs bite, and may the sheep you count tonight be extra fluffy and adorable. Goodnight!”

Just before she fully turned to leave, she sent you a quick, knowing wink.

You shook your head in disbelief, but the faintest smile danced on your lips. You didn’t even bother questioning how she knew. Only one conclusion circled your mind. Penelope could be really impossible. Thankfully, being impossible didn’t disqualify her from also being the best friend under this vast, sprawling sky. Period.

*

"What do you think about starting a tier list for all the hotels we stay in?” you remarked as both of you crossed the threshold of the room. Your eyes immediately landed on its unexpected feature. “Or at least the weirdest ones. Like the one with walls the color of cat pee where the power went out in the middle of the night. That one’s definitely at the top..."

"I don’t really get the point of a mirror on the ceiling," Reid said after a pause, looking over his shoulder at you. He was standing a few steps away, near the bed in the glaring white room with birchwood floors. "Who wants to look at themselves while trying to fall asleep?”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if he was joking or not. He raised an eyebrow too, not understanding why you did that. Okay, he wasn’t joking.

"You know, the main point isn’t really to look at yourself while falling asleep," you explained, with a bit of amused pity. Your gaze also briefly lingered on the glass surface above the bed, designed to reflect the bodies of people lying in bed. You thought it was a surprising addition but weren’t planning on spending too much time on it for now. You just wanted to get your shoes off—shoes you’d been wearing since sunrise—and finally lie down on something soft. "By the way, I’m taking a shower first."

Spencer only muttered something under his breath in response. Before disappearing behind the bathroom door, you cast one last glance at him. He seemed quiet—strangely quiet. Not that you were expecting his usual chatter after a long day of work; it could weigh on anyone and leave them feeling subdued. Maybe he just needed an extra moment to unwind, and that’s where his restraint came from.

Anyway, you took a quick shower. The pressure of the hot water nearly scalded your skin, which meant you’d be spared the bitter complaints, grumbling, and dramatic resignation threats from Morgan the next day. You felt too tired to linger under the stream for long. After a few minutes, you stepped out of the shower, changed into your sleepwear, and gathered the clothes you’d worn all day from the floor.

You and Spencer passed each other in the doorway without a word.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you frowned. The bathroom door shut behind him, and some concerned question froze on your lips. For a moment, you stood still, debating whether you should ask it. But then the sound of running water reached your ears, and you figured he probably wouldn’t hear you anyway.

Instead, you decided to climb into bed, wait for him, and ask about it then. Whatever it was clearly weighed on him, and the fact that something was bothering him bothered you. Funny how that worked, right?

You spent that moment lying on your back, eyes wide open, afraid you might accidentally fall asleep if you closed them. A comfortable bed during a case—it felt like pure luxury. You were waiting for Spencer to finally emerge from the bathroom so you could curl up next to him, fall asleep to the fresh post-shower scent of him, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Just like you had spent half the day after the New Year’s party at your place—wrapped around each other, arguing over who would get up to make coffee and whether you should start cleaning up the mess from the night before.

You tucked your arm beneath your head, gazing at your fully-covered form reflected in the ceiling mirror.

“Did you find a portal to another galaxy in there or what?” you finally called out, impatient. He’d been in there way too long. And coming from you—a known lover of long, indulgent baths—that was saying something.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing a gray t-shirt instead of his usual neat work attire and tie perfectly knotted at his neck. He still had his glasses on, which he might’ve forgotten to remove, judging by the way he slid into bed to your left without taking them off.

You watched him closely, rubbing at your tired eye. The shower had managed to wash away about half of the tension from Spencer’s face, but the other half stubbornly remained.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said softly.

“I didn’t have to,” you admitted simply, watching as he carefully adjusted himself, finding the right position. The lamp on his side of the bed cast a warm glow over his skin. You were both half-sitting, you comfortably propped up against the soft pillows, and him barely leaning back against them. “But I wanted to. We really lucked out with this room, huh? Penelope is one of a kind.”

"Did you tell her about us?"

"I didn’t say a word. She's just more observant than the rest”

He nodded, agreeing with you. You thought he might say something else about it, maybe make a joke about the bet, but he didn’t. You yawned.

"You seem tired.”

“How did you figure that out, Sherlock?” you asked, your sarcasm light, without a hint of malice. “You too, by the way. Although, it’s not just that you seem tired—you are tired, at first glance. Or maybe something’s bothering you. Or maybe both. Am I right?”

He shrugged slowly.

“No, as far as I know.”

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You pulled your knees closer to your chest, shifting into a full sitting position with slightly bent legs. You leaned forward just enough to gently take his glasses off and fold them, your fingers brushing briefly against his cheek. He didn’t look at what you were doing, his gaze fixed on your face under the soft fall of his lashes. The wonderful color of his eyes, the slight hesitation in your movements as you moved a little closer to kiss him—a fleeting, tender press of lips.

“Something’s going on, and you can tell me about it.”

“Or we could just go to sleep,” he suggested quietly. “It’s been a long day. You must be tired, I mean, you yawned a little while ago.”

You tilted your head, studying him thoughtfully. Was he really trying this hard to dodge the topic? How could you get him to open up?

“I know blackmail isn’t exactly healthy for relationships,” you started finally, turning his glasses over in your hands, “but I’m not giving these back until you tell me.”

Both corners of his mouth twitched at once.

“Oh no, what am I going to do now?” he replied with feigned concern, gently shaking his head. Then he lowered his voice.  “This is exactly what I’d say if I didn’t also have contacts with me.”

"Sometimes I just want to…ugh."

"Violence isn't too healthy for relationships either."

"Just like not opening up. Remember what we talked about a few days ago in the car? You were worried I don't take you seriously. How else am I supposed to prove I'm serious if I don’t ask what’s wrong when I can tell something’s off?"

Your explanation sounded a bit jumbled, but he had to get the general idea. The reference to that specific conversation and his own words seemed to hit a sensitive spot.

"I didn’t want you to feel like you have to prove anything to me," he quickly corrected, swallowing hard. His chest fell, and the sigh felt like surrender. "I'm sorry. I just don't want you to worry about it. It's nothing serious. I’m just tired...and a little stressed."

"Stressed?" you repeated, surprised. "You're stressed? But about what?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"Just... about this," he said vaguely, his gaze shifting from you to your reflection in the glass ceiling. "Us, I mean."

"What do you mean?" you asked quietly, still confused, gently shaking your head. "We've shared rooms before, so if it’s about that, I really don’t get it."

"Yeah, but never like this. In a room with a king-sized bed and a huge mirror right above us," he explained, his voice tinged with embarrassment, clearly wishing he could just stop talking. "Okay, I know this sounds dumb, I know it does, but I don’t know why it’s messing with my head like this. I just...I kinda thought maybe you'd want to..."

"Spencer," you interrupted, saving him from going any further. You saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. You weren’t sure what emotion was bubbling up inside you now—whether it was still confusion or just pure amusement. "You were worried I’d want to have sex with you?” 

You didn’t even need to wait for his answer to know you’d hit the nail on the head. Considering how your relationship had grown out of friendship, slowly evolving over time and shared experiences instead of a sudden burst of passion, you weren’t surprised you hadn’t yet taken that step together. It was something special in its own way—there had never been any pressure, and you hadn’t expected that he might feel the exact opposite.

So when you finally figured out what had been bothering him all this time, you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine.

"You were right, you know. It does sound kind of dumb," you said, unable to keep the smile from your face. His expression remained unreadable, his posture betraying a hint of anticipation as he waited for the rest of your reaction. "But also…I don’t know, kind of adorable? But seriously, Spencer, we don’t have to do anything if you’re not ready."

"It’s not that I don’t want to at all," he clarified quickly, almost too firmly. "I mean...it’d be our first time. Together. That’s what I mean. And I guess I just didn’t expect it to...happen tonight, here, of all places."

"I didn’t either," you admitted truthfully, the smile still lingering on your face. Unlike him, you didn’t feel even a hint of embarrassment. "I figured we’d just go to sleep, especially since we both already admitted we’re exhausted."

"Fair point," he mumbled.

"Honestly, this has to be the biggest example of overthinking I’ve ever seen anyone put themselves through, Spencer," you teased lightly, shaking your head.

For a moment, he stayed silent, but it felt like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding.

“You’re gonna have to get used to that,” he admitted finally, his voice soft. But then, you caught the faint glimmer of a smile tugging at his lips.

He even started to laugh, a quiet chuckle filled with a sort of amused self-awareness. Meanwhile, you leaned out of the bed to place his glasses on the nightstand on your side. If he wanted them in the morning, he’d have no choice but to reach right over you.

“But just for the record,” he began after a moment, as you reached for the edge of the blanket that had slipped off you earlier, pulling it back up to wrap around yourself. Your head was only inches from the pillow now. You gave him a questioning nod. He, too, was getting ready to lie down, finally looking genuinely relaxed. “How pathetic do you think that was, on a scale from one to ten?”

You just rolled your eyes, not even dignifying the question with an answer.

“In the interest of science,” he pressed, “one to ten?”

“Pathetic enough that you’ll need to redeem yourself a little in my eyes,” you sighed dramatically. “Go on, I’m waiting for your ideas.”

“I think I might have a few,” he replied with a soft chuckle.

You prolonged the kiss, savoring the deep sense of comfort it brought you. The two of you lay face to face, and you gently brushed a few still-damp strands of hair from Spencer's forehead, though they stubbornly fell back into place. Eventually, you gave up with a soft sigh against his lips. Spencer kept his eyes closed, lost in a quiet bliss, even as you pulled back just slightly, leaving only an inch of space between you.

"Can I turn off the light now?" you asked, as always. The question had become a tradition since you'd learned about his complicated relationship with darkness.

He hummed in agreement, nodding faintly. Leaning over him, you reached for the bedside lamp on his side. The room was instantly bathed in darkness, your reflections in the mirror above fading into obscurity.

You didn’t fully return to your original spot. Instead, you shifted closer, resting your head comfortably against his chest. The hotel pillows were unbelievably plush, you had to admit, but that night, you chose this over anything else.

"You’re not asleep," he noted gently after about fifteen minutes. He cleared his throat. "During sleep, a person’s breathing becomes slower and more regular. You know, if you’re uncomfortable here, you don’t have to…"

"I’m listening to your heartbeat," it slipped out of you. Though it was true, you hadn’t planned on admitting it out loud. "Nothing sinister, just to be clear. I’m not planning to rip it out of your chest or anything like that. It just works for me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Like those videos that imitate the sound of a crackling fireplace. Pretty calming."

"My heartbeat reminds you of the sound of a fireplace?" he said, a glint of confusion in his softly hoarse voice.

You sighed, in the darkness, he couldn’t see the faint smile painting itself on your face, pressed against his chest.

"Sweet dreams, silly."

tag list: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @awordsmith

Cuteee

꣑ৎ you’re not wearing your ring ꣑ৎ

summary: in which he sees you're not wearing your engagement/wedding ring and he totally handles it normally.

warnings: language!

drivers: 44, 4, 16, 1, 81, 55

note: idk why the quality of the pictures is fluctuating but alas, i tried my best LOL

disclaimer: i do not allow my work to be copied/translated/reposted in any capacity!

@justaf1girl @sltwins @c8lap1nto @copper-boom @nic0-hischier

I need more fics like this

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc: 0.2k

the phone buzzes at 3:07 a.m.

you answer on instinct, heart thudding like a warning—but the moment you hear the low crackle of distant static, your chest eases.

"si?" you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

"told you i'd call."

his voice is gravel, dulled by poor signal and fatigue. but it’s him.

"you okay?"

"fine," he says. it's automatic. a soldier's answer. then quieter, "can't sleep."

you sit up against the headboard, brushing hair from your face. "where are you?"

a silence and then, his answer.

"nowhere good."

he never tells you, not really. you stopped asking a long time ago.

there's a pause. you hear him breathe.

"is she awake?" his question makes you smile for a moment.

"she had a nightmare an hour ago. i rocked her back down, but she’s been babbling since. talking to the ceiling fan, i think.” you explain softly, sitting at the bed.

he huffs something close to a laugh.

"i'll put you on speaker."

in the dim nightlight, your daughter—grace, as he was gifted to call her, lies in her crib, blanket half-kicked off, tiny fists waving at nothing.

simon listens. on the other end of the world, he's crouched in some half-shelled out building, rifle at his side, bone-weary—but when his daughter coos into the line, high and breathy and nonsense-sweet, his eyes close.

"bah-bah. da-da-da-da."

he bites down the ache.

"daa,"she says again, louder, like she knows.

his voice breaks low over the line. "that's me, sweetheart."

as the line keeps up, you smile with your eyes closed. tiny moments, as you called them. tiny moments where simon could feel happy even if he was crossing the whole world.

a/n: simon would have a daughter fight me

Perfection

Don't Get In Your Own Way

Summary: You and Spencer have always been close - everyone else can see it's more than just friendship. When will you two be ready to see it as well?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: fluff, light smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: alcohol consumption, suggestive content, friends to lovers, minimal BAU case talk, mild public indecency

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: this was an olddd draft ,,, i came back to give it the ol' razzle dazzle

main masterlist

Every afternoon, like clockwork, you and Spencer retreat to the stairs outside the FBI offices, your little quiet corner away from the noise of the bullpen. The team is usually scattered—some opting for takeout at their desks, others heading out for a bite—but you and Spencer? You prefer the fresh air, the slight reprieve from case files and fluorescent lights, just the two of you.

Spencer talks—a lot. And you let him. You never interrupt when he goes off on a tangent, whether about a book he’s been reading, some obscure historical event, or even the latest behavioral theory he’s been mulling over. He’s learned, over time, that you listen—that you don’t just humor him but engage, ask questions, challenge him. It’s one of the reasons he feels safest around you, why he lets the mask slip, why he doesn’t feel the need to filter himself. Around you, he’s just Spencer. Not Dr. Reid, not the genius of the BAU. He's just a guy who loves sharing the things that make his brain light up.

Lately, he’s been growing his hair, letting the waves fall into his face while he works. He never noticed how often he pushed it back, but you did. One afternoon, after watching him shove it out of his eyes for the hundredth time while struggling through paperwork, you wordlessly slid a hair tie onto his wrist.

“For when you finally give up,” you’d said with a small smile.

Spencer had looked at the simple black band like it was some kind of sacred object before slipping it on. He never did tie his hair up, but the band stayed. Now, when he’s anxious, when his thoughts spiral too fast for even him to keep up, he rolls it between his fingers, snaps it lightly against his skin, and uses it as an anchor. He wonders if you even realize what you’ve given him and how something so small makes him feel grounded.

You are completely unaware of how much Spencer sees you and how much he feels for you. You like him—more than you should, more than is probably appropriate for two people who are just friends—but you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Spencer is brilliant and kind and so effortlessly attractive, and you? You convince yourself he’d never see you that way. It’s not self-deprecating, not really—just… reality.

Meanwhile, Spencer sits beside you every day, wondering how you don’t notice how his eyes linger, how his heart jumps every time you laugh, and how he holds onto your hair tie like a lifeline. How he wonders if you feel the same way.

—

Derek doesn’t let up. Not now, not ever.

Spencer’s been subjected to his relentless teasing for years, but ever since he started growing his hair out—and ever since you gave him that hair tie—Derek has been on a mission.

“Pretty Boy, you’re pathetic,” Derek says one afternoon, leaning against Spencer’s desk with his arms crossed, watching him roll the hair tie between his fingers like it’s some kind of lifeline.

Spencer, who has been deep in thought, barely looks up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Derek scoffs. “The hair tie? The way you light up every time she talks to you? The fact that you, the man who hates all forms of physical contact, don’t even flinch when she gets in your space? Do you even hear yourself when you talk about her?”

Spencer blinks at him, feigning ignorance. “I talk about her the same way I talk about all of my friends.”

Derek lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “That’s funny. Real funny. Because I don’t remember you getting all flustered and dreamy-eyed when you talk about me.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “I don’t get flustered.”

Derek raises a brow and mimics Spencer in a high-pitched, breathy voice. “Oh, she listens to me ramble. She actually engages with me. She’s so perceptive.” He drops the act, shaking his head. “Man, you are down bad.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and turns back to his book, a weak defense mechanism. “I really don’t think—”

“No, you don’t think,” Derek interrupts. “That’s the problem. Because if you were thinking, you’d realize that she looks at you the same way you look at her.”

That makes Spencer freeze, a book halfway in his hands.

Derek smirks, knowing he’s struck something deep. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Spencer opens his mouth, ready to protest and argue some logical counterpoint, but nothing comes out. He can’t explain away the way his heart clenches at the mere possibility that you might feel the same.

Derek slaps a hand on his shoulder, grin widening. “Any day now, Pretty Boy. Any day now.” Then he walks off, leaving Spencer to stare blankly at his book, brain absolutely wrecked.

He glances down at the hair tie around his wrist, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it sits against his skin.

Rossi is just as relentless with you as Derek is with Spencer—except he’s a little more subtle about it. He doesn’t tease in the same playful, in-your-face way that Derek does with Spencer. No, Rossi prefers to plant little seeds, make small comments, and give you just enough to get your mind churning.

He’s been keeping a close eye on you ever since you joined the team. Maybe it’s the way you love to talk about home or how you light up when someone treats you like family. So, naturally, Rossi steps in. A guiding hand, an occasional piece of advice, a warm presence when you need one.

And right now? Right now, you need someone to tell you that you’re being blind as hell.

“You know, bella, I’ve been around a long time,” Rossi says one afternoon, leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of things. A lot of things. And I’d like to think I have a pretty good read on people.”

You barely look up from your case file. “Are you about to say something wise or just something annoying?”

He smirks. “Oh, I can do both.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

Rossi takes a sip of his drink, watching you with that knowing look that makes you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. “You like him, you know.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably, but you don’t react. Not outwardly, at least. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re smarter than that.”

You exhale sharply, still keeping your eyes on your paperwork. “I don’t like Spencer.”

Rossi chuckles, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That’s cute. Now say it again like you mean it.”

You finally glance up at him, narrowing your eyes. “I mean it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rossi hums, clearly unconvinced. He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “You know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

You raise a brow. “Oh? You had a thing for Spencer, too?”

Rossi lets out a full-bodied laugh. “No, but I was stubborn. And I was good at convincing myself that things weren’t what they obviously were.” He tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me ask you something. If I told you that Spencer thinks the world of you, that he practically glows when you’re around, what would you say?”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. “I’d say you’re exaggerating.”

Rossi shakes his head. “No, bella, I’m not. Derek sees it. I see it. Hell, even Garcia sees it, and she’s usually too busy matchmaking herself to notice when something’s right under her nose.” He leans back again, watching you carefully. “But the real question is—why don’t you see it?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. The truth? Because the idea that Spencer could feel that way about you is terrifying. You’ve convinced yourself he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not in the way you secretly hope.

So you deflect. “Spencer’s just… Spencer. He’s sweet to everyone.”

Rossi sighs, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. “You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.”

You scoff lightly. “What, you want me to march over there and declare my undying love?”

Rossi grins. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

You shake your head, muttering something about meddling old men as you shove your paperwork into a neat stack, trying to ignore the way your hands feel slightly unsteady.

Rossi just watches you, amusement still lingering on his face.

Because he knows.

And one day, you’ll know, too.

—

The precinct is buzzing with too much movement and too much noise. Officers shuffling papers, detectives arguing over case details, coffee machines gurgling, the fluorescent lights humming like an irritating static in the back of your head. It’s a small station, cramped, and the team has been forced into an even smaller conference room, shoulder to shoulder with local law enforcement.

Spencer has been quiet all morning, his fingers twitching slightly, his blinking a little too frequently. You’ve been with him long enough to notice when the world is becoming too much for him, and right now, it’s clear that the rapid-fire conversations, the overlapping voices, the smell of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener—it's all pushing him to the edge of his tolerance.

So, as usual, he attaches himself to you.

It’s something he’s done for years, seeking you out when things get overwhelming. You’ve never minded. In fact, you never even thought much of it—until now.

Right now, his head is slumped against your shoulder, a deep sigh escaping him, his breath warm where it ghosts over the fabric of your shirt. His long fingers loosely clutch your jacket sleeve, not in an obvious way, but just enough that you know he’s anchoring himself with your presence. His entire frame is pressed slightly against your side, fitting into your space in a way that should feel intrusive—but it doesn’t. It never does.

But today? Today, it does feel different. Not bad, not at all, just... noticeable.

The warmth of his body against yours. The way his hair brushes your cheek when he shifts. The way you can feel the weight of him, trusting, unguarded.

You should say something—acknowledge it, maybe even tease him like Derek would—but your throat feels tight. Instead, you sit perfectly still, let him rest, let him take what he needs from you.

Across the room, Rossi is watching. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a knowing look, an almost smirk, before turning back to his conversation with Hotch.

You swallow hard, your mind racing with thoughts you don’t have time to entertain. Not right now. Not with a case on the line.

Spencer exhales again, a deep, exhausted sound. Without thinking, you lift your hand and gently brush it over his arm, a quiet reassurance. He hums in response—barely audible, but enough to let you know he appreciates it.

And you?

You pretend your pulse isn’t hammering; pretend this is just like every other time.

Even though, for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

—

The room is already cold and sterile, the air thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic and something darker, something that clings to the walls of places like these—death, decay, the remnants of lives cut short. The mortuary is dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs casting a bluish hue over the metal slabs, the bodies covered with crisp white sheets.

Spencer and Emily step inside, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them away from the world of the living for just a little while.

Emily exhales, rubbing her hands together despite the temperature-controlled environment. “I don’t know what Hotch thinks we’re going to find that we didn’t already see,” she murmurs, but there’s no real complaint in her tone—just exhaustion.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, scanning the room with sharp, restless eyes. He doesn’t like being back here. Too quiet, too still. Too much time to think. And he’s already spent the morning overstimulated, barely hanging onto himself. If it weren’t for you—your presence, your steadying warmth—he might have lost his grip entirely.

But you’re not here now.

Emily watches him for a moment, sees the way his fingers twitch slightly, how he pushes his hair back only to drop his hand to his wrist, rolling the familiar hair tie between his fingers. A grounding mechanism. She’d seen him do it before.

“Spencer,” she calls gently.

He blinks and looks at her.

“You okay?”

He hesitates, then nods.

Back in the SUV, Emily watches Spencer out of the corner of her eye as he flips through the case file, his knee bouncing slightly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the folder. He’s rattling off statistics about the likelihood of unsub behavior escalating post-mortem examinations, but there’s a certain absentmindedness to the way he’s speaking—like he’s not entirely here.

And Emily Prentiss? She’s no fool.

So, as she turns onto the road leading toward the mortuary, she decides to go for it.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she starts, keeping her tone casual. “In fact, I haven’t for the past few years.” She glances at him and watches as his fingers tighten slightly on the folder. “But today felt different. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Spencer stills, his knee stopping mid-bounce before he forces it back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emily snorts. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

Spencer purses his lips, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to physically move away from this conversation. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Emily hums. “And yet, back at the station, you looked about one deep sigh away from crawling into her lap.”

Spencer stiffens. “That’s an exaggeration.”

Emily shrugs, smirking slightly. “Is it? Because from where I was standing, you were practically molded to her side.”

Spencer stays silent, glaring down at the folder like it’s personally offended him.

Emily softens, tilting her head. “Look, I’m not teasing you. I’m just asking—are you okay? Because I’ve seen you cling to her before when things get overwhelming, but today… it was different.” She hesitates. “You were different. She was different.”

Spencer swallows, pressing his lips together. He could brush it off. He could easily throw out some logical, cold dismissal. I was overstimulated, and she provided a familiar presence. There is nothing unusual about that, but the problem is, it is unusual.

Because for the first time, he noticed it.

Noticed how natural it felt, how good it felt, to be pressed against you. Noticed the way your touch lingered, how your fingers brushed his arm with a softness that made his skin buzz. Noticed how he felt safe, not just because you were familiar, but because he wanted to be close to you. Because he liked it.

And that? That realization is unraveling something in him he isn’t sure he’s ready for.

“I—” He hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

Emily watches him for a moment before nodding, letting the conversation settle for a few beats before she speaks again.

“You know,” she says, keeping her tone light. “You could always ask her.”

Spencer’s head snaps toward her, eyes wide, panicked. “Ask her what?”

Emily grins, eyes twinkling as she pulls into the mortuary parking lot.

“Oh, you know. On a date.”

Spencer makes a strangled noise of protest, but Emily is already unbuckling her seatbelt, pretending she doesn’t hear it.

She lets him stew in his thoughts and sit there with that panicked expression because honestly?

He needs to figure it out for himself.

—

Tuesday nights were for Star Trek, and Friday nights were for pizza and movies. It had started as something casual, a way to unwind after long days at work, but over time, it became an unspoken rule—a part of your week as consistent as waking up in the morning.

Tuesday nights meant curling up on your couch, debating over which Star Trek series to watch that week. Spencer always had his preferences—he loved The Original Series for its groundbreaking storytelling and The Next Generation for its philosophical depth—but he never protested when you picked Voyager because he knew how much you liked Captain Janeway. You didn’t always pay attention to the episodes the way he did, but you loved listening to him ramble, watching his eyes light up as he dissected the scientific inaccuracies or argued about the moral dilemmas presented in each episode.

And then there was Friday night—pizza and movie night.

Unlike Star Trek night, where Spencer usually held the reins, movie night was a battle. You had vastly different tastes—Spencer leaned toward old classics, noir films, and things with intricate plots that required full intellectual engagement. On the other hand, you sometimes just wanted to watch an over-the-top action flick, something fun and ridiculous.

“I don’t understand why we can’t watch Casablanca,” Spencer had complained one Friday, frowning at your choice of Die Hard.

“Because Casablanca is depressing, and I just want to watch Bruce Willis blow things up,” you’d argued, plopping onto the couch.

Spencer had grumbled but ultimately stayed, reluctantly eating his pizza while you enjoyed Die Hard a little too much.

But despite the friendly bickering, you both always showed up for each other. No matter how draining the week was or how heavy the cases got, Tuesday and Friday nights were yours. If one of you was too tired, the other brought food. If Spencer needed to visit his mom, he’d make you promise not to watch Star Trek without him. If you had a bad day, he let you pick the movie without a single complaint (except for that one time you picked Twilight, which he still refuses to acknowledge).

For years, it was just routine, something comfortable, something easy.

The case had finally wrapped up late Wednesday afternoon, and while you should have been relieved—grateful that everything ended as cleanly as possible—you were distracted. Off-kilter. Your mind wasn’t on the debriefing, the flight back to Quantico, or even the pile of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow.

No, your mind was stuck on him.

Spencer.

More specifically, the way you couldn’t seem to shake the lingering warmth of his body from when he had leaned against you, or the quiet, vulnerable way he had sighed into your shoulder, or the way Rossi’s words had wormed their way into your brain and stuck.

"You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time."

Damn him.

You were usually so good at compartmentalizing, at keeping your feelings neatly boxed up and shoved into the farthest corner of your mind where they couldn’t betray you. But now? Now, every little thing Spencer did had you spiraling.

Like right now.

Friday afternoon rolls around, and you’re already on edge.

When Spencer casually walks up to your desk, his messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and his hands are tucked into his pockets, you already know you’re in trouble.

“Hey,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

You blink at him.

Wait. What?

Is he confirming plans? He hasn’t done that since the first month you started doing this—since he was still unsure if the ritual was set in stone. But now, after all this time, he’s asking?

Your heart starts hammering, palms go clammy.

“Yeah—yes,” you blurt out, nodding a little too fast. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

Spencer watches you carefully, clearly picking up on something being off. His brow furrows slightly, and he studies you with that damn profiler gaze, the one that makes you feel like he’s reading every single thought you’re desperately trying to bury.

“You okay?” he asks slowly.

You force a laugh. It comes out weird. “Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”

His frown deepens.

Okay. You need to fix this before you combust.

You grab your phone off your desk and clear your throat. “So! What are we watching tonight?” you ask, trying to force the conversation forward before you completely unravel.

Spencer tilts his head slightly, still watching you with suspicion, but he lets it go.

“For our movie night? Or are you asking if we’re switching to a Star Trek episode lineup for some reason?”

You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Movie night, obviously.”

He hums, his lips quirking slightly. “I figured it was my turn to pick.”

You groan dramatically. “Ugh. If this is another silent foreign film that you claim is ‘captivating,’ I’m kicking you out before the pizza even gets here.”

Spencer smirks. “It’s not silent.”

You narrow your eyes. “But it is foreign.”

Spencer just shrugs.

You groan again, shaking your head. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”

He grins, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels normal again.

Except it’s not.

Because now you’re noticing everything. The way he’s smiling at you, like he genuinely likes looking at you. The way he’s still standing a little too close, the scent of cologne you’ve never noticed mixing with the faint smell of old books and coffee. Your heart is pounding, not from panic anymore but from something else.

And Rossi’s voice echoes in your head—You’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to push the thought away.

Spencer is still looking at you, waiting, expectant.

You clear your throat. “So… my place at seven?”

He nods. “Your place at seven.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you gripping your desk, trying to convince yourself that your entire world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

—

The knock at the door makes your stomach drop.

You weren’t expecting it. Not from him.

Spencer never knocks. Not anymore. Not when he’s been coming here for years, slipping inside without hesitation, using the key you gave him so long ago that neither of you even remembers when it stopped being your apartment and started feeling like his, too.

But tonight, he knocks.

And for a moment, you just stare at the door, pulse pounding in your ears, a strange, unsettling panic twisting in your chest.

Why?

Why would he knock?

Did something happen? Did you do something? Did he?

You scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug in your rush to reach the door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob for half a second too long before you finally pull it open.

And there he is.

Standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, looking just as nervous as you feel.

He’s holding the pizza in both hands, gripping the box like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His lips are parted slightly as if he’s mid-thought, mid-explanation for why he’s standing here like a stranger instead of walking in like he always does.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is careful, deliberate. Like he’s testing the temperature of the air between you.

You swallow. “Why’d you knock?”

Spencer shifts, his fingers flexing against the cardboard. “I—” He exhales sharply, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wasn’t sure if I should just—if you wanted me to just come in.”

Your stomach twists. “You always just come in.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallows, tries again. Spencer takes a breath, shifting his grip on the pizza box. “Can I come in?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the doorknob as you nod and step aside.

The warm glow of your living room wraps around Spencer like a familiar embrace. The scent of old books and candle wax lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh pizza. He’s holding the box carefully as if it were fragile or important. His fingers clutch the edges a little too tightly.

Something is different.

You feel it the moment he walks through the door, the way he hesitates on the threshold before closing it behind him. His usual easy presence is replaced with something unsure, something heavy that neither of you can quite name.

It’s never been awkward before.

But tonight, it is.

Maybe it’s the way he swallows before speaking or the way you feel hyper-aware of the space between you—space that’s usually nonexistent when you’re tangled up on the couch, watching whatever movie you finally agreed on after bickering for twenty minutes.

Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush against his wrist absentmindedly, rolling the hair tie between them, a habit you know means he’s feeling too much.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because something unspoken has been hanging in the air between you for a while now, something neither of you have dared to name.

Spencer sits down beside you, a little closer than usual but still not quite enough. His knee brushes against yours, and you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

“Movie?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying to push through the tension.

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t reach for the remote. Instead, he glances at you, searching your face, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something.

And for the first time in all the years of Friday pizza-and-movie nights, for the first time in all the comfortable silences and easy laughter, you think—

He might actually say what you’re both thinking.

But when Spencer finally does speak, it’s not what you expect. You blink at him, your brain short-circuiting.

"Do you want to watch 10 Things I Hate About You?"

It takes you a second to process the words because that is not what you were expecting.

For a moment, your grip tightens on the edge of the couch, your knuckles going white, and your heart still hammering from the sheer weight of what you thought he was about to say.

“What?” you finally spit out, voice higher than you’d like.

Spencer shifts awkwardly in his seat, clearing his throat as if he’s just realized how strange the moment is. “It’s… isn’t it your favorite rom-com?”

You stare at him. “Yeah… but I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I don’t dislike it,” he hedges, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “And, statistically speaking, if we’re ranking romantic comedies based on their adherence to Shakespearean influence, it’s arguably one of the better adaptations of Taming of the Shrew—”

You cut him off with a squint. “You’re rambling.”

He presses his lips together, a nervous habit, his fingers twitching slightly. “Right. Sorry.”

The air between you feels charged, like an unsaid truth is pressing against the walls, threatening to break them down. But instead of confronting it and saying whatever it is that’s clearly sitting on the tip of his tongue, Spencer is talking about rom-coms.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “Okay, but… why? Why that movie? Why now?”

His eyes flicker up to yours then, just for a second, and there’s something raw, vulnerable, and uncertain.

And then, before you can decipher it, he shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Your heart clenches painfully because God, he’s so Spencer. Always thinking of you, noticing the smallest details, and looking out for you even when you don’t expect it.

And yet… there’s still something unspoken lingering between you, something simmering beneath the surface, something that almost came out before he took a sharp left turn into the world of 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Do you want to watch?” Spencer asks again in that vulnerable tone, lifting the movie case from his bag.

You exhale, rubbing your hands on your pants to wipe off the nervous sweat. “Yeah,” you sigh.

Spencer nods, but it’s almost hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes. He lingers for a second with the 10 Things I Hate About You DVD case in his hands, gripping it just as tightly as he had the pizza box moments ago.

You swallow, rubbing your palms against your pants again before reaching for the remote. “Uh, you can put it in.”

He moves toward the DVD player slowly, methodically, like he’s focusing on the action so he doesn’t have to focus on you. You watch him as he kneels down, sliding the disc into the tray, his fingers steady even though you know he isn’t.

The air between you is thick with something unspoken, a weight pressing on both of you, but neither of you acknowledges it. Instead, you wait as the movie boots up, the familiar menu music filling the quiet space between you.

Spencer hesitates before sitting, but it’s closer than usual when he does.

Not overly close—not close enough to make it obvious—but close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, close enough that his knee brushes yours again.

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends not to, either.

The movie starts, and for the first time, neither of you is watching it.

You’re too aware of him—the way he shifts slightly when you do, his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s trying not to reach out, and the way his breath catches ever so slightly when your arm brushes his.

Spencer doesn’t usually do this. He’s tactile when he’s overwhelmed, yes, but this? This is different. This is hesitation; this is awareness; this is something tiptoeing dangerously close to the edge of something neither of you has dared to touch before.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you try to focus on the movie, try to push through the nervous energy coiling in your stomach.

But then—

Then Spencer shifts, leans back against the couch, exhales softly—

And his arm drops, just slightly, around your shoulders.

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen, unblinking, unsure if he even realizes what he’s done.

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

The room feels different now. Warmer, heavier, charged with something neither of you have spoken aloud. You can’t tell if it’s the candlelight flickering in the dim space or if it’s just him, just this, whatever this is, settling around you like a second skin.

Spencer’s arm—his arm—is resting along the back of the couch, not quite on you, but close enough that you can feel its weight, close enough that if you shifted even the slightest bit, it would be.

You try to focus on the movie. Try to act like nothing’s changed.

But your body betrays you.

Your shoulders stiffen at first, instinctively, not because you don’t want this—God, you do—but because you don’t understand it. Because Spencer Reid does not do things like this. He does not reach out in this way, not unless he’s overwhelmed, and even then, it’s different. This is intentional, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

You inhale slowly, carefully, keeping your eyes trained on the screen as Kat Stratford delivers another sharp-witted insult. But you’re not really listening. You’re waiting. Waiting for Spencer to shift, realize what he’s done, pull back, laugh nervously, and pretend like nothing happened.

Except—

He doesn’t.

If anything, he seems more relaxed than before. His breathing is even, his body settling into the couch like he belongs there. Like you belong there.

And then, before you can stop yourself before you can overthink it like you always do, you shift. Just slightly. Just enough that your shoulder leans into his arm.

The movement is so small and insignificant that if it were anyone else, they wouldn’t notice. But this is Spencer. And Spencer notices everything.

You hear the sharp inhale of breath and feel the way his body tenses just for a moment—just long enough to make your pulse hammer against your ribs—before he exhales slowly, deliberately.

And then—

Then his fingers brush against your shoulder.

A whisper of a touch, hesitant, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So, he stays.

And for the rest of the movie, neither of you moves. Neither of you speak.

But everything, everything, has changed.

The credits roll. The music swells softly through the speakers. The dim glow of the screencasts flickering shadows across the room, but neither of you move.

Not even a little.

Your body is still pressed into his side, your shoulder tucked against him, his arm draped so loosely yet so deliberately around you that you can’t tell if it’s keeping you close or if it’s keeping him grounded.

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s what this has always been.

You don’t know how long you sit there, frozen in the moment. You don’t know if he’s thinking the same thing, if he’s waiting for you to speak, to move, to acknowledge that something unspoken has settled between you like a weighted silence.

But then—

“Y/N,” Spencer murmurs.

Just your name.

Soft. Almost careful.

You inhale sharply, blinking yourself back into the moment. Your head turns toward him slowly, cautiously, like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile balance is hanging between you.

And then—

Spencer shocks you.

Because the second your eyes meet his, the moment your lips part in silent question—he leans in.

And he kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not unsure.

It’s not like the Spencer Reid you thought you knew—the one who second-guesses, who overthinks, who analyzes every possibility before making a move.

No.

This is something else entirely.

This is Spencer moving without logic, without calculation, without fear.

This is Spencer wanting.

And for a split second, your brain short-circuits, unable to process what’s happening or understand how the man who had just spent two hours analyzing 10 Things I Hate About You is now kissing you like he means it.

But then—

Then you kiss him back.

And it’s over.

Whatever line had existed between you—whatever barrier had kept you from stepping over the edge—it's gone.

Spencer exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years. His fingers tighten against your shoulder, just slightly, pulling you in closer, pressing against you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not after this.

—

Dating Spencer is like stepping into something timeless, warm, and constant. It’s not rushed or overwhelming. It’s not dramatic or chaotic. It’s just Spencer. And that, in itself, is everything.

He doesn’t love convention. He doesn’t do big grand gestures unless they mean something. But he does the little things, the things that matter. The things that show how deeply and irrevocably he feels for you.

Like reading to you before bed.

It starts without much thought, just a quiet habit that becomes part of your nights. You never ask him to do it, and he never makes a point of it, but it happens—night after night, in the soft, dark quiet of your bedroom when the world slows, and nothing exists but the warmth of his arms and the soothing rhythm of his voice.

Some nights, it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or a few pages from Pride and Prejudice. Other nights, it’s something entirely different—a passage about an old poet, a historical retelling of an artist’s life, something obscure and worn, a book he’s read a hundred times before. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even remember the contents most nights.

What you remember is the sound of Spencer’s voice, the way it lulls you into a hazy, comfortable state within minutes. The way his fingers draw lazy circles on your arm as he reads, absentmindedly tracing patterns like he can’t not be touching you. The way his lips brush the top of your head in soft, feather-light kisses like he’s saying goodnight without ever actually stopping the words on the page.

You never make it past a few minutes.

That’s how long it takes for his voice to pull you under, for the warmth of his chest to turn into a lullaby, for his steady breathing and gentle presence to quiet every thought in your mind.

And Spencer?

Spencer never minds.

Even when you fall asleep on him mid-sentence, even when his voice trails off and he realizes you’re gone, lost to dreams, he just smiles to himself, presses one last kiss to your temple, and quietly closes the book.

Because he loves this.

Loves you.

Even if he hasn’t said it yet.

—

You knew Spencer was good with kids—he had an innate gentleness, a patience that most adults didn’t possess. You had seen him with Jack before, seen the way he could calm a crying toddler with a few soft words and a fascinating fact about dinosaurs. But this? Watching him take care of a baby?

This is a whole different level.

JJ and Will had been desperate for a night out—just a few hours, nothing crazy—and with Garcia tied up at some tech conference, JJ hesitantly asked you and Spencer to watch Henry. She had barely finished asking before Spencer nodded, assuring her that he had plenty of experience with child development and cognitive growth.

Now, an hour into babysitting, you sit on the couch in quiet awe as Spencer moves around the living room, cradling Henry against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Statistically speaking, infants exposed to language early on are more likely to develop higher literacy skills in adolescence," Spencer muses softly, bouncing Henry gently in his arms as the baby babbles against his sweater. "So even though you might not understand this now, Henry, I think you'd really enjoy learning about the Fibonacci sequence when you’re older."

You stare, biting your lip to contain the ridiculous grin threatening to take over your face. "Spencer, are you seriously lecturing a one-year-old on mathematical sequences?"

Spencer glances at you, unfazed. "He seems interested."

Henry lets out a delighted squeal, gripping a fistful of Spencer’s cardigan and yanking with surprising strength.

"Ah—Henry, no, that's my—" Spencer stops mid-sentence as Henry starts giggling, his tiny fingers still tangled in the fabric. Instead of pulling away, Spencer just sighs in resignation, adjusting his hold so Henry can comfortably rest his cheek against his shoulder.

And oh, no.

Your heart is gone.

Your ovaries? Destroyed.

Because Spencer—sweet, brilliant, slightly awkward Spencer—is standing there in JJ’s living room, holding a baby like he was made for it, rubbing gentle circles on Henry’s back as he hums absentmindedly.

And you are not okay.

"You’re good at this," you murmur before you can stop yourself, watching how he instinctively shifts to sway Henry slightly, lulling him between sleep and contentment.

Spencer shrugs, but there’s a soft pink dusting his cheeks. "It’s just… knowing how to respond to their needs. Babies need security and reassurance. If they feel safe, they thrive." He glances at you then, his voice quieter. "It's not complicated."

But it is.

Because suddenly, your brain is not thinking about just this night. It’s not just thinking about babysitting Henry. It’s thinking about Spencer as a father, Spencer with his own baby in his arms, rocking them just like this, whispering facts to lull them to sleep, pressing soft kisses to their tiny forehead.

And the thought wrecks you.

JJ has no idea what she’s done by asking you to babysit.

Because now?

Now, you are painfully aware that Spencer Reid would be the best dad in the world.

And you really need to go splash cold water on your face before you say something insane.

The drive is quiet at first, a comfortable kind of silence, filled only with the hum of the engine and the faint rustling of Spencer shifting beside you. The weight of the night still lingers, the softness of it, the warmth—Spencer holding Henry, the easy way he’d cared for him, the way it had done things to you that you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to name yet.

"Are you dropping me off," Spencer asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness, "or am I coming over?"

Your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The question is simple. Straightforward. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something unspoken. Because this isn’t the first time Spencer has stayed over. But tonight, with the way you’re feeling, with the way you want him—really want him—the meaning feels different.

Your pulse picks up.

You don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know what you want, but because you do.

Because you want him to come over. Because you want him in your bed for more than just resting. Because you’ve wanted it for a while now, but neither of you have crossed that line yet.

And suddenly, it feels like Spencer knows exactly what you’re thinking.

He’s watching you, quiet, observant, his fingers resting lightly against his knee as he waits for your response. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry—he just waits.

You swallow, exhaling slowly before finally speaking. "Come over."

Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his lips are pressed together, his fingers twitching slightly—nervous energy, anticipation, something else.

"Okay," he says finally, voice quiet but firm.

And that’s all.

You don’t talk for the rest of the drive.

But you feel everything.

The way his hand rests between you is so close to yours but not quite touching. The way your breaths sync up is slow but uneven, charged with something you both know is coming.

When you finally pull into your parking spot, turn off the car, and steal one last glance at him, Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He just unbuckles his seatbelt, pushes open the door, and follows you inside.

Spencer follows without hesitation but doesn’t move past the doorway immediately. He lingers, standing just inside your apartment, watching as you set your keys down on the counter, as you exhale slowly, as you try to steady yourself against the weight of what this night is turning into.

You turn back to him then, and the sight of him standing there—hands tucked into his pockets, shifting slightly on his feet, looking at you like he’s trying so hard to figure out what happens next—makes your stomach flip.

He’s waiting for you.

Waiting for permission.

You take a step forward, closing some of the space between you. Spencer watches you carefully, his breath hitching just slightly, his fingers twitching where they rest at his sides.

Spencer nods. Swallows. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Are we just sleeping?”

The question hangs between you, thick with implication, and that’s when it happens—the shift from nervous anticipation to something else.

You step closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that if either of you moved just slightly, you’d be touching.

And then, softly, hesitantly, you reach for his wrist, fingers brushing against the skin just above the hair tie he still wears, the one you gave him so long ago.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to just sleep?”

Spencer’s breath catches. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back up again.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

And that’s all it takes.

Because suddenly, you’re kissing him.

Or maybe he kisses you—you don’t know who moves first, don’t care, because all that matters is the way his hands are suddenly on your waist, pulling you closer, the way his lips part against yours, slow and deep and wanting.

It’s different from the previous kisses you have shared. And as his hands slide up your back, as you press yourself into him like you’ve been waiting forever for this, as he exhales sharply against your mouth because he’s finally getting to have you—

You know neither of you will be getting much sleep tonight.

The first time you and Spencer had sex was nothing short of mind-blowing—at least for him.

You hadn’t known just how little experience he had until later when he mumbled something against your skin about only having done this once before, his voice laced with disbelief and something like awe.

But it wouldn't have changed anything even if you had known beforehand. It had started so slow, like neither of you wanted to rush like you were both trying to memorize each other in ways you hadn’t been able to before.

Spencer had been nervous at first—not clumsy, not hesitant in a way that made you think he didn’t want this, but careful, intentional, like he wanted to make sure he was doing everything right. Like he was terrified of messing up, of not being enough.

But God, was he more than enough.

Because once he got past the nerves, once he stopped thinking and started feeling—

It was everything.

He touched you like he was discovering something new like he was learning you in real time. His fingers mapped the soft curves of your body, memorizing the way your breath hitched when he kissed your neck and how you sighed when his hands gripped your waist.

And when you guided him, when you whispered what you liked against his lips when you told him exactly how to move—

That was when he really fell apart.

Because Spencer thrives on knowledge, learning, on understanding. And now, he was learning you—learning what made you shiver, what made you moan, what made you clutch at his shoulders and gasp his name in a way that sent a shudder through him so deep he thought he might break apart completely.

By the time you were actually together, when he finally slid inside you with a deep, shaky moan, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—he knew.

He knew he was ruined for anything else.

Because nothing—not the one experience he had before, not the books he had read, not the theories or statistics—could have ever prepared him for this.

For you.

And when he came undone, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and ragged, your name tumbling from his lips like a prayer—

It was the closest thing to heaven he had ever known.

You pulled Spencer on top of you without hesitation, letting his exhausted body flop onto yours, his full weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He didn’t resist or try to roll away or give you space—he just let himself be and melt into you like he belonged there.

You traced slow, lazy shapes on his bare, sweat-slicked back, feeling the way his breathing gradually evened out, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against yours in a steady rhythm. His damp curls tickled your skin where his face was buried against your neck, but you didn’t dare move. You liked having him close like this.

Then you felt it—Spencer taking a deep breath like he was about to say something important.

His voice was muffled, soft, still laced with lingering wonder as he exhaled against your skin.

“Did… was that good for you?”

You smiled at the ceiling, your fingers still tracing mindless patterns along his spine. He was too cute. Too him.

“It was amazing, Spencer.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt him tense slightly, his arms tightening around your waist as he let out a small, almost sheepish exhale.

“I’m sorry it was over so quickly.”

You laughed, tilting your head so you could press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Spencer, you have nothing to apologize for.”

He huffed, shifting slightly so his face was visible again, his flushed cheeks still pressed against your skin. “But I—”

“Nope.” You cut him off before he could finish whatever self-deprecating thought was about to leave his mouth. “I loved it. And besides…” You trailed your fingers down his spine, feeling the shiver it sent through him. “Now that the nerves are out of the way, we’ve got all night to take our time.”

Spencer froze for half a second before lifting his head just enough to look at you properly, his eyes wide, dark, needy.

“All night?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You smirked, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his back. “Mmmhmm.”

And just like that—

Spencer wasn’t exhausted anymore.

The night stretched long and slow, turning into early morning, and in those quiet, intimate hours, you discovered things—things that made you grin, things that made Spencer writhe, things that neither of you had ever put words to before but suddenly felt so obvious now.

Like hickeys.

Spencer really liked hickeys.

You hadn’t meant to leave one, not at first. But the moment your lips latched onto the sensitive skin of his neck, the second your teeth scraped lightly against his pulse point, Spencer let out a sound that was almost embarrassing—a sharp, gasping whine that had his fingers digging into your waist, his hips bucking up against you without thought.

And just like that, you knew.

“You like that?” you murmured against his skin, already smirking, already marking another spot just below his jaw.

Spencer shivered violently, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening. “I—” He cut himself off with a choked noise, arching into you again.

Yeah. He definitely liked it.

And then there was the other discovery that made your entire night.

Spencer was a certified bottom.

He liked giving up control, liked you taking the lead, liked it when you moved on top of him, guiding him, making him fall apart underneath you.

And oh, he thrived in it.

Especially when your hands threaded into his hair, whispered things to him, and praised him in that sweet, teasing tone that made him whimper.

And God, the way his hands roamed when you were on top—

Which led to the third discovery of the night.

Spencer was a tits guy.

Sure, he loved all of you—he worshipped every inch of you with those big, eager hands, his lips, his tongue, taking his time, savoring you like he had all the time in the world.

But your boobs?

Those really got him going.

Maybe it was because of the angle, the way they bounced when you moved, or maybe it was the way they fit so perfectly in his hands, how he could squeeze, cup, and knead them just the way he liked.

Maybe it was the fact that he could bury his face in them, groaning as he nuzzled into your chest, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your skin, mumbling about how perfect you were, how soft, how he never wanted to stop.

And when you realized?

When you teased him about it?

He turned a deep shade of red, sputtering something about biological instincts and aesthetic appeal, but the second you rolled your hips and dragged his hands back to your chest, his words died completely.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, his head thudding back against the pillow, his fingers squeezing you almost desperately.

And yeah—

You really liked that discovery, too.

—

Spencer had barely stepped into the bullpen when Derek’s booming voice rang through the air like a damn foghorn.

"Pretty boy!"

Spencer flinched. He knew that tone. That taunting, giddy, Derek-is-about-to-ruin-your-life tone.

And then—before Spencer could so much as blink—Derek was grinning at him, full teeth, eyes sparkling with absolute mischief as he pointed directly at Spencer’s neck.

“Oh no,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, instinctively reaching up as if he could somehow erase the evidence.

But it was too late. Because Derek had seen it. The hickey.

The hickey.

The one you had left on him Saturday night. Or was it Sunday morning? Honestly, it didn’t even matter—what mattered was that he had forgotten to cover it up, and now? Now, Derek was never going to let him live this down.

“Damn, kid,” Derek laughed, sauntering over with the confidence of a man who lived for this kind of teasing. “So you are gettin’ some.”

Spencer groaned, his entire face going up in flames. “Derek—”

“Nah, nah, don’t even try to deny it,” Derek interrupted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That is a grade-A hickey, man. I’m talkin’ official, stamped, certified ‘this man is gettin’ wrecked’ level.”

“Derek, please,” Spencer hissed, glancing around desperately as if he could somehow stop this from escalating.

Too bad the damage was already done. Because JJ and Penelope were already staring. And then laughing. Loudly.

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, practically shrieking with delight. “Spencer! Look at you! Our boy is all grown up and getting marked up like a romance novel protagonist!”

“Okay, stop,” Spencer pleaded, feeling absolutely doomed.

JJ just smirked, sipping her coffee like this was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. “So, how was your weekend?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and making a beeline for his desk, determined to escape. “I hate all of you.”

Derek just grinned, following after him with his arms crossed. “Nah, Pretty Boy, you love us. Just not as much as you love your girl—who, by the way, did some damage on you, man. She got territorial.”

Spencer slammed his forehead onto his desk with a loud thud. JJ and Penelope cackled. Derek patted him on the back like he had just won something. And Spencer?

Spencer knew damn well that this was never going away.

—

Spencer was always composed. Always Spencer. Polite, intelligent, articulate. The type of man who didn’t act impulsively, who thought through everything before making a move.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

Because when it came to you, Spencer had no self-control.

And nowhere was that more apparent than tonight—right now—when he had you pressed up against the bar in the middle of a crowded room, his lips hot against your neck, his hands resting just a little too low on your waist, and his very obvious boner grinding against your ass.

This was not the Spencer the team knew. This was not the awkward, hesitant genius who stumbled over his words and overanalyzed his every move.

No, this Spencer was different.

This Spencer wanted you, and he didn’t care who saw.

This Spencer also happened to be a few glasses of champagne deep in his birthday celebration with the team.

“Spencer,” you hissed, gripping the edge of the bar for support as another firm roll of his hips had heat coiling low in your stomach.

He hummed against your neck, his lips still moving, still marking you in the same way he had been since he discovered how much he loved leaving hickeys on you.

“Hmm?” he murmured, voice low, dragging his tongue lightly over the fresh mark before pressing an open-mouthed kiss against it.

Your grip tightened on the bar. “We’re in public,” you reminded him, but your voice was breathy, weak, barely convincing.

Spencer chuckled—actually chuckled—against your skin, his fingers flexing against your hips. “And?”

And?

And?

You blinked, stunned by his sheer audacity, by the fact that Spencer Reid was grinding up against you in a public bar like he had every right to.

Like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You hated to stop him. God, you hated it.

But Spencer was too drunk.

It wasn’t that he was wasted—Spencer didn’t drink often, and when he did, he rarely overindulged—but tonight, between rounds of celebratory drinks with the team and the way he had relaxed into your presence, he was just tipsy enough that his usual inhibitions were gone.

And normally, you wouldn’t mind. Normally, you’d love seeing him like this, out of his shell, more bold in his affections. But Spencer was intoxicated, and you were sober, and you refused—refused—to take advantage of that. 

So, with a deep breath, you gently pried his hands off your waist, turning around to face him fully.

“Spencer,” you murmured, voice soft but firm.

He blinked, slow and dazed, his lips swollen from where he had been so intent on marking you up. “Huh?”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his flushed cheeks. “We need to get you home, okay?”

His brows furrowed. “But—”

“No ‘buts,’” you interrupted, kissing his cheek quickly before pulling away completely. “Come on, before Derek starts making bets about whether you’ll take shots with him.”

Spencer groaned, looking devastated—like a scolded puppy who had just been denied his favorite treat. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to pull you back, but even in his inebriated state, he listened.

With one last longing look at you, he sighed. “Fine.”

You smiled, taking his hand and leading him back to the group. The second you announced, “I’m taking Spencer home,” a chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from your friends.

Derek practically howled with laughter. “Damn, Pretty Boy, she’s gotta put you to bed already?”

“I hate all of you,” Spencer grumbled as Penelope cackled.

JJ smirked into her drink. “Don’t forget to hydrate him.”

“Oh, I will,” you assured her, rolling your eyes as you steered Spencer toward the door.

After a few more teasing remarks and one last dramatic wolf whistle from Derek, you managed to load Spencer into the passenger seat of your car.

As soon as you pulled out of the parking lot, you reached for the stereo and turned on classical music—something calming that would hopefully settle the restless energy still buzzing under Spencer’s skin.

And sure enough, within minutes, he was already melting into the seat, head lolling to the side as the soft notes of Debussy filled the quiet space.

You smiled to yourself, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

“Almost home, Spence,” you murmured.

He sighed deeply, squeezing back. “You’re the best,” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.

The rest of the night had been easy enough—getting Spencer home, guiding his sleepy, clingy self into bed, listening to him mumble drunken nonsense as you pulled the covers over him. He had curled around you the second you lay down beside him, burying his face in your neck, sighing deeply as if you were the cure to whatever hangover awaited him in the morning.

Before you had drifted off, you had set up a glass of water and some painkillers on his bedside table, making sure everything he needed would be right there when he woke up.

Now, in the golden light of morning, you were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, reading while Spencer slowly resurfaced from his alcohol-induced slumber.

He stirred first, shifting slightly under the sheets, letting out a sleepy little grunt before blinking blearily up at you.

For a moment, he just stared.

His hair was a complete mess, curls sticking up in every direction, and his face was still warm and soft from sleep. His lips parted slightly, his eyes unfocused as he tried to piece together where he was, why he felt like this, and why the hell you looked so perfectly content beside him while he felt like his brain was swimming in molasses.

“…Morning,” he croaked, voice raw from sleep.

You glanced down at him, smiling over the top of your book. “Morning, baby.”

He blinked slowly, still processing. Then, realization dawned—the bar, the teasing, you dragging him home like an overgrown toddler.

He groaned, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. “I was drunk.”

You laughed softly, closing your book and setting it aside. “Yep.”

He peeked out from under his arm, his lips twitching slightly. “Did I…?”

“You were very affectionate in public,” you teased, shifting to face him. “Like, very affectionate.”

Spencer made a noise between a groan and a laugh, rubbing his face. “Derek’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”

“I didn’t let anybody see, Spence.”

He sighed dramatically before turning his head to look at you again, his expression softening. His eyes flickered to the bedside table, taking in the water and painkillers, the small gesture that made something warm and fond settle in his chest.

“You took care of me,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Of course I did.”

Spencer didn’t say anything momentarily, just looking at you like he was trying to memorize you in the morning light. Then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you down into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, voice still thick with sleep.

Your heart stopped.

Completely.

Frozen in time, in this moment, in him.

Spencer had said it. So casually, so effortlessly, like it had always been there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to slip out. Like it wasn’t something earth-shattering, something that made your breath catch and your entire world tilt.

You barely breathed as you whispered, "You love me?"

You felt his lips curve slightly against your skin—soft, sleepy, so sure.

"I love you," he repeated, voice muffled but certain, like it wasn’t even a question in his mind. Like it never had been.

The warmth of his words settled over you, seeping into every inch of your skin, curling around your heart like the softest, safest thing you’d ever known.

Suddenly, you were moving, pulling back just enough to cup his face in your hands and tilt his head so that his eyes met yours—still drowsy, still heavy with sleep, but so incredibly full. You smiled, soft and disbelieving like you couldn’t believe you had gotten this lucky. Like you couldn’t believe he was yours.

"I love you, too."

Spencer blinked, like it was his turn to freeze like his still-sleepy brain was trying to process that you had said it back. Then he smiled—wide and beautiful, the kind of smile that made his dimples show, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best possible way.

And without another word, he kissed you.

Slow, deep, certain.

Like he had just decided—right here, right now—that he was never letting you go.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

Ok ok smut. I keep thinking about how the BAU is often gone on longer cases and a Spencer who missed his girlfriend on a long case and just wants to be really close to her so like clingy...maybe some cockwarming...umm yeah imma see myself out byyyeeeee

-🌞

a/n: i’m literally so sorry that this took me six months to post 😭 i literally have no words omg. but i totally loved!!!! this request and it was so much fun to write and i really hope that i did it justice 💕🧚‍♀️ (even though i feel like the ending might be a teensy bit rushed 😭) also also also: today is mgg’s birthday! omg! i love me a pisces man 🧎‍♀️‍➡️

well, without further ado

You feel like Home

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

nsfw, 18+ MDNI

cw: no use of y/n, Spencer calls reader Angel, smut, cockwarming, dry humping (barely though), words to describe the female genitalia, unprotected p in v sex, mentioned rough sex, Spencer is described as “pussy-whipped” (he is), kissing, some light making out ig, and umm maybe softdom!Spence (?) idrk tho, also english is not my first language so im sorry if this isn’t grammatically pristine

• Before he met you, Spencer had no real qualms about his work schedule

• Sure, it was a bit of a hassle to travel for work so much, but let’s face it, he didn’t really have anything better to do

• While the rest of the team complained when they had little to no free time between cases, he was secretly happy for the distraction from his mostly uneventful life

• After he met you, though…

• To put it simply, Spencer was obsessed with you

• He fell fast and he fell hard, and now every second thought in that big brain of his was about you

• He most definitely would’ve spent every waking moment with you if that was possible

• Or inside you

• Pussy-whipped was one of the best ways to describe him

• But could you really blame him? You were beautiful, and alluring, and your skin was so soft under his touch, and you always smelled and tasted divine…

• Yeah, it was safe to say that you had him completely wrapped around your finger

• And now he suddenly understood why it was such a nuisance to have to travel across the country on a random thursday afternoon, for an unforeseeable amount of days

• He tried to call you as often as possible, but most of the time he was either too busy or your schedules just simply didn’t align

• It was no different on this case, and to make matters even worse, this time he had to go five whole days without seeing you, and three without getting to hear your voice

• So when he finally arrived home to your shared apartment, seeing you in one of his oversized sweaters, looking so inviting and cozy on the couch, smiling at him so sweetly as you greeted him…

“Spence,” you giggled softly, tilting your head to the side to grant him easier access, as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck. You were seated in his lap, your arms around his neck, and his hands on your thighs on either sides of his hips. He has refused to let go of you ever since he came home almost an hour ago, his hands and lips not leaving your skin for even a second, as if he was afraid that you would disappear like a mirage.

“Hm?” He hummed against your neck, his lips focusing on your pulse point. He nipped and sucked on your pristine skin, covering it with small love bites. They would fade by the morning, but for now, he relished in getting to decorate you with his marks, like a physical reminder that you were his.

Your breath hitched, only letting out the shuddering breath that you sucked in, when his hands finally moved under your –his– sweater. You very quickly forgot what you were about to say, your hips rolling against his with a small, needy sound.

“Angel.” Spencer’s voice was soft, if a bit choked, his hands quickly sliding down to hold your hips. “I want to take my time with you tonight. Will you let me?”

You bit down on your lower lip, feeling your lower regions ache with desire from how he wound you up with his casual, gentle kisses and touches. At the same time though, you were feeling just as clingy as he was. You didn’t want this to end for a long time, didn’t want to rush into an orgasm.

So you just nodded, cupping Spencer’s cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him languidly. Your lips moved in sync, in a familiar, well-practiced dance, while you raised your hips to allow him to pull off your shorts and panties.

You reached down to the hem of your sweater, but he caught your wrists, stopping you from taking it off.

“Leave it on. Please,” he said, adding the adverb almost as an afterthought. “I like making you mine in my own clothes.”

And oh, that just simply wasn’t fair. He couldn’t seriously say stuff like that and expect you not to drag you needy, wet cunt against the noticeable bulge in his pants. You both moaned at the same time from the friction, and this time he didn’t have it in him to tell you to stop.

You kissed him deeply, moving your hands to unbuckle his belt, while he unzipped his pants –a combined effort, to get his poor, aching hardness out of the confines of his slacks as fast as possible.

There were very little words exchanged, lips parting as you both sighed into eachother’s mouths, once you finally sank down on his length.

“Jesus Christ, Angel. I missed you so much,” he whispered hotly against your lips, before dipping his head down, to press his lips to your throat.

It was hard to stay still at first. As much as you wanted to drag this out, his tip was nudging your cervix so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him tightly. You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt him twitch inside you in response, while he whined against your skin.

But after a few minutes, you finally settled. It felt incredible, being connected with him so intimately, bodies and souls entwined on your couch. You kissed him lazily, before asking him about his day, his time away, letting him talk to you about the case –well, as much as he was allowed to tell you about it.

You talked and cuddled and just stayed in eachother’s embrace. Because after so long, you were finally reunited, and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of it.

And if a while later, after you’ve already discussed everything and caught up with eachother, he finally pounded you into the couch, well… You definitely weren’t one to complain about that either.

This made me cry 🤍

in sickness and in health | S.R.

Minutes before your wedding is supposed to start, Spencer gets cold feet, and you have to find out why.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (a smidge angsty) content warnings: alzheimers, weddings, children, babies, sad!spencer, reader wears a dress and makeup, cursing word count: 1.8k a/n: so this became sadder than I had initially intended. also i decided to try something new and write in a different POV and i don't know if i like it. this is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins' new beginnings challenge, because nothing says new beginning quite like getting married! thank you for having this challenge!

If it were up to you and Spencer, your wedding would’ve taken place at a courthouse with no fuss, just rings and a certificate. Especially after he shot down your idea of a 24-hour wedding chapel in Las Vegas.

In your defense, you pitched it to him as an intimate wedding in his hometown, but he didn’t take the bait.

But when the team found out that the two of you were planning what they deemed unsuitable, they all volunteered to help throw together a ceremony and reception. Everyone was under the duress of Penelope at the time, but they all volunteered.

She could be very formidable when she wanted to.

Your now maid of honor’s eyes were shimmering as she carefully adjusted some of the last few strands of hair upon your head, you had managed to talk her out of a tiara, but to Penelope Garcia, a veil was non-negotiable. “You look gorgeous,” she says, “the perfect bride.”

Laughing uncomfortably, you turn to look at yourself in the full-length mirror and take a deep breath, “Thank you, Pen.”

“I know I may have slightly nudged you in the direction of a bigger wedding-“

“More like punted,” you interrupt, an affectionate smile on your face.

Rolling her eyes, she leaned over to grab her buzzing phone on the velvet chair in your ready room. “Whatever, I just think that after everything you and Spencer have made it out of, you deserve a celebration that reflected that,” she speaks passionately, as she always does when discussing people in love.

Turning around to look back at the mirror, the tulle of your veil cascading over your shoulders as you grew giddy. Your dress was a whimsical, white chiffon that fell to the floor and moved with you as you walked. Small straps of fabric were delicately draped over your arms for an off-the-shoulder effect, you had never felt more glamorous. Although, if there was a day for glamor, your wedding day would certainly qualify.

You snap your head around to see Penelope furiously typing on her phone, “Uh oh,” she whispers, looking at the screen.

Humming, you step off of the pedestal and over to her, careful not to trip on your dress, “What’s wrong?” You murmur, trying to see what was distressing her. Dread built in your stomach; the team couldn’t be getting called away? Two of its members were about to get married. This is why you should’ve just gone to the courthouse; you never should’ve let Garcia talk you into this.

Jolting you out of your panic induced stupor, she answers, “Something’s up with Reid.”

Your heart clenches, “Reid? My Reid?” You whisper, “Is he okay?”

The two of you jump when someone bangs on the door, and she moves to open it, just a crack at first – to see who it is – and then all the way open to reveal Luke on the other side. Naturally, the members of the BAU made up your wedding party, and Luke as the best man was the easy choice.

He was mostly dressed, save for the bowtie that remained undone around his neck, “I need to steal Y/N.” His shoulders were rising and falling quickly like he had run across the building.

“She’s getting ready for the wedding. Her wedding,” Penelope answers, gesturing back to you. “Besides, it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”

Really, you were mostly ready, you just needed to put your shoes on and line up. “There won’t be a wedding if we can’t get the groom out there,” Luke replies.

You warily approach the doorway, peeking around the door, “What’s wrong?”

“He just needs you,” Luke explains, gesturing toward you with his hands.

Nodding determinedly, you step out the door and run over to the other side of the building to where the groom’s ready room is, pulling the fabric of your dress up so that you don’t trip. Along the way, you pass a few guests, but you don’t stop.

It wasn’t news to most of them that you were a grounding force for Spencer, the two of you had been put through, as Luke put it, the wringer together and still managed to come out the other side. You skid to a halt in front of the door and knock quickly, “Spence, it’s me.”

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony,” he murmurs through the door, echoing the earlier sentiments of Penelope. You know he doesn’t believe in it, which only adds to your concern.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, fidgeting with the doorknob just to discover it’s locked. “If you don’t unlock the door, I’m going to go find Derek and have him kick it down for me,” you threaten, wondering if the reminder of all of the people here would coax him out.

There was no response from the other side of the door.

Sighing, you turn to look at Luke, “Can you give us a minute?” He nods, letting you know he’ll talk to Garcia before walking down the long hallway.

Once he’s gone, you hear the tell-tale click of the door unlocking, “Garcia will kill you if you walk in here.”

“Penny isn’t here, baby. It’s just you and me, okay?” You speak lowly, “What’s wrong, my love?” Dropping your hand on the doorknob, you startle slightly when it turns and the door swings open.

You yelp when Spencer pulls you in, closing the door behind you before he wraps his arms tightly around your waist. Immediately, you feel his body relax against yours, “Isn’t this supposed to be bad luck?” He murmurs.

Humming, you return his hug gratefully, “We’ve had enough bad luck, don’t you think? It’ll be okay.” His arms loosen around you, and you pull away slightly so you can look up at him, placing your hands tenderly on his chest, thumbing the satin fabric of his lapels. “And besides, I’m not fully dressed yet. I’m fairly certain that means it doesn’t count.”

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, holding you out at arm’s length. “You’re perfect, and I’m…” His voice trails off as he takes a step back from you, sighing as he takes a seat in one of the white chairs in the ready room.

Tilting your head to the side, you felt the fabric of your veil flow to the side, “You’re what, Spence?” You ask, slowly approaching the chair he was sitting in.

He furrows his brows in apprehension, “I think I might be scared of you,” he answers candidly.

You couldn’t help the giggle that spurted from your lips, “Am I really that scary?” You inquire softly, seeking more answers from him. You saw him better now, the darkness of his tux offset by the purple bowtie and handkerchief, joined with the light florals of his boutonnière. Spencer’s hair was a mess, a tell-tale sign that he had been running his hands through it.

Clearing his throat, Spencer looks up at you with a look in his eye that you can’t quite place, “I passed by your room earlier, and I heard you laughing.” He took a deep, tentative breath, “I thought you sounded so happy, and now I’m not sure I can keep you happy.”

Sighing, you duck your head slightly, “Spencer,” you say seriously, “are we still getting married today?”

“What?” He says in disbelief. “Of course we are, that’s not- I’m sorry,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “We’re still getting married; I’ve quite literally never wanted anything more in my entire life. I’m just worried,” he speaks quietly.

Gingerly, you step closer to the chair before he reaches out for you, placing a hand on your waist and gently guiding you down until you are sitting on his lap. “You make me so happy, Spencer Reid. I know that somewhere in that gorgeous brain of yours you know that, but I also know that you are your own worst critic.”

You’re sitting sideways on his lap with your legs latticed on top of each other. Gingerly, he places a hand on your thigh and another on the small of your back, “You deserve everything you want in the world.”

“And I want you. Doesn’t that count for something?” You ask him, emotion beginning to rise in your throat – you cannot cry, then the wedding would really be delayed. “Spencer, I’m so ecstatic that at the end of today, I get to be your wife. That’s such a privilege to me. You and I, we get to be so fucking happy today. We deserve that.” You tell him gently, “We get to be married and go on our honeymoon and come home and we can tell all of your stories to your mom, and we’ll have a baby or two and we’ll be so fucking happy.” You swallow your emotion, looking up at the light in the hope that it will clear your tears. “For the rest of our lives, we’ll be so happy.”

Then it came, “I don’t want to forget you.” His voice is almost imperceptible, but you hear him still.

The ache in his voice feels like a stab to your heart, you were well aware that his mother had Alzheimer’s. She wasn’t having a good day today, but the two of you had gone to visit her in the morning. Ever since she was diagnosed, it’s been like Spencer has a storm cloud hovering over him – he can’t be tested for the gene markers, not for a few more years. Taking a deep breath, you reach over and smooth his hair back, “If you get Alzheimer’s, I will sit down with you every day and remind you. I’m going to walk down that aisle today and tell you that I’m going to love you in sickness and in health and I’m going to mean it.”

“I’m scared,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch.

Using your free hand, you reach up and tenderly wipe a tear from his cheek, “We can take it.”

He nods in agreement with you, “Together, as a team,” he concurs, a slight amount of confidence returning to his voice.

Resting your head on his shoulder, the two of you take your moment. The last moment before you officially unite as one, and you let that moment take as long as you need. “I should go,” you whisper, looking over at the clock, the ceremony was supposed to have started by now.

Spencer leans down and kisses you, “I’ll see you out there?” He asks expectantly.

Nodding assuredly, you reach up and wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth, “I’ll be there.”

During the ceremony, you impressively were able to keep yourself together, until you promised him you would love him in sickness and in health.

please remember to like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed!

What about cutie first season Spencer Reid who is desperately in love with his coworker and is kinda blind sided when Lila kisses him🥺 He wants to make it really clear that the kiss was one sided but his soon to be girlfriend is jealous jealous🩷

jealous — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader being jealous , mention of lila ( obviously ) a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this :)

When you read in books the phrase “jealousy boiled in her veins,” you never quite understood it. Sure, you’d felt jealousy before, in fleeting moments of insecurity or longing.

But boiling jealousy? That had always seemed like an exaggeration. 

Not until four days ago. 

Though, boiling wasn’t the right word for it. No, what you felt then was explosive jealousy.

A kind of heat so intense it made your skin prickle, your throat tighten, your hands curl into fists at your sides. It was the kind of jealousy that made your stomach churn and your heart pound with something dangerously close to heartbreak. 

Because four days ago, you saw them. 

Spencer and Lila. In the pool. 

The images were burned into your memory, tattooed on the inside of your eyelids like a cruel joke. Every time you closed your eyes, there they were—her arms wrapped around his neck and their faces too close.

You had barely slept since. 

And work? Work was even worse. 

Two days ago, when you walked into the BAU for the first time since that dreadful moment, you told yourself you’d be fine. You could be professional. You could pretend it didn’t bother you. 

But you couldn’t even look at Spencer. 

Every time he stepped near you, all you could see was her in his arms. Every time he spoke, all you could hear was the laughter they shared in that damn pool. You forced yourself to act normal, to keep your voice steady and your posture composed.

But it was so, so hard. 

Elle had noticed. She kept shooting you those pointed glances, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Are you okay? 

Of course you weren’t. 

How could you be when you had been crushing on Spencer for so long, you could barely remember a time when you hadn’t been? How could you be okay when the sight of him with someone else had nearly shattered you? 

Spencer noticed too. Of course he did. 

He wasn’t oblivious—not when it came to you. He saw the way you avoided his gaze, the way your once warm smiles had faded into stiff nods and clipped responses. He saw the way your shoulders tensed when he entered the room, how you kept your distance like even standing next to him was unbearable. 

And it was unbearable. 

He wanted to talk to you, to explain. 

To tell you that what happened was one-sided. That he hadn’t meant for it to happen. That he hadn’t wanted it to happen. That it had been unexpected and overwhelming and, ultimately, meaningless. 

That he was in love with you, not Lila. 

But how could he say that when you wouldn’t even look at him? When every time he tried to get close, you turned away? When the words on the tip of his tongue kept dying in the silence you forced between you? 

Today, when you walked into the bullpen, the first thing you noticed was Derek. He was leaning against Spencer’s desk, a smirk playing on his lips as he held a paper in his hand.

The moment he saw you, he straightened, casually tossing the paper into the trash, his expression softening as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greeted smoothly. 

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a small, tired smile. 

You already knew what he had been holding. The pictures. The ones of Spencer and Lila in the pool. The same ones Derek had undoubtedly been using to tease Spencer with before you arrived. You also knew why Derek immediately threw the magazine away.

Because Derek, just like the rest of the team, knew exactly how you felt about Spencer. 

And how Spencer felt about you. 

Everyone with eyes and ears could tell. The way you gravitated toward each other, how you always seemed to seek each other out, how Spencer’s face lit up when you laughed. It wasn’t just friendship. It had never been just friendship. 

Spencer glanced up from his desk as you passed by, flashing you a hesitant, almost hopeful smile. 

You only nodded, forcing yourself to keep walking. 

You settled into your chair, taking a slow breath as you forced your hands to stay busy, flipping through the files on your desk. You could feel Spencer’s gaze lingering on you, like he was trying to gather the courage to say something. 

Spencer missed you. 

He missed the conversations, the inside jokes, the way you used to nudge his shoulder whenever you walked by. He missed the way your voice softened when you said his name, the way you actually listened to his rambles instead of tuning them out like most people did. 

And he wanted—needed—to explain. 

But every time he opened his mouth to speak, the words tangled in his throat. Because what if he ruined everything? What if trying to explain just made things worse? 

He had been so close before all of this happened.

Just a few days ago, he had been sitting right here, talking to Elle, asking for advice on how to ask you out. He had been nervous, but excited. He had a plan, one he had been going over in his head a hundred times—something simple, something meaningful. He just wanted you to know how much you meant to him. 

But then Lila happened. 

And now, instead of planning a date, he was trying to figure out how to make you look at him again. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

Spencer stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with a quiet scrape against the floor. He hesitated for only a second before crossing the room, stopping just beside your desk. 

“Can we talk?” His voice was quieter than usual. 

You didn’t look up right away, your fingers tightening around the file in front of you. A moment passed before you finally let out a slow sigh and nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Spencer felt his heart stutter in relief. 

The two of you walked to the breakroom in silence. 

Spencer closed the door behind him, the soft click sounding much louder in the quiet space. He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. 

“I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply. Then exhaled. Then hesitated again. 

You leaned against the coffee counter, arms crossed, waiting. Your heart pounded a little too fast in your chest. You felt awkward—just a tiny bit. Because Spencer wanting to talk to you meant he had noticed your behavior. Not that you had been subtle about it. 

But it also meant he had noticed your jealousy. 

And that was almost worse. 

Finally, Spencer spoke, his voice quiet, careful. Earnest. 

“I miss you.” 

Your head snapped up and you just stared at him, wide-eyed. 

You didn't expect him to be so direct.

Spencer was blushing, a deep red creeping up his neck, dusting the tips of his ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear, like saying those three words had been the most terrifying thing he had ever done—which, knowing him, it very well might have been. 

But the way he was looking at you, like he was afraid he had already lost you, made something twist painfully in your chest. 

“I—” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “You… what?” 

Spencer gave a small, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I miss you,” he repeated, voice softer this time. “And I—I know you’re upset. I know why. And I just… I need you to know that what happened with Lila, it—it wasn’t what it looked like.” 

You pressed your lips together, your fingers gripping the counter behind you. “It looked like you were kissing her,” you muttered, unable to stop the sharp edge in your voice. 

Spencer winced. “She kissed me,” he corrected quickly. “I—I didn’t expect it, and I definitely didn’t want it. I pulled away as soon as I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It wasn’t what I wanted.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. He was shifting anxiously, his hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he could. His brows were drawn together, his lips pressed into a tight line, like he was bracing himself for you to tell him you didn’t care. 

But you did care. That was the problem, wasn’t it? 

You looked down, inhaling deeply before meeting his gaze again. “Then… what do you want, Spencer?” 

His breath hitched. 

For a moment, he said nothing, just looking at you like he was memorizing every detail of your face, like he needed to get this right. Then, finally, he took a small step forward, eyes locked onto yours. 

“You,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped. 

And then it started again, thundering against your ribs, because Spencer Reid had just admitted—out loud—that he wanted you. 

The jealousy that had been burning inside you for days was suddenly replaced by something else entirely. 

Hope. 

“I—what?” Your ability to form sentences had seemingly vanished. Your mouth hung slightly open as you stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Spencer, for his part, was barely looking at you. His eyes flickered to yours for a second before darting back to the coffee pot behind you, like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Me?” you finally managed to say. That was it. That was all your brain could come up with. Me? 

Spencer nodded, still not quite meeting your gaze. 

Silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words.

Then, finally, he spoke again. 

“I was—I was trying to figure out how to ask you out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “I was talking to Elle about it, actually. Trying to…to make a plan.” His hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “And then Lila—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Everything just got messed up.” 

“Really?” you asked, your lips curving into the smallest hint of a smile. 

Spencer finally looked at you again, his expression both relieved and vulnerable all at once. “Yeah,” he breathed out. 

The heaviness in your chest eased, just a little. 

You took a slow step toward him, close enough that you could see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was stopping himself from reaching for you. 

“So…” You tilted your head, your voice softer now. “How were you going to ask me?” 

Spencer let out a short, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I had a whole thing planned. Something about books and coffee and, um, statistics on first-date success rates…” He trailed off, his face burning. “It was probably a bad plan.” 

You bit your lip, your smile growing. “I don’t know,” you mused, your heart pounding. “I think I would’ve liked it.” 

Spencer blinked at you, hope flickering across his face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was warm.

You took another step forward, and this time, Spencer didn’t move away. He was still nervous, still hesitant, but he didn’t look away when you reached out and brushed your fingers against his. 

“I still would,” you said quietly. 

Spencer swallowed, his fingers twitching against yours before he finally, finally curled them around your hand. His grip was unsure at first—like he was waiting for you to change your mind—but when you didn’t pull away, his shoulders relaxed. 

“Then,” he said, his lips curving ever so slightly, “would you maybe want to—” 

“Yes,” you interrupted, grinning now. 

Spencer smiled, a real, relieved smile, and you felt something settle in your chest—something that had been in turmoil for days. 

Oh my god!!

Covetous Cravings - S. Reid x Reader

Spencer finds himself sulking around in jealously for the first time after you regrettably tell him you have plans for the night. When surprising him with your presence later, Spencer realizes just how badly he missed you while he was away.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smuttttt...... (18+ pls pls) tags: Whiny & desperate Spencer, he's just very eager to please. virgin Spencer, munch!spencer, head (fem!receiving), coital takes place on Spencer's pretty Persian rug, jealous Spencer, fingering, heavy make out session, nipple play, handjob, panty sniffing, Spencer's POV! Dirty dirty dirty wc: 5.3k a/n: I've written "Spencer" so many times it doesn't sound like a name anymore. I saw this tweet and was inspired to write something related to the carpet picture. That's all. I don't even think of you that often.

Cold water washes over Spencer's tired eyes and rolls slowly down his wrists to the bottoms of his sleeves (that he rolled up to avoid getting them wet, annoyingly) as he frantically tries to wash away a strange sour feeling in his gut.

Upon looking into his mirror he gazes over the 5 o’clock shadow he’s garnered over the few days spent away in a small town in Delaware. He pulls in his lips and rubs over it with his finger tips. He doesn’t have the energy to shave it right now.

Spencer is currently harbouring a bit of a sourpuss persona, he knows this well. The team had wrapped up the case quicker than expected, leading him to message you as soon as he could about heading back to D.C. and seeing you again.

To his dismay, when he got off the plane and checked his crummy silver Nokia, that you’ve giggled at a fair share of times, the response he receives from you is… that you’re… busy?

Something about a group of friends at a late night cafe/bar getting together, he didn’t read all of it, pouting so much that he just closed his phone. Spencer is aware you had these plans before he asked to see you. Spencer is aware that he’s back from Delaware earlier than expected. Yet he’s still over his sink, face wet and cold, grumbling about your social life.

The two of you have been together for a couple months now, it’s extremely new, he knows you wouldn’t drop everything upon his arrival, but the whole plane ride home he imagined your ideas around hanging out once he got back. He got his hopes up too high.

He begins to reflect a bit, maybe a better word would be spiral, as he wanders back into his bedroom and unpacks his go bag. I shouldn’t be feeling lousy right now, he thinks. We’ve been dating for 2 months and 3 days, he had missed your two month anniversary while he was away. He couldn’t even text you that day because he was too busy. Should he even text about anniversaries like that? He’s so new to this he has no clue. 

Considering your dating timeline now he starts to worry. He’s inexperienced, almost completely… no, yeah, actually completely. He sighs.

You have been over twice, by all the beautiful luck he might have fostered in a past life, he has had the spine-tingling honor to have made out with you those two times as well. After a handful of museum and bookstore dates, even visiting your apartment once, the first time you shared a kiss was when he was showing you Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Cercle Rouge, attesting it was substantial to the gangster film genre. 

When he felt your eyes against the side of his face during the best part of the film, he took a double take at you, seeing an unreadable expression in your eyes. He cringes at the memory of his confusion.

“Th-this part is really good… Pierre’s use of cinematic synecdoche here is perfectly timed compared to–” 

You had leaned in closely and started kissing along his jaw as he fumbled through the rest of his explanation till he tapered off into a whimper that was sealed with a kiss planted on his lips. He even reached to the coffee table in front of him while you were kissing to pause the movie, not wanting you to miss anything.

Spencer groans a bit at the memory, a little embarrassed, he now would recognize the signs you were displaying easier. He’s jealous of his past self, having you to himself so unabashedly. He’s jealous of his past time spent with you and he’s jealous of your friends right now who are hearing your laugh and smelling your perfume all night.

He sighs and flops down on his back to his bed. Spencer does not feel jealous often. He feels completely rotten and out of sorts. He thinks, maybe if he would’ve kissed you more suavely that first time you would’ve dropped your plans now. Maybe if he translated the French into English for you in a more sultry voice you’d skip out on a coffee with your friends. Maybe–

Spencer hears a faint knocking on his front door. He looks over at his alarm clock, 12:12 a.m., hm. He’s hallucinating for sure. Like a lonely old man who hears his late wife’s voice in the dark of his haunted halls–

Another tentative knock. 

He leaps up from his bed and races over to the front door with his legs moving so fast he feels like he’s in Looney Tunes. His heart starts pounding as he looks through his peephole to see a small blurry version of you shifting on your feet. He scrambles to unlock his door and swing it open. 

“Hi!” You smile at him, smelling like strong coffee mixed with whatever lactonic and spicy fragrance you usually wear that curls his toes. You step forward and give him a hug, your arms wrapping around his neck. This springs him into action, wrapping his arms around your waist he mutters out a “wow” against your shoulder. Like he just won a sweepstakes. 

You pull away a bit, but Spencer's arms stay around you. “Is it okay I’m here? You never responded to my texts.” You give him a shy smile and he realizes as he was grovelling he didn’t open his phone again after you said you had plans for the night. 

“Yes! Yes,” he clears his throat… be suave. “Of course. Um. Was just thinking about you, ha. Come over whenever. Yea. Even if I say I’m busy, come over still, haha.” Shit. 

“Ah. Okay, noted. I missed you too, Spencer.” You giggle a little at him and walk into the apartment, leaving him to shut the door behind you. “What were you thinking about?” You muse. 

“Ummmm. Le Cercle Rouge.” Spencer clears his throat again. IQ slashed to 60. 

“The Le Cercle Rouge incident, right.” You laugh again and look over at where he’s standing with a blank face. “Oh. Are you sure it’s okay that I'm here? I know I said I was busy, so I’m sure you’re ready for bed now, especially after the case. Did that go well?” His blank expression has made you nervous, he notices, though he was just considering again the feeling of his neck being kissed for the first time in 24 years. 

“Please stay. A while, too. I’m not tired.” A pause with long eye contact. “The case went surprisingly well, hence the early arrival.” 

The curve of your lip pulls up in a smirk and he sees he’s convinced you fully now. You bend down and unzip the sides of your brown high rise boots, leaving you in your black tank top, skirt, and now kneehigh socks that create a monochromatic wet dream for Spencer. Though this isn’t a dream, he shakes his head from side to side to get rid of the distracting thoughts.

“Good.” You sit down fully on his red carpet now, trying to pull your last boot off. “You know, you were a really short walk from the coffee shop, I’m surprised you’ve never been. As soon as you texted you were back I kept trying to slip away as politely as possible.” You talk while struggling with the shoe.

Spencer takes a deep breath in and meets you on his carpet, sitting on his knees to pull the boot off of you, which was incredibly easy. You were pretending to struggle with it on purpose. Once removed, he sits back against his heels and pushes your knees together by your ankles.

“You walked?” He mumbled back. He would’ve picked you up. He should’ve just checked his phone, told you to have a good night like a proper boyfriend. 

“Mm, like five minutes. No worries.”

“Its midnight- I. I can always pick you up.”

You whined your response, “But you weren’t answering your phoneeee.”

Spencer rubs his face with his hands, covering his smile a bit and feeling his skin heating up. “I’m very glad you showed up anyway. Even if it scares me you walked alone this late,” he glances at you leaning back against your hands, knees still pulled together. “You look very pretty.”

“Really? Thanks. I thought so too. About you, I mean. You’ve got a little 5 o’clock shadow right now, you look really handsome.” You smile and let out an airy laugh. Spencer subconsciously rubs his face again. He’s not sure when these jittery feelings will go away, if they ever will. One compliment from you and he’s feeling a blush coming from inside of him stretch over to his skin. 

He remembers his petulance earlier, his flair for the dramatics. Whining over people other than him seeing you, cursing his past self for awkward conversations, so he leans over onto his hands and knees and kisses your lips. 

You hum against his lips, knees together against one of his sides, happy at Spencer's first time initiating a kiss between you. You sit up off of your hands now  so they can cup his face and pull him firmer against you. Taking one of his wrists from where he’s planted on the floor to the other side of you, you guide him to slowly hover over you. 

Spencer can’t help but let out a tiny noise, a moan, against you as his palms dig uncomfortably into his carpet. He feels you lean back against your elbows and swing one of your legs to the other side of him. Now, you are pressed flat against the carpet, legs on either side of his waist. Spencer slowly moves so he’s on top of your frame, elbows crowning your head.

Both times Spencer has had the pleasure of tasting you like this you have been straddling him on his couch. This is the first time that he’s been able to lay on top of you and feel his hip bones dig into you and your legs around him.

Woah. Your legs are wrapped around him, just like how he’s dreamed of having you in his bed. Legs squeezing helplessly around him as he buries himself in you. Feeling your chest against his as you arch up into him. He lowers one hand to trail it up from your shins covered in your knee highs that make him faint to your hip.

He pushes his crotch down a bit from where it was against yours, making it so the hard-on he’s now sporting is against the floor now. He remembers the visceral feeling of you kissing his neck. Immediately he’s moving down to return the favor. What starts in soft kisses escalates quickly to sucking and laving against your skin, face buried into the source of his wildest dreams, your perfume. 

Your hands are carding through his hair right now, nails scratching at him softly and he has to position himself a bit closer to the ground now to rub off some built up tension his cock is begging for. This is usually where you part.

Face buried in your neck he’s smelling your intoxicating scent and moaning against the skin. He feels like a wild animal smelling a pheromone filled scent gland. Spencer realizes briefly where he is and pulls up from your neck to stare down at your face.

Hair haloing around you, you’re feverish and pressed against the Persian rug he spent his first big paycheck on. You have a bit of mascara smudged under your eyes and the lamps scattered around his living room are highlighting you in a way so beautiful he moans out again softly. No friction, no kissing, just by looking at you.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he traces the line of your neck up and down softly with the tips of his fingers. “I almost drowned in my sorrows before you knocked on my door.” He leans back down and chuckles against the skin of your neck.

You don’t have exactly the same romantic thoughts in mind as you gasp out for the first time since he’s laid on you, “You feel so good against me, Spence. Wanted this so bad,” he stops kissing, breathing lightly against your neck as you continue. “Can’t believe I haven’t pulled you on me sooner.” He’s blinking silently hidden in the corner of your neck. He acts on a whim and bites down lightly against where your neck and shoulder meet and you squeal. 

Spencer was not prepared for the blazing eye contact he’d be met with once pulling away to look at you. Your tank top has ridden down, the top of your pink bra showing a bit and your hair is drastically more disheveled than when you arrived. He can feel his heart in his throat. He has to keep making you let out that sound.

You seem to notice his brazen eyeline and you take one hand to pull the neckline of your top down a bit, exposing most of the bra covering your breasts that are only slightly spilling out from all your wiggling. Spencer shuts his eyes like he’s in pain, but he’s actually moving his hips up and away from the floor so he doesn’t come in his pants right then and there.

A completely new and formidable heat spreads over him and into his loins. Never in his life has Spencer trembled with anticipation in this way. His skin is on fire and he’s struck with the overwhelming need to make you the happiest person in this world. He wants to have you shiver and shudder completely against his apartment floor, he wants to hear every moan and grunt until your voice gives out. He wants to fuck you with his mouth.

“Gah-God, baby,” Spencer moves himself away from you so that he’s kneeling between your open thighs, rubbing the outsides of your legs as he looks into your eyes. “My mouth. Um, can I use my mouth?” He lets out a shaky breath at the image.

You bite your lip softly at him, he feels like he just licked the screen on one of those old staticy TVs he used to have. “Use your mouth for what?” You half play coy and half ask in earnest, not wanting to jump to conclusions since you and Spencer have never taken off many layers together.

“I want to use my mouth to make you cum.” His face flushes immediately, your eyes widen in shock. He drags his sight down to where you lay in front of him. Legs spread open and skirt ridden up giving him an obscene upskirt of your underwear for him. Also black. He keeps his eyes there as you reply.

“Yeah. Please, please-” he whips his head up to look at your face again to engrain the image of you unkempt and nodding a desperate yes into his memory. He lightly reaches out between your thighs to briefly feel the bottom of your panties. He’s barely thinking, his first instinct was to gauge how wet you are, to compare it to how you’re going to feel later. You gasp sweetly and he moans in response, untouched, again.  

With this searing hot permission Spencer gets hit with a strong pietistic devotion towards you. There is literally nothing in his life that has mattered more to him right now than how the gusset of your panties stick onto you and that his tongue can finally be given the task he has thought about constantly since knowing you. 

The anxiety Spencer was expecting as a result of his inexperience is completely overthrown by a perfectly instinctual autopilot setting he falls into. The excitement of making you feel good, you letting him touch you in such a profound way completely overshadows the doubt of his expertise. 

Not that he’s completely clueless. Erotica classics hide in his bookshelves, copies of Anaïs Nin’s short stories, the detailed counts of female pleasure derived from biology books, decent sex education stemming from the countless hours he’s poured into literature. He’s fairly in tuned to what generally makes people crumble, he just has to try it out himself. 

Spencer starts at the top again. The push and pull between him and eating you out the way he’s craving will have to drone on a little longer as he starts kissing along the exposed skin of your breasts, not wanting to leave anything unkissed. How rude. 

You outstretch your neck to him and slide the tank top off yourself, leaving just your pink lace bra that's covering little of your nipples. Spencer fingers the straps briefly while taking in the sight of you. He cannot believe the cosmic circumstances that have led him to this moment.

“D’you like?” you mumble while watching him eye-fuck you. He almost feels sorry for how he’s watching your chest rise and fall but the way his dick is pulsing under the confines of his underwear allows for little words.

In fact, his hips kick a twitch forward at the sound of your voice. A siren song as old as time. 

“MmmIwanna,” Okay. Form words. “I wanna-” he pities himself enough to give up on that one and kisses along your chest again.

“Do what you want to. I want to feel you everywhere… I want you to touch me.” You seem to understand his dilemma. A once articulate tongue falls flat in such a frenzied situation. 

Spencer palms your tits through your bra properly now while kissing you sloppily. He feels the friction of the lace against his palm and your hardened nipple receiving the rough friction from it as well. He picks up on your whine against his lips and pulls your bra down by the middle of it, exposing your chest fully. 

You gasp against his lips and move your tongue against his as a thanks. Spencer lets out a tiny “ah” from the back of his throat when your tongues meet. To regain composure he takes the nipple he was palming through lace earlier and rolls it between his middle finger and thumb, it’s your turn to kick your hips up for friction now. 

He decides to lower his hips against yours fully for the first time, desperately searching for that debauching pleasure that he was avoiding earlier. His dick rests nicely under your belly button and you bite his bottom lip when he’s fully settled against you, he feels sort of proud. 

Feeling your body completely pressed against him in this way makes him mourn every second he’s been with you and not made you moan in happiness like he is now. Wishing that the pesky virginity he’s carried with him this long will be taken by this angel underneath him right now. His cock twitches against you at the thought of it.

He stops fiddling with the nipple and instead moves to hold one of your hands with his as his other hand moves to rub your neglected nipple. He subtly grinds a long and slow rhythm against where you two are pressed together and you make a curious noise, a full moan caught before getting let out. Nudged in your throat as you hold it in.

Spencer thinks for a moment and smiles at the realization that it sounds almost exactly like how you hold back a laugh in your throat. A small and choked out “hngh” high pitched before its snuffed out. He thinks of any future endeavors where he gets to hear you hold back a laugh in a quiet museum or library from one of his stupid jokes. With this comparison he’s going to be pathetically hard in so many more inappropriate situations now.

“Please, can you please take my panties off.” You mewl gently, almost as if you’re worried he will refuse, and break him out of his thoughts. Spencer nearly forgot how lost in his head he was while methodically rubbing your sensitive breasts and grinding against you. 

“Pretty girl, I’m sorry.” He really is, he never wants you to feel so desperate you have to beg for him to touch you, but without interference he could probably sit for eight hours straight playing with your tits to see if you could come from it. He whines out loud at the thought. “I will, of course, I will.”

The feeling of him peeling himself off you feels tortuous. However, it is very much a high risk, high reward scenario when he looks down between your thighs again to see a wetter fabric clad to your hips. Spencer leans towards you, pushes your socks down slightly to kiss the tops of each of your knees. You giggle and he nips the inside of your leg slightly. 

It’s dizzying, the experience of pulling your panties down for the first time. Every night where he has sloppily fucked his fist thinking of your smile lines and pretty hands, every evening after you’ve left his apartment well kissed has finally led to this life altering moment.

Your panties have been slid off and he’s got an iron grip on them as he’s staring at you fully exposed, the translucent liquid smudged around your cunt. He’s trying incredibly hard to not push them up to his nose and inhale, he thinks he’s done enough animalistic sniffing and grunting at you tonight. He places them neatly on the couch instead. 

“Baby, Spence, you’re a voyeur.” You laugh at his staring gently, he assumes 25% of this experience for you has been watching him stare bug eyed at every inch of skin you’ve surrendered. He lays down flat on his tummy, sucking in air through his teeth as his dick presses against his carpet through his slacks again. “Feel sensitive, that feels like a lot?” You ask softly down at him. He flushes, embarrassed a little that you notice him the exact same way he notices you. Spencer pinches his eyebrows together and nods.

“Feels.. real good though.” He laughs gently at himself as you groan and rest your head back down on the carpet at how sweet he is.

He wraps his arms tightly underneath your thighs to pull your pussy closer to him, your skirt riding up to your belly in the process. He feels you squirm a little under his arms and kisses the skin above your hip flexors softly.

His heart skips a beat when he’s up close to you, a sliver of doubt creeping up along with the immeasurable need to make you feel good. Spencer takes his tongue out and licks a broad stripe up from right below your opening to above your clit. This is more for himself, actually. He wants to taste every single drop you expelled from him kissing and touching you, it’s what he deserves.

Spencer's arms immediately have to resist against your thighs moving shut, using a bit of his strength to keep you open as he does it again. This time he moves his head slightly side to side. The whine he hears coming from your lips makes him take one arm away without thinking to hold your lips open and wraps his lips around your clit.

The open window you get without one arm suspending your leg allows you to close one thigh to the side of his face while the other is still pried open by him. He continues to suck gently, pulls away and lifts up the skin covering your clit, kisses it softly, you let out a pitiful sobbing noise and Spencer sucks your clit again, rolls it between his lips.

You help him out by taking your other thigh away from his face and holding it up yourself. “Wh-who taught you to do this?” You squeak out giving him a sense of confidence he’s been desperately striving for. Spencer cannot bear to part from your cunt to reply so he just hums lowly against you, hoping that you get his message of I daydream about doing this to you every waking moment through the vibrations he’s emitting.

He feels you rock your hips against his face greedily and he smiles a toothy grin against you. His perfect pliant girl, he couldn’t be happier to have your wetness rubbed against his nose as he dives into you. 

Wanting to escalate the scenario a bit, he’s internally pleading to feel you cum against his face, Spencer begins to suck harshly and suction onto your clit intermittently. The loud “fuck” you whimper out and how your torso isolates to twist to the side as you keep your hips in place is a good indicator that he’s making you feel good. This is a dream.

“Hh- mmmm” you cry out and Spencer flickers his gaze up to your face. You’re scrunching your face like a sweet bunny and have one hand up and posed above his head, waiting to push him away, the pleasure so strong you have to implicitly prepare yourself to shove him away when it gets to be too much. He moans highly against you.

The hand you had defensively propped up begins to lightly push at his face, he smiles at this, suctions your clit through his lips and runs circles over it with his tongue, your hand falls limply to your side.

“Fingers- ah, fingers!” You manage to gasp out one more plea before sucking your lips in and moaning deeply against them.

You seriously do not have to ask him twice. Being able to feel you twitch and grip around his fingers while he sucks on your clit has him pushing himself against the floor. The bordering on painful stimulation he’s getting from using all his body weight to hump his carpet sends tingles up and down his spine. As you said, sensitive. 

Spencer starts by tracing your entrance with his middle finger, he slips in easily just by doing that, your slick and his spit making the intrusion incredibly easy. He wastes no time pulling his finger up against your g-spot and slips in his ring finger alongside it, rubbing slick circles inside of you.

The noises your cunt is making from his incessant sucking and rubbing could probably be heard from any of his neighbors walking by his front door. He gasps hotly at this thought, what are you doing to him? Has he no shame?

You’re riding his face and fingers again, mumbling intelligible sentences. God, his cock hurts. 

“Baby, close, don’t stop-” The angelic words fall from your mouth and his ears perk up like an owner saying her dog's favorite words to it. Spencer continues exactly what he’s doing against you and looks up at you again through your back arching.

He can feel you twitching and senses you’re done for. If only he could talk and eat you out at the same time, he wants to call you pretty until tears come from your eyes. You gasp wetly and come all over his fingers.

Your thighs clamp against his head and he lets you do whatever you need to do to his face to get off. He’s rubbing soft and soothing circles against your hips as you hiccup through your orgasm.

You open your mouth as if you have something to say, and close it again, shuddering out a breath of air. Spencer pulls away, he can talk again.

“My good girl, thank you. I mean, you tasted so good… you’re so pretty, my pretty, oh my god-” He’s got a lot on his mind right now.

Spencer watches and follows your movements as you sluggishly sit up to kiss him, moving your tongue against his in an eager display to taste yourself against his lips, he whines again, feeling your warmth against him. When you palm him through his pants Spencer stutters out a pornographic “hnnn”, the friction from his rubbing against the floor has left him painfully needy.

“Can I take your cock out baby?” You ask against his neck. Spencer is aware of the embarrassing uhhuh uhhuh he releases as he scoots back against his couch. You don’t bother teasing him, taking out his red dripping dick from his pants and underwear and you don’t even giggle when it makes a whip sound as it taps against his skin.

He actually has to close his eyes after watching you whine in overstimulation as you collect your come from yourself to use it as lubrication to jerk him off with it. He’s genuinely going to pass out.

With a mouth open to the shape of an “o”, Spencer has an onslaught of tiny gentle noises that fill up the room alongside the skin slapping sound of you jerking him off. You touch the crown of his dick and one of his arms shoots out to brace himself against the couch. 

He accidentally grabs your panties he placed on the couch earlier.

Not thinking, he grips onto them and you kiss his cheek. “Want em’?” You tease. “My panties are in my top drawer next time you come over and want to snoop around.” You joke further, a red flush of humiliation covers Spencer's neck and chest. He slowly moves his grip on them over to his nose. Too far gone to have the same self-control he had earlier to set them aside, he finally indulges in taking in your scent.

He’s somewhat expecting more prodding and teasing, but you just continue to kiss over his face softly. He’s so thankful.

There’s no surprise to the fact you have him coming especially fast. Spencer feels his legs twitch and he sets down your panties to kiss you properly as he finishes all over your fist. 

As he comes down from this unexplainable high he is struck with such a tender feeling of affection towards you his eyes water. You notice and scoot onto his legs and lap and wrap your arms around him in a hug.

Not letting go until you feel him chuckling against you, you ask him how he feels and he sighs out dramatically. He’s so exhausted now.

You shyly offer to wet-vac his carpet once you guys move to clean yourselves up and he breaks out into a laughter that makes his stomach hurt. You eventually join his contagious laughter at the situation.

Spencer’s suggestion for you to stay a while is accepted with open arms. You spend your first night together wrapped up in each other's embrace. Being back in his own bed with you here settles his mind so gently that within three minutes of his head hitting the pillow he’s out like a light. 

In the morning when he wakes up for work he rubs his nose softly all over your face to wake you up. Spencer offers that you stay in his bed and sleep more or he can drive you back to yours before he heads over to work. He ends up driving you home so you can get ready for work yourself. Once you’re back home he finally opens up his phone again from last night to see a picture of yourself you sent on the walk to his apartment last night with the text under it “Had to come see you anyway, hope the doors unlocked mwahaha”.

He finds himself smiling at his missed message all day at work and once he’s seated back in his car to go home later that day he finally finds the “forgotten” panties you left on his passenger car seat when you left this morning.  

Spencer flushes then pockets them before texting you that he is in fact not a voyeur or a perv and he did not put your panties in his pocket and he is not asking you to come over again tonight so he can cook you a pasta dinner before he lays you out for him again, hopefully on his bed this time.

Glasses Reid is elite and Emily in this is fucking iconic

i NEED anything with glasses reid or munch reid i’m literally frothing at the mouth 🙏

ty for ur request :D fem!reader

"Emily," you say weakly. "What is that?" 

Emily looks up from her desk, clearly desperate for a distraction, the lip of her coffee mug against painted lips. "What's what?" 

"That." You point. You feel sick to your stomach. "That right there." 

"Oh," Emily says happily. "You finally noticed. Yeah, Spence forgot to renew his contact prescription. He has to wear glasses for two weeks." 

Spencer stands by the photocopier with a perturbed frown, clicking a button, then another. His brow is furrowed and his hair is falling into his eyes. He has the stupidest, dorkiest, prettiest face, and practically every expression he makes has you weak in the knees.

"That long?" you ask. 

Derek looks up in concern at your pained tone, following the line of your eyes. When he realises what it is that's hurt you so, he skirts around the desk to shake your shoulder. "You could always tell him how you feel. I'm sure he'd keep the lenses forever if he knew you liked them." 

"I don't like them," you say. You sound faraway to your own ears. You hate them. They're gonna be your demise. 

Spencer runs a fingertip across the photocopier's screen, in his own world as the machine finally begins to chug out whatever it is he'd been wanting a duplicate of. The frames of his glasses sit snug on his nose. You can tell from even this distance that the lenses make his eyes look a tiny bit smaller. You could probably point out a misplaced freckle if he asked you to.

"Don't be cruel, he looks cute," Emily teases. 

Spencer collects his papers, shuffling them into a straight line as he makes his way back to the bullpen. You pretend to take interest in Emily's things. She sips her coffee too nonchalantly. Derek doesn't even bother pretending. 

"What?" Spencer asks, swift to spot your suspicious behaviours. "Is it the glasses?" 

You wince. "Of course not. You look… you look really nice, Spence." 

"You know he used to wear 'em every day?" Derek asks.

You would've died. "Before I joined?" 

"For a few years," Spencer says, looking you over. "You're unhappy. Is something wrong?" 

He looks to Derek and Emily for confirmation. Emily stutters for an answer while Derek laughs in the background, "She– you know. She just– She missed breakfast!" 

Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose by the leg and drops his copies onto the desk. "I have dried apricot in my bag. Two seconds." 

He bends over his chair to retrieve his bag from under the desk. Your eyes blow wide at his position, the sudden demonstration of well-fitted pants. Derek's laugh echoes up to the eaves. 

"And he has that twenty four seven," Emily says against the rim of her coffee. 

You scrunch your eyes closed and tilt your head back. After a few seconds, a hand touches your elbow gently, a hesitance that comes with only one member of the BAU. "You okay?" Spencer asks. 

"I'm okay. Headache," you lie. 

Spencer presses the apricot into your hands. "Maybe you should see an optician. You know they can tell if you have a brain tumour from one photo of your sclera?" He smiles morbidly, his glasses slipping down his nose. "They measure the size of your optic disk. It takes less than a minute. I can give you the name of my doctor, if you want. She's nice. Not as nice as you." 

Your throat is so dry you can't form words to answer him. He doesn't judge your rigid nodding. 

"I'll write down the number for you. And, Y/N?" 

"Yeah?" you choke out. 

"You look really nice today, too." 

Emily has to kick you in the leg to bring you back to earth. Stupid Spencer. Stupid lovely glasses.