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heavenlybodies333 · 21 days ago

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Dr. Reid, You’re Jealous -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

“I’m sorry—who is going undercover with me?”

Spencer looks up from his files just in time to watch your brows knit in disbelief. You’re leaning against the briefing table, half-draped in your blazer like you might throw it off at any moment and dramatically quit.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. “You and Reid. You’re the most natural fit for the couple cover. He knows the tech better than any of us, and you’ve got experience with high-profile corporate clients.”

You blink. “And the pretending to be in love with my coworker part?”

Morgan chokes on his coffee. Spencer’s ears turn a little red. “I—I’m capable of performing relational mimicry.”

You swivel your head toward him, eyes narrowed. “That was romantic,” you deadpan.

“Okay, fun,” you continue, pacing now. “So the plan is: I wear a dress, flirt with the possibly sociopathic billionaire with a missing-women problem, and Reid plays my adoring arm candy?”

“Sounds accurate,” Rossi says without looking up from his notes.

“I don’t even like Reid.”

“I’m right here,” Spencer mutters, flipping a page.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you have any experience pretending to be someone’s boyfriend?”

His brow furrows. “Statistically, if you factor in false identities during undercover operations and the barista at Quantico who referred to me as her ‘sweetheart’—”

“Oh my god.”

“You’ll both be fine,” Hotch cuts in. “We’ve got a target window of 72 hours. He attends the conference mixer tonight. That’s your first contact point. Reid, brush up on his published work in neural tech;” he turns to you, “I’ll have Garcia send you the guest list and wardrobe expectations.”

“I want hazard pay for having to fake-laugh at Reid’s jokes,” you mutter.

“Don’t worry,” Morgan grins. “We’ll be recording everything.”

You spend most of the jet ride bickering.

"Try to look less like a federal agent," you say, watching him scribble in the margin of the file.

"I am a federal agent."

"Yes, but we’re undercover. So maybe don’t say things like ‘spatial-temporal geographic profiling’ at a cocktail party.”

"Fine. Then maybe don’t wear heels that make you look like you’re hunting for a husband.”

You blink.

Morgan coughs loudly. “Shiiiit.” Your eyes narrow. Spencer won’t meet your gaze. Not until you kick him in the ankle under the table. “Say that again?”

He glances up. “Nothing.”

The suspect—Jonathan Keene, tech CEO, 42, recently divorced, charm level: unsettling—is playing host at an industry gala tomorrow night. You’ll be there, arm in arm with Spencer, to feel him out.

Literally, if you have to.

You’re in the elevator of the Ritz-Carlton when it hits you that this is your actual job. Spencer stands beside you, suitcase in one hand, Bureau briefcase in the other, looking like a nervous grad student trying to cosplay James Bond. He’s in a suit that fits way too well, hair slightly messy, tie loosened to project "casual tech genius" energy. You hate how good he looks. You hate him a little, honestly.

He glances sideways. “I know you think this is a bad idea.”

“Oh, no,” you hum. “I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“I can pull it off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can you?”

He bristles. “Is there some reason you find this particularly impossible?”

“Just that you blush when the barista accidentally touches your hand.”

“I don’t blush.”

“You’re blushing right now.”

“That’s a circulatory response to temperature.”

You smirk. “Right. Not attraction.”

You check in under fake names. You share a suite. Two rooms. One bed. Of course.

Garcia’s voice chirps over the coms in your ear as you step inside: “Try not to hate-fuck each other before the suspect dinner tomorrow night, please.”

“Garcia,” Hotch warns.

“I didn’t say don’t! I said try!”

Spencer looks like he’s going to throw himself off the balcony. You step into the suite and immediately know you're screwed. The whole room is ridiculous—sleek marble floors, fresh orchids, mirrored bar stocked with real crystal decanters. But it’s the bed that holds your attention: one king.

"Well," you mutter, dropping your bag, "this is subtle."

Spencer hovers awkwardly by the minibar. “I’m sure it was just a booking error.”

You cock a brow. “Garcia doesn’t make booking errors.”

You grab the bigger suitcase—the one with your cocktail dress—and brush past him toward the bathroom.

"I’m taking the first shower. Don’t fall in love while I’m gone."

“I—what?” The door shuts on his confusion.

Two Hours Later

You’re pressed against Spencer Reid’s arm at a high-profile tech mixer, your back aching from the arch of your heels and your smile straining from the force of your faked flirtation.

Jonathan Keene hasn’t looked away from you in fifteen minutes. He’s laughing, sipping bourbon, saying things like “Tell me more about your platform interface design” while obviously staring at your chest.

Keene’s laugh is just a little too loud.

You can feel the weight of his eyes dragging over your neckline for the fourth time in as many minutes, and if you didn’t have a job to do—and if you weren’t currently pretending to be madly in love with the most awkward genius on Earth—you’d knee the guy in the balls and call it a night.

Instead, you smile like you’re charmed. “Oh, that’s fascinating,” you purr, fingers curling lightly around Spencer’s arm. You feel him tense, his jaw twitching.

Keene tilts his head. “And what about you, Dr. Reid? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

Spencer’s smile is tight. Controlled. He doesn’t like being called out—especially not by someone with a Rolex and a neck tan.

“I find it more productive to observe.” His voice is crisp. “Listening tells you more than talking does.”

Keene raises an eyebrow. “Well, I hope you’re not the jealous type. Your girlfriend has quite a way with people.”

Spencer’s arm shifts under your hand. He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “She’s persuasive,” he says coolly. “It’s part of her charm. I’m used to it.”

Your stomach twists. It’s almost real, the way he says it. Like it’s not part of the act. You glance at him sideways, watching the tension in his jaw. You know that look. Reid’s annoyed. Jealous, even.

Which is perfect.

You lean in close and whisper against the shell of his ear, loud enough that only he hears: “Careful, Doctor. You’re starting to sound like you mean it.”

Keene excuses himself—something about drinks and board members—and finally walks away.

You exhale like you’ve just escaped a car crash, letting your smile drop the second his back turns. Spencer doesn't move. He’s still tense beside you, his body hot and tight where your arm threads through his.

You glance up. “Relax.”

He doesn't look at you. “I'm relaxed.”

“Sure,” you mutter, sipping your champagne. “You’re vibrating with serenity.”

“I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“Fishing?” You smile slowly. “Oh no, Doctor. I was casting with precision.”

He exhales hard through his nose, finally turning his head. “You enjoyed that. Flirting with him. Letting him look at you like—”

You cut him off with a smirk. “Like what? Like he wants to fuck me? Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

Later that night

You stumble back to the suite just after midnight, the heels in your hand and your patience long gone. The mixer was exhausting, Keene was touchy, and Reid was moody the entire damn time. It would’ve been easier if you hated him. If you didn’t like the way his hands felt on your waist when you laughed too loudly, or the way his fingers twitched every time Keene got too close.

“Do you think I was too much?” you ask as you unlock the hotel room you and Reid are “sharing.” You toss your heels by the door and flop onto the couch, sighing dramatically. “My back hurts. Carrying this case, this team, this whole fake relationship.” He doesn’t answer.

Which is a very Spencer Reid way of saying I’m angry.

You look over your shoulder. He’s standing rigid by the door, you raise your eyebrows raised. “Something wrong, Reid?”

His tie is off. Fingers working his collar loose. Jaw tight. “No.”

You toss your bag on the bed. “Spence?”

He finally blinks. “It was unprofessional.”

You blink, mock-offended. “I was charming. Convincing. He practically invited me on his yacht.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Spencer mutters, pulling off his blazer. “It was unnecessary. The plan was to observe him. Not seduce him.”

You smile, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Dr. Reid…” You let it hang in the air. Teasing. He glances over, exasperated. “…are you jealous?”

His jaw twitches. “No,” he lies. “I’m focused.”

You grin. “You’re sulking.”

“I’m analyzing.” He starts to pace. “He exhibited classic narcissistic behaviors, and you fed into his ego.”

You fake gasp. “So I was playing my part?”

He narrows his eyes. “You were enjoying it.”

"That’s rich coming from you. I had to watch you let some AI investor in a backless dress show you her Bitcoin portfolio for ten straight minutes.”

He takes another step closer. “That was necessary.”

“Oh? Were her boobs full of evidence?” That stops him.

He narrows his eyes. "Why do you always do this?"

“Do what?” you ask, innocent as sin. You don’t let him finish, stepping in even closer. "You know what would really sell this fake relationship, Dr. Reid?"

He finally looks at you. "What?"

You smile. "Act like you actually want to fuck me."

His hand pauses halfway to his undone tie, fingers curling loosely in the silk.

“Excuse me?” His voice is quiet.

You step closer, toeing the line of his personal space like you’re daring him to push you back. “You heard me.”

His gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again—“This isn’t funny,” he says tightly.

You tip your head to the side, smiling slow and sweet. “Did I say I was joking?”

“Keene thinks you’re my boyfriend,” you murmur, taking another step closer. You’re close enough now to see the faint flush creeping up the column of his neck. “If we’re going to sell this, you’re going to have to act like one.”

“Act like I—” he starts, then cuts himself off with a sharp inhale.

You smirk, stepping closer until there’s barely a breath between you. “You heard me, Doctor. Unless you want Keene to sniff out the act tomorrow, maybe you should practice.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. “Practice?” he repeats softly, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it.

“Mm.” You tilt your head, letting your eyes drag lazily down his chest, to the place where his shirt collar gapes slightly open. “You’re stiff as a corpse around me. If we’re supposed to be a couple, you need to convince me you want me. Convince everyone else too.”

“You’re—” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re enjoying this.”

You let out a laugh, “I enjoy seeing you squirm, Reid. But mostly, I enjoy not getting killed on assignment because my partner can’t even fake attraction.”

That does it. His jaw tightens, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. “Fine,” he murmurs.

Before you can respond, Spencer’s hand snakes out, gripping your wrist and tugging you flush against him. “Let’s practice then,” he says, low and deliberate. “So you can stop doubting I can do my job.”

It’s uncharacteristic—he’s never been this bold. You force a laugh to cover the way your pulse leaps. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

“Adaptability is a survival trait,” he murmurs, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes.

“Mm. And this is just… acting?” you ask, almost daring him.

“Acting,” he echoes, voice husky.

You could pull away now. You should pull away. But instead, you tip your chin up, lips brushing his. “Show me, genius.”

He kisses you, it’s not awkward or hesitant like you expected. It’s deep, uncalculated—like he’s been thinking about this for far too long. His fingers flex against your spine, tugging you closer, and you let out an embarrassing little noise against his mouth.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. You blink up at him, dazed, still tasting the mint on his tongue, still feeling the phantom press of his hands on your hips. Spencer doesn’t move, his chest rising and falling fast. For once, his face gives nothing away—not a single nervous tic, no awkward deflection.

“Well?” he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking between yours.

Your heart skips a beat. “Well,” you repeat, forcing levity into your tone even as your knees threaten to buckle, “I’ve had worse first kisses.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re… manipulative,” you shoot back, stepping out of his hold with a smirk that feels brittle at the edges. “Kissing like that? People might think you actually want me.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Maybe that’s the point.”

You freeze, but before you can respond, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He turns away sharply, shoulders stiff, and snatches it up.

“Reid,” he says, all clipped professionalism now.

You sink onto the bed, still trying to calm your racing pulse.

The next morning, You wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Spencer typing furiously on his laptop. He’s already dressed—suit jacket off, tie perfectly knotted. You’re still wrapped in a hotel robe, hair a mess from tossing and turning all night.

“Morning,” you mumble, padding toward the minibar.

“Morning,” he echoes, not looking up.

You raise an eyebrow at his focused expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up all night.”

“Of course not,” he says too quickly.

“You’re lying.”

He finally glances at you over the top of his screen. “I was… preparing. Keene has an extensive network. His company just announced a partnership with a private security firm—one that’s been implicated in trafficking cases before.”

“Which means he’s more dangerous than we thought,” you finish for him.

“Exactly.”

You sip your coffee, studying him over the rim of the cup. He’s back to being Dr. Reid now—precise, calculated, a fortress of logic. But you remember how his hands felt on your skin last night. You remember the look in his eyes right before he kissed you.

“So about last night,” you start.

“It was professional,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Necessary for the cover.”

You raise a brow. “Sure. Totally professional to kiss me like I was the last glass of water in a desert.”

His ears flush red. “I didn’t—”

“Relax, genius.” You smirk. “I’m not about to catch feelings or anything. Just… don’t make it weird tonight when we’re back in character.”

He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t make things weird.”

“Spencer, existing is weird for you.”

That earns you a sharp look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching.

The yacht’s upper deck is shimmering with golden lights, violins humming in the background as champagne flutes clink. Spencer offers you his arm as you approach the gangway.

“Ready?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

You glance up at him, catching a flicker of something intense in his gaze. “Are you?”

“Always,” he says, but there’s the slightest tremor in his voice.

As you step onto the deck, Keene’s eyes light up.

“Ah, my favorite couple!” he says loudly, striding over.

Spencer’s hand tightens on your waist instinctively, and you lean into him with a sweet, practiced smile. “I was just telling Dr. Reid,” you say airily, “that you’re the most gracious host.”

Keene smirks, gaze flicking between the two of you. “Oh? And what was his response?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you in, pressing a slow, possessive kiss to your temple. “That you’d better keep your hands to yourself,” he says coolly, and Keene laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“I mean you’re a vision,” Keene purrs, eyes sweeping over your dress like he’s cataloging every inch. “How do you manage to stand out in a room full of models and billionaires?”

“Practice,” you say sweetly, keeping your voice light even as you feel Spencer go rigid beside you.

Keene chuckles and turns his attention to him. “Dr. Reid. You’re lucky to have her.”

Spencer’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m aware.”

Keene’s hand slides from your back to your arm, his fingers brushing your bare skin under the pretense of guiding you toward the bar. “Why don’t you let me steal her for just a minute? I’ve got a vintage scotch I think she’ll love.”

Before Spencer can respond, you slip your arm from his grip with practiced ease and let Keene lead you away. You can feel the weight of Reid’s stare burning into your back.

At the bar, Keene orders two drinks, his hand grazing yours again as he passes you a crystal glass. “So tell me,” he says, his voice low, “what does a brilliant, beautiful woman like you see in someone like Reid? He seems… tightly wound.”

You laugh, the sound a little too sharp. “Maybe I like that. Besides, he’s smarter than anyone in this room.”

Keene’s smirk is predatory. “Smart doesn’t always mean satisfying.”

You barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. Across the deck, Spencer’s fingers are white-knuckling the stem of his wine glass. You can see him tracking every movement Keene makes, every time his hand brushes too close to your hip or shoulder.

When Keene insists on giving you a tour of the yacht, Spencer takes one step forward before stopping himself, his lips pressed into a thin line.

You let Keene guide you down a gleaming corridor lined with polished wood and gold fixtures, his voice a low murmur as he points out rooms and artwork you couldn’t care less about. You make sure to lean back against a doorframe at one point, laughing a little too loudly, knowing full well Spencer can see you through the open archway across the deck.

When you return to the main lounge, Spencer’s nowhere in sight.

“Excuse me a moment,” you say, setting down your glass with a saccharine smile. “Powder room.”

Keene’s eyes rake over you one last time. “Don’t be long.”

You slip away, catching sight of Spencer’s familiar figure vanishing down a side corridor. He’s walking fast, his shoulders tight, hands clenched at his sides.

You follow. “Reid!” you hiss, picking up your pace.

He doesn’t stop.

“Spencer.”

You catch up with Spencer halfway down the corridor, your heels clicking against the polished teak floors as you grab his elbow.

“Reid, what the hell?” you hiss.

He jerks his arm out of your grasp—You step in front of him, blocking his path. “Oh, no. You don’t get to storm off like the scorned lover you’re pretending to be.”

“I’m not storming off,” he says tightly. His eyes flick up and down the hallway before settling on you, dark and glinting in the low light. “I’m giving myself thirty seconds to not put Keene in a chokehold in the middle of his own goddamn yacht.”

Your lips twitch. “Oh? I thought you didn’t get jealous.”

His jaw flexes, the muscle feathering under his pale skin. “This isn’t jealousy.”

You fold your arms, leaning against the corridor wall like you have all the time in the world. “Sure. And I only wore this dress because it’s comfortable.”

Spencer’s eyes flicker to the dress in question. He swallows hard, as if realizing too late that looking was a mistake. “This is about the case,” he insists, his voice low and tight.

“Mm.” You glance toward the party down the hall. “So when Keene’s hand was on my lower back for—” you check your nonexistent watch, “five entire minutes, that was fine?”

His jaw clenches. “It’s not fine. But I can’t jeopardize the operation because my partner doesn’t understand how dangerous he is.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Your lips curve in a slow, dangerous smile.

“Do you enjoy it?” His voice is quiet now. He’s staring down at you, his posture rigid but his expression anything but calm. “Letting him touch you like that? Letting his hands on you?”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sharp edge in his voice. And then—because you can’t help yourself—you grin. “What, like this?” Before he can stop you, you press your palm lightly to his chest, trailing it slowly down over his tie until your fingers ghost over his belt. He tenses, jaw tightening.

“Keene does like to touch,” you murmur. “Maybe I should let him pull me into one of those little side rooms and see how far he’s willing to take it.”

Spencer grabs your wrist before you can move further, his fingers curling tight enough to make you gasp—not from pain, but from how sudden it is.

“You didn’t have to let him touch you.”

You arch a brow, your voice dripping with saccharine venom. “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you prefer I didn’t do my job?”

His nostrils flare. “Your job isn’t to get pawed at by a man who—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking tight.

“Go on,” you murmur, taking a measured step forward until your shoulder almost brushes his chest. “Say it, Reid. Let’s hear what you’re really thinking.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, the sound shaky. “I think,” he says carefully, voice low and tight like it’s been locked behind his teeth for days, “if you let him put his hands on you again, I might kill him.”

“That wouldn’t be very professional,” you say, almost breathless.

His mouth twitches. “Neither is kissing you in a federal briefing room. Or watching your dress ride up every time you sit down. Or pretending not to care when every man in that room wants to fuck you.”

One hand braces against the wall by your head. The other curves around your waist—possessive as fuck. You gasp as his thigh presses between yours, anchoring you against the wall, and he takes the sound like a reward, leaning his head down to meet yours, his soft lips meeting yours.

His mouth trails down your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point before he sucks—hard enough to mark, and God, you want him to. You want everyone at this goddamn party to see the evidence of his need. Of yours.

You drag his tie loose and unbutton his collar, desperate to feel skin under your fingers. “We should be careful,” you mutter against his mouth, though your hands say otherwise—already sliding beneath his dress shirt, across the firm plane of his chest.

He huffs a laugh, hoarse. “You just offered to let a suspect drag you into a closet.”

You grin. “Only because I wanted you to do it first.”

His fingers reach behind you, tugging the zipper of your dress down fast, efficient—of course he’s fast at undressing, everything with Spencer is faster than it should be.

Your dress drops to the floor with a hush of silk.

He stills. You’re standing in nothing but sheer black lace—garters, stockings, and a barely-there bra.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. His hands find your waist, “Still pretending this is about the cover?” you taunt, voice shaking now. He lifts you—your back hits the marble counter of the sink with a sharp gasp.

He drags your panties down and shoves them in his pocket like he wants a souvenir. His hand slides up your thigh, "Already wet?" he breathes. "That didn’t take much."

You whimper. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," he mutters.

You glare. “You’re such an ass.”

“I’m the one with my fingers inside you,” he says mildly, lips brushing your ear. “Might want to watch your tone.”

You tighten around him, deliberately. His breath catches. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” you murmur.

“Oh,” he says softly. “I’m finishing it.”

His fingers curl, finding the spot that makes your hips jerk. You muffle the moan against his shoulder, nails digging into the meat of his bicep.

“Say it,” he whispers, fucking you slowly, rhythm building. “Say you want this.”

“I want this,” you choke out. “Fuck, Spencer, I—”

He’s stripping you before you can form another insult. Pulls his belt off with one hand. Unbuttons his shirt with the other.

His mouth is still on yours when he lifts you again—this time with less restraint. You’re half-naked and gasping as he spins you toward the counter, bending you forward over the smooth marble. The coolness of it shocks your bare thighs and jolts a whimper out of your throat.

Behind you, Spencer makes a low sound��nearly a growl. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he mutters, kicking your legs open with his knee. “Shouldn’t tease me if you can’t handle what comes next.”

“Try me,” you hiss, breath fogging the mirror. “Prove it.”

He pushes in with a low groan, one hand bracing at your hip, the other sliding up your spine, flattening you to the counter. You moan—loudly—and he groans again at the sound, like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. He starts to thrust—deep, slow strokes that make your thighs tremble, the angle hitting something inside you that feels almost criminal.

“You like being watched?” he growls in your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse spike. “You like him looking at you like that, thinking he has a chance?”

You moan, nails raking down his chest. “I like that it pissed you off.” You try to shoot back another retort, but he pulls out almost entirely and slams back in before you can speak. The breath stutters from your lungs as your fingers claw at the edge of the counter.

He wraps your hair around his fist, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat. His teeth scrape your shoulder. His hips piston into you, hard and deep, hitting that perfect spot with cruel accuracy. You’re unraveling already, legs trembling, vision blurring.

He groans, thrusts erratic now, chasing release like he’s chasing air. You shatter again around him, and he follows you over the edge with a gasp and a quiet, broken moan of your name.

Silence crashes over you both, thick and stunned. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You're still trembling. Eventually, he eases out, helps adjust your dress, fingers gentle now. His voice is quiet. “We’re still undercover,” he says, trying to be clinical. Trying to compartmentalize.

He straightens your dress for you, palms lingering a second too long on your hips. He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“We’re still undercover,” he repeats, voice lower this time, like maybe if he says it softer, it won’t feel like such a lie.

You laugh once, breathless. “Yeah. Sure. Just practicing, right?”

Spencer finally looks at you—really looks at you—and you know he sees it. The way your pupils are still blown wide. The bite mark he left blooming just above your collarbone. Your lipstick smudged from the heat of his mouth.

“Right,” he says. But his throat bobs.

You tug your panties out of his pocket with a glare, slipping them back on slowly just to be a menace. “So that’s how you practice?” you murmur. “If that’s what you’re like when you don’t mean it…”

He steps back, like putting space between you will somehow help his brain reboot. “This doesn’t leave the assignment,” he says. “It can’t.”

Your chest tightens. “So what, we just go back to pretending?”

His jaw ticks. “It’s what we’re here to do.”

You turn toward the mirror and fix your hair, swipe your thumb under your lip to erase the smudge. You’re still flushed. “You’re a good liar, Dr. Reid but not that good”

He flinches like you slapped him, but you don’t give him time to respond. You open the bathroom door and step out into the golden noise of the yacht’s main deck, head high, voice sweet.

“Sorry about that,” you purr to Keene, who’s still near the bar, holding two drinks.

Spencer trails behind you, silent and burning, hand resting carefully—almost possessively—on the small of your back.

“Everything alright?” Keene asks, eyes narrowing between the two of you.

You smile. “Just needed a reminder of who I’m going home with tonight.”

a/n: slut me out

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blaysreid · 4 days ago

Text

STRAWBERRY PICNIC - S.R

pairing = touchy!bf!spencer + gf!reader

summary = A sunny picnic turns into soft kisses, tangled limbs, and quiet laughter under the trees. Later, it’s warm sheets and wandering hands, breathless moments and one too many philosophical tangents. Spencer’s mind races, yours melts, and somehow it’s perfect anyway.

content warning = MAKING OUTTTT, lots of touches all in bed. No actual smut!! They're very close and cute.

A/N = My account is legit flopping please interact and check out my other posts.. 🙏

The blanket is too big for just two people, but Spencer insists on unfolding the whole thing anyway.

“It’s better this way,” he mumbles as he smooths the corners down against the grass. “That way, if we roll around or if the wind picks up nothing gets dirty.”

You laugh softly, sitting cross legged near the middle while he fusses over the edges. His hair is curling at the ends from the summer air. Warmth clings to his cheeks in a pinkish hue, the same one that always shows up when he’s proud of something or nervous about being close to you.

The park is quiet, just after noon. A few families in the distance. A dog barking happily near the trees. But here, under the shade of a tree Spencer claimed was “statistically the safest place to avoid sunstroke,” it feels like you’re in your own little world.

He finally sits beside you, close but not quite touching, until you lean your shoulder against his.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once.

Then, after a pause, his voice softens. “I just… really like this. Being here with you.”

Your chest warms. You glance at the basket between you, filled with things he packed, half of which are way too specific to ever come from a regular grocery run.

You pull out a small container of strawberries. They’re perfectly red and neatly sliced.

“You cut these?”

Spencer shrugs, but his lips curve up.

“I read they taste sweeter if you chill them and slice them in halves before serving. Something about the surface area and sugar exposure. I” He catches your expression and stops himself, cheeks flushing again. “Sorry. That wasn’t very romantic.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“It was,” you say.

A beat of silence. Then another.

He lets out a breath. Relaxing into you.

You feel the weight of his hand settle gently over yours where it rests on your knee. His fingers play lightly with your skin, tracing tiny, absentminded patterns. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing words.

A breeze moves through the branches above, ruffling his hair. You reach up to brush it from his eyes. He closes them for a moment under your touch, like it’s something holy.

Then his voice, soft like the July wind.

“I used to think quiet meant lonely.”

You glance up at him. He’s still looking down at your hand.

“But now…” he trails off.

“Now?” you whisper.

He finally lifts his eyes to yours. There’s something shy in his gaze. Something reverent.

“Now I think it can mean safe.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

He leans into it like he’s trying to remember how it feels forever.

Later, after the strawberries are gone and the air grows a little heavier with heat, Spencer shifts behind you and fluffs the pillow he brought from home. You didn’t even realize he’d packed it, but of course he did. Of course he thought ahead.

You tilt your head with a smile. “You planned this like a stakeout.”

He gives you that small, crooked grin, the one that melts just beneath his eyes.

“Technically, I planned it like a field operation. Optimal shade, low noise exposure, ideal visibility, a soft perimeter for comfort.”

You crawl back toward him and sink down between his legs, letting your back rest against his chest. His arms come around you right away, warm and secure. He exhales like you just completed something.

“A soft perimeter?” you echo, eyebrows raised. “Are you talking about the blanket?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. “And also your body. You’re very soft.”

You snort. “Did you just call me a human perimeter?”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, smug now. “An exceptionally cuddly one. Top-tier defense system.”

You reach back and swat lightly at his thigh. “You’re such a nerd.”

He leans in and kisses your cheek. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in my lap. Voluntarily.”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mmm. Classic deflection. Also, by the way, I packed three flavors of jam. I don’t know if you noticed. But that’s love.”

You blink. “Did you just equate emotional commitment with a jam variety?”

“I’m not saying all love can be measured by jam,” he says, pausing for effect. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

You tilt your head back against him and laugh, full and real. His arms squeeze a little tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you say, still smiling.

He grins into your hair. “You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You love me,” he sings, the words muffled against your shoulder.

“Tragically.”

“Say it.”

“Nope.”

He drops his head with a dramatic sigh. “I bring you shade, strawberries, structural support, and jam. And still. No verbal validation.”

You twist around a little in his arms until you can meet his eyes. They’re soft and golden and way too proud of themselves.

You kiss him. Light at first. Then slower.

When you pull away, he’s flushed and smiling.

“That was validation,” you murmur.

He kisses you again. Just because he can. Then he tucks his chin over your shoulder and speaks into your ear.

“You’re my favorite human perimeter.”

You groan. “Stop. I’m never letting you plan another date again.”

“Yes you are.”

You sigh. “Yeah. I am."

You lean into his face pressing another kiss on his cheek before closing your eyes and letting the sun wash over you both.

After a while when the heat isn't as strong, the wind gets stronger, you both know you slowly have to make your way back home.

But for now you’re still nestled between Spencer’s legs, your back to his chest and his arms looped lazily around your waist. The sun’s shifted now, light dappling through the branches above. There’s a half-empty bottle of lemonade rolling around somewhere to the side, but neither of you moves.

You’re too deep in it now.

Not the cuddling. The conversation.

“I just think Kant had this way of moralizing action that kind of overlooks how… fundamentally irrational people are,” you say, twisting the edge of the blanket between your fingers. “Like, duty and obligation? Sure. But people don’t really behave based on abstract reason. Not consistently. Not unless there’s something primal anchoring them to it.”

You pause, turning your head slightly like you’re waiting for a challenge.

Silence.

No rebuttal.

You glance up at him.

Spencer is just staring at you.

Eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. Like he’s witnessing a solar eclipse.

“What..?” you ask, squinting. “What is that face.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. His voice comes out quiet.

“You’re talking about Kant. While sitting in my lap. In a park. Eating strawberries. And you’re actually criticizing him correctly. With nuance. And passion.”

You blink.

“Okay, but you taught me half of this stuff.”

“Still,” he breathes, brushing his fingers slowly along your arm like he’s grounding himself. “Hearing you say it. Like that. I think my entire central nervous system just short-circuited.”

You grin.

He doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes still fixed on you. “This is very attractive behavior.”

You laugh. “Did you just say my philosophical rant turns you on?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. It genuinely does. Please continue. Possibly slower. Possibly with a bibliography.”

You roll your eyes and reach back to flick his leg, but he catches your hand and kisses the knuckle.

“I mean it,” he says more softly, voice lower now. “You know how rare this is? To feel understood like this? You didn’t just read what I gave you. You… you felt it.”

You rest your head back on his shoulder again. His lips press into your hairline.

“You are unbelievably cheesy,” you murmur, grinning.

“And you are unbelievably hot when you quote Kant in a tank top.”

You gasp. “You can’t say that! That’s not even a sexy philosopher!”

“It is now.”

You both break into laughter, tangled up in each other, arms wrapped around limbs and sun-warmed skin. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, more like he’s grounding himself than anything else. He’s still smiling when he speaks again, this time quieter.

“You’ve got a little bit of me inside you,” he whispers.

You blink.

“Okay that sounded-”

“Yup,” you cut in.

“Intellectually,” he clarifies, laughing through the embarrassment. “That’s what I meant.”

You laugh too. “Sure, genius. We’ll go with that.”

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist.

And you stay like that. Under the trees. Philosophers and fruit and flawed humanity.

And two people who have never felt more perfectly understood.

—–-

It starts the way all the best things do, slow and unassuming.

You’re lying in bed now, after the park, after the leftover jam sticky fingers and forehead kisses and the slow walk home. The golden hour melted into dusk. The bedroom glows faintly with it. The windows are cracked, the fan hums low, and Spencer is under the sheets with you.

You’re curled into him again. Familiar. Warm.

But it’s different now.

You shift slightly, fitting your leg between his, and you feel it. The tension in his muscles. The sharp inhale. The way his hands, always hesitant, always soft, suddenly press into your back like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You don’t say anything.

You just move again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

That’s all it takes.

His lips are on yours a second later.

It starts soft. Lingering. Like he’s still trying to figure out if he’s dreaming.

But then you open your mouth to him.

And his brain shuts off completely.

He rolls you onto your back gently but firmly, kissing you deeper now, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your waist like he needs to memorize the feel of you. You arch into him without thinking, and he makes a quiet, broken sound in his throat like he can’t quite believe it.

You tangle your hands in his hair, tug just slightly.

He groans.

His mouth drops to your neck, then your collarbone, and you feel him there, flushed and solid above you, and everything starts unraveling fast.

His hand slides up your side, fingers grazing over your ribs. His other hand is tangled in yours. Your legs shift, opening slightly under his. His hips press down, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Spence.” you whisper.

He kisses you again, open mouthed, desperate now, one hand dipping to the waistband of your shorts. His fingertips slide beneath the fabric. He’s just about to-

“Wait,” he breathes.

You freeze. “What?” You're just about to ask if something's wrong. If you touched him in the wrong place or if he wants to go further.

But he doesn't let your thoughts linger any longer with his lips still on your neck when he says it, voice muffled.

“This is exactly what Kant warned about.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

“No.”

He lifts his head, flushed, dazed, breathing hard. “I’m serious. The blurring of rational thought in the face of human desire. He was terrified of this.”

“Spencer." you say, completely deadpan. “You were literally about to take my pants off.”

He looks down at your shorts. Then up at you. Then at your shorts again.

“I still am." he says, leaning down to kiss you again before giving you a cheeky smile and grinning in your face as if he didn't just turn the moment into a philosophical talk.

You pull back a fraction. “Not until you promise to stop quoting dead philosophers while you’re on top of me.”

“But it’s relevant.." he whispers into your ear. “Kant would be losing his mind right now.”

You shove his shoulder and laugh, and he drops his forehead to yours, still grinning, still out of breath.

You cup his face with both hands.

“Tell Kant to wait his turn.”

Spencer kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

“He’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “He deserves it.”

And then you’re kissing again, tangled limbs and warm sheets and laughter between every breath. His hands never stop moving. Neither do yours.

"And I deserve you right now" You softly mumble against his lips.

He smiles at that, soft boba eyes looking down into yours, admiring your face, your eyes. Admiring you.

And just then, somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear Spencer whisper:

“God, you’re such a beautiful moral contradiction.”

And you fall in love with him all over again.

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