deepcreekvultures-writing

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

Spencer Reid's College Timeline

So, I was chilling at my local Library and decided to use my very extensive free time to write out Spencer Reid’s College timeline (or at least how it makes the most sense to me).

There’s probably going to be a lot of inconsistencies and possible contradictions in this, but please give me a little grace. I don’t go to college, and I'm just silly. 

I did try to be as accurate as I could, but there’s only so much I can do with my little brain and 10 mgs of Adderall. 

I also tried to be as realistic as I could, especially with considering how Diana’s condition would affect his education. But, again, it's not going to be perfect. Feel free to share your thoughts.

What we know:

-Spencer Reid graduated from a Las Vegas public high school at the age of 12 (01.18 “Somebody’s Watching”)

-He went to Caltech. I personally like to think that he also went to MIT (Breen Frazier has admitted that Spencer saying he want to MIT in 07.04 “Painless” was a continuity error, but I think it is possible that he went to both, just not at the same time.)

-He has 3 PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering (04.08 “Masterpiece”)

-He had 3 Bachelors degrees in Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy  (04.08 “Masterpiece”)

-Joined the BAU around July of 2004 at the age of 22 (05.16 “Mosley Lane”)

Spencer is talking to Sarah Hillridge and mentions that he’s been with the BAU for “5 years, 7 months, and 19 days...” doing the math puts it around July of 2004.

-Spencer was born in October of 1981

There is some confusion about whether his birthday is October 12th or October 28th. I believe that his birthday is October 28th 1981, Emily Prentiss’s birthday is October 12th 1970 (04.14 “Cold Comfort” & her headstone)- and it is very unlikely that the two of them would share a birthday and it not be mentioned. (It also gives some more insight to why Spencer loves Halloween so much- it’s right after his birthday!)

So, assuming he started kindergarten at 5 years old, Spencer was in grade school from around 1986-1994. It is likely that he could have finished grade school faster, but a lot of the time public school systems want to keep students from jumping too many grades in order to not stunt their social development. 

I am taking the liberty of assuming that Spencer received all 3 PhDs before joining the FBI- so from age 12-22 (Over 30 years of schooling for three PhDs in the span of around 10 years, wowza).

Someone as smart as Spencer would’ve definitely gotten a 36 on the ACTs, so prestigious universities would be banging down his door to get their hands on his geniusness. BUT, Spencer loves his mom, and he wouldn’t want to stray too far from her. He also says he was drawn to Caltech because of certain professors in an article written about him.

We know that Spencer went to Caltech and would bike to classes and such. He was most likely able to stay at the dorms for free and given financial support from his scholarships. It is unclear how Spencer could’ve balanced having his mom in Nevada while he was in California, but there are buses and public transit to and from Las Vegas to Pasadena (ranging from 4-7 hours for a one way ride, so 8-14 hours round trip). William Reid, despite leaving Spencer and Diana, most likely maintained providing money to them due to paternal obligation and guilt.

There are, of course, ways for Spencer to care for his mom even all the way in Pasadena: Neighbors could’ve checked on Diana regularly/daily, Spencer could’ve called daily to remind her to take her medicine, etc.

To make Spencer going to both Caltech and MIT make sense, I figure Spencer would get his PhDs in Mathematics and Chemistry from Caltech then after Diana is institutionalized Spencer enrolls in MIT for engineering. 

The University term dates are loosely based on the academic calendar they provide on their websites.

(Rough) Caltech term dates:

Spring term: April to June

Summer term: June to August

Fall term: September to December

Winter term: January to March

(Rough) MIT term dates:

Spring term: February to May

Summer term:June to August

Fall term: September to December

I know that in the U.S. you don’t have to have a Masters degree to get into the PhD program, but Spencer likes to learn and I figured he might want to get the most out of his time in college- or it might be a little contingency from the University so he’s still pacing himself and they can still see his growth and all that good stuff.

NOW ONTO THE TIMELINE.

At Caltech, Spencer would most likely have more freedom to complete his schooling faster and they would’ve worked with him to create a good plan for him to complete things at his own pace while also following whatever school protocols they have. 

Spencer stays in Pasadena from the Fall term (Begins around mid September), through the winter term, and until the end of the Spring term (Ends around end of June), he goes home to Las Vegas during the summer term and winter/spring breaks.

Beginning of Fall 1994- Starts college @ Caltech studying Mathematics– Age: 12 turning 13

End of Spring 1995- Finishes his Bachelors in Mathematics– Age: 13

Summer 1995- Home

Beginning of Fall 1995- Starts Masters in Mathematics– Age: 13 turning 14

End of Spring 1996- Finishes Masters in Mathematics– Age: 14

Summer 1996- Home

Beginning of Fall 1996- Starts PhD in Mathematics & starts Bachelors in Chemistry– Age:14 turning 15

End of Spring 1997- Finishes Bachelors in Chemistry– Age: 15

Summer 1997- Home

Beginning of Fall 1997- Starts Masters in Chemistry– Age: 15 turning 16

End of Spring 1998- Finishes PhD in Mathematics & finishes Masters in Chemistry– Age: 16

Summer 1998- Home, Diana suffers a bout of bad psychosis and Spencer cannot return full time at Caltech during the Fall term. Due to his mother’s condition, Spencer contacts the school board and they work out a plan where Spencer can work on his Chemistry PhD in Las Vegas with the use of public Library computers and occasional trips to the campus for exams if possible. 

Beginning of Fall 1998- Works on his PhD in Chemistry, living in Las Vegas– Age: 16 turning 17

Spring 1999- Works on his PhD in Chemistry, living in Las Vegas– Age: 17

End of Summer 1999- Finishes PhD in Chemistry, living in Las Vegas– Age: 17

Spencer starts making arrangements to move Diana into a facility when he turns 18. He also applies to MIT to start their engineering program, manages to work out a plan to enroll in their Fall term but only move to a dorm at MIT after he gets his mom institutionalized (around October/November 1999)

Beginning of Fall 1999- Enrolls in MIT’s fall term on scholarship, starts Bachelors in Engineering– Age: 18

End of Spring 2000- Finishes Bachelors in Engineering– Age: 18

Beginning of Summer 2000- Starts Masters in Engineering– Age: 18

End of Fall 2000- Finishes Masters in Engineering– Age: 18 turning 19

Beginning of Spring 2001- Starts PhD in Engineering– Age: 19

Summer 2001- Works on PhD in Engineering– Age: 19

Fall 2001- Works on PhD in Engineering– Age: 19 turning 20

Feeling immense guilt for having his mother institutionalized, Spencer splits his attention between his Engineering studies and studying Schizophrenia independently. At the end of the Fall term at MIT, Spencer starts corresponding with a professor at Harvard University and is invited to help with a study on understanding Schizophrenia and the effects of different medications. He takes off both the Spring and Summer terms of 2002 in order to do said study.

Beginning of Spring 2002- Independent study– Age: 20

End of Summer 2002- Independent study– Age: 20

Beginning of Fall 2002- Resumes working on PhD in Engineering– Age: 20 turning 21

End of Spring 2003- Finishes PhD in Engineering– Age: 21

Beginning of Fall 2003- Starts Bachelors in Psychology at MIT– Age: 21 turning 22

Spencer goes to a seminar hosted by the BAU (Most likely with Gideon and Hotch), he’s very engaged and vocal during the seminar and catches Gideon’s attention.

Spring 2004- Spencer starts at the FBI academy– Age: 22

FBI academy is 4 months.

Summer 2004- Spencer joins the BAU after graduating from the academy– Age: 22

After joining the BAU, Spencer transfers his credit hours from MIT to a University in Washington D.C. to continue going to school part time.

End of Fall 2004- Finishes Bachelors in Psychology– Age: 22 turning 23

Most of Spencer’s attention is on his work in the BAU, so he slows way down on getting his degrees, and gets a degree in sociology both because it interests him and also because it’ll help with work.

Beginning of Spring 2005- Starts Bachelors in Sociology– Age: 23

End of Fall 2005- Finishes Bachelors in Sociology– Age: 23 turning 24

Beginning of Spring 2008- Starts Bachelors in Philosophy– Age: 26

End of Fall 2008- FInishes Bachelors in Philosophy– Age: 26 turning 27

Again: Breen Frazier has said that the line in 07.04 “Painless” about Spencer going to MIT was an error. I actually think it might be another way to show Spencer’s guilt over putting his mom in the psychiatric hospital- being so close without visiting might’ve made him feel even worse so he wanted to run away to a school across the country. 

Also I feel like Spencer having all these degrees shows that he didn’t really know what he was supposed to do with his intellect so he was just doing whatever interested him at the time until he met Gideon.

We are shown two articles (that I can remember) about Spencer college time frame:

There's one from 1997/1998, we are shown an article written about Spencer getting a Bachelor's degree, this would make him ~16. I’m not sure if it lists that it’s his first Bachelor’s degree- but I’m going to say that it’s just about the one he got for Chemistry which was his second Bachelors based on my timeline.

I don’t think it makes sense for Spencer to have done ~3/4 years of college before getting his first bachelors and then the other 6 or so years cramming the rest of his schooling? Eh, I don’t like it.

And there’s one in 04.08 “Memoriam” we are shown an article about Spencer receiving his first PhD at the age of 17. In my timeline he finishes his first PhD at the age of 16- which isn’t too far off so I’m choosing to believe that it’s a typo in the article (I know it’s kinda cheating but whatever).  

I had his PhD programs take around 2 years to complete because research and dissertations take time, no matter how speedy Spencer is.

If Spencer wanted to make any extra cash on the side, he could help with tutoring, work at the campus library, help coach any collegiate sports teams at the college, etc.

A lot of the things I added in this are just things that I thought of and don’t have any sources from the show (ex: Spencer doing school from home to help his mom, and the independent study thing from Spring 2002 to Summer 2002).

Again: a lot of this may be inaccurate, if there is anything you want to add or correct, feel free to do so. I spent only around 5 or so hours on this, it’s not perfect.

I love Spencer Reid. Thank you for coming to my TED talk. 

(if anyone is curious about how I write Spencer, my writing blog is @deepcreekvultures-writing )

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

Main Blog: deepcreekvulture

ao3: deepcreekvulture

I do not take requests.

=======

Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds):

Tequila & Palmistry- Tumblr / ao3 - Spencer Reid x Drunk!Reader, fluff, mild hurt/comfort, 4.7k words

Stellar Collision (18+) - Tumblr / ao3 - Spencer Reid x F!Reader, Fluff, Smut, 8.2k words

Lesley Smith-Juniment (Hot Air 2016):

Hipsophobia (18+) - Tumblr / ao3 - Lesley Smith-Juniment x Reader, Fluff, Smut, 4.9k words

Simon "Ghost" Riley (Call of Duty):

A Heavy Burden to Bear- ao3 - Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader, angst, 6.2k words, unfinished 2/3

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

"Stellar Collision"

Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Word Count: 8.2k

Content Warning: Mild injury, Description of injury, Smut, Fingering (F receiving), Penetrative Sex, Using Astronomy as a Plot Device

A/N: Please ignore any inaccuracies with the scientific stuff and the smut- I'm just silly and Asexual. I picture this as late season 4 Spencer, but you can picture whatever Spencer you want bbg.

Summary: Everyone knows you and Spencer Reid work well together- actually, the entire team thinks you two are the most oblivious profilers to ever work for the FBI, but c'est la vie- they figure you'll crash into each other eventually.

=======

Shaking the hand of the lead detective you introduce yourself before gesturing to Spencer who hovers behind you, “... and this is Agent Weirdly Sticky, a.k.a. Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Spencer’s face scrunches in an odd fusion of disgust, confusion, and amusement. He fights off the laugh that bubbles up and just lifts his hand in an awkward wave. Pressing his lips into a thin line to avoid the smile threatening to break out on his face. JJ elbows you in the ribs, earning a small ‘oomph’ as she pushes you aside. 

It had become routine at this point, calling him weird names to break the tension between the team and locals. Spencer’s hands rest on your shoulders to steady you as JJ takes over the conversation. You chuckle, following an officer into the precinct conference room to get everything set up. Hotch doesn’t say anything about your antics for once, resigning to just accept that there was no stopping you. 

“You really need to stop doing that, they’re going to think you don’t take things seriously.” Spencer mutters to you quietly, his hip lightly bumping into yours as the two of you stick photos onto the provided whiteboard.

“Yeah, maybe, but their face is worth it. It’s like they think federal agents can’t joke, so at first they believe me.” You giggle, sliding your hand around his waist, unceremoniously picking him up and pivoting him around you. You swap places with him quickly to tack a few pieces of evidence to the board.

Spencer lets it happen, not offering any help as you move him. Not that you need it, you were more than strong enough. “But “Agent Weirdly Sticky”? They’re going to think I don’t shower or something.”

You laugh, “At least they won’t try and touch you.” Looking at the board, you tilt your head a little. “The handwriting in each of these is so similar but look-” You point at two series of numbers, “one writes their seven with a dash, and the other doesn’t.”

Spencer leans forward to look at it, his eyes squinting as his mouth drops open in focus. 

“I swear you need to start wearing your glasses again.” You snort, reaching out and placing your fingers under his chin to push his jaw closed. 

He bats your hand away, “Glasses obstruct my peripherals.”

“But you look cute with them.” You argue, sliding to stand behind him, “I miss them.” 

Flattening your hands, you place them on either side of his head, blocking his peripherals. He ignores you, trying to focus on the pages in front of him rather than the warmth radiating off of your palms. Only moving when his phone rings, you drop them on his shoulders, turning him a little so you could grab his phone from his front pocket. 

“Hey Garcia, what’s up?” You greet, “...yeah, it’s me, what do you have for us?”

The investigation continues like that, the two of you revolving around each other, splitting up only when necessary, bouncing profiles off of the other.

Everyone knew you worked well together. Spencer was comfortable around you, not as stiff and one track minded as he would be working alone. He turned to you for most things, and sometimes when working through things in his mind he would just stare at you- Managing to find most of his answers in the curve of your nose and the color of your lips. 

You mellowed out around Spencer, his ramblings filling empty spaces almost like a living white noise machine. It was hard for most people to believe how abrasive and short fused you could be working alone. Irritation ran rampant with local PD getting in the way, suspects being difficult, media running with half baked stories; whenever the tension in your jaw threatened to spring into a full on rage, Spencer was always there.  

“You’re telling me you released the profile to the press even though we specifically told you not to?” Your eyebrows raise, hands pushing your sleeves up to your elbows.

“The public needs to know what they’re dealing with.” The detective crosses his arms over his chest, lifting his chin in challenge.

“Yeah? Well now our Unsub knows exactly what to change to avoid us, this guy is smart and he is watching.” Your voice raises slightly, shoulders squaring as you step chest to chest with the man. “From this point on, you release nothing to the press without approval from our Liaison or SSA Hotchner.” 

The detective snorts, shaking his head, “Oh yeah? And who are you to tell me what to do?”

Spencer instinctively reaches out, hooking his finger around your belt loop. He tugs you backwards, putting space between you and the focal point of your mounting rage. You don’t relax, but you let him pull you back.

“I’m the woman who’s gonna punch a hole through your spinal cord.” Your tone is icy, and he can almost hear your jaw pop from how hard you’re clenching your teeth. Spencer keeps his finger hooked on your belt loop, cringing slightly at the threat. 

It’s not that he disagrees with you, it was out of line for them to release a statement to the public without the team’s permission; and it’s not that he thinks you can’t back up your statement, he is well aware that you can. Spencer just didn’t want you to get suspended for assaulting an officer. Again.

Hotch approaches, stepping between you and the detective, and- to your relief- backs you up.

“If you release anything more to the public you can consider that little boy as good as gone. If you want us to be able to catch the unsub before it’s too late, it’ll do you well to listen to my agents.” His sharp gaze lingers on the man’s face before he turns to you, “Go cool off, and stop threatening people.” 

You nod and turn to leave, missing the small tilt of Hotch’s head, gesturing for Spencer to go with. He obliges, quickly rushing after you. 

Pacing around in the conference room, you keep your arms folded, chewing on the nail of your thumb.

“Sit.” Spencer pulls out one of the chairs, and you follow his instruction. Having gone through this routine again and again, you move a few stacks of papers, opening up a space for him to sit on the table’s glossy surface.

“I was reading up on star systems, and typically stars will orbit around each other in small or large groups- but most are trinary with only three stars…” Spencer hops up onto the table, crossing his legs under himself. He settles into his position, leaning his arms on his legs as he watches your face. 

He can tell by the way your head tilts that you’re listening, unconsciously bringing your ear closer to him. Folding your arms across your chest again, you roll your jaw to relieve the tension from the joint. He pays attention to your demeanor, watching the pressure between your eyes melt away. Crossing your legs, you tilt your hips, turning your body to face him though your gaze stays cast to the floor. Spencer responds by unfolding his legs, stretching them out to rest his feet on the apex of your thigh. 

Hands finding their way to the laces of his converse, you untie and retie them as his melodic droning fills the room. You keep yourself from looking at him, wanting to hold onto your anger for just a little longer. Spencer knows that you would’ve stewed in your fury for hours alone- and it seemed that Hotch knew the same. 

“... but then you have star systems that are just two stars- a binary system. The Sirius star system is the most well known, but Sirius A is a lot bigger than Sirius B. Sirius B is a white dwarf- which has around the same mass as our sun but condensed into a star not much bigger than the earth.”

“Without the extra gravity from another star like in trinary systems… Do binary stars collide a lot?” You ask and Spencer beams, happy that you were finally relaxed enough to fully engage.

“Actually, it’s pretty rare for them to collide. They stay stable for the most part, but when they do collide it’s most likely due to their stability being thrown off by the exchange of mass or gravitational radiation.” Unlacing his left shoe fully, you replace them upside down, tying the bow at the toe of his converse. He expected you to do the same with the other shoe, but you leave it asymmetrical. 

Lifting your gaze from his shoes, your eyes settle on his face. Spencer chews on his bottom lip, looking for any underlying stress in your features. He finds none.

“So, when a stellar collision occurs, the way it reacts depends on what kind of stars were involved in the collision. Like, if it was a set of white dwarfs, the gravitational radiation would cause them to spiral inwards and-”

Spencer is cut off by JJ poking her head in the room, “Hey, the unsub responded to the statement they released.”

You sigh, “Come on, Gorgeous, you can tell me more later.” pushing Spencer’s feet off of you before standing. You lead the way out of the conference room. As he follows, he tries to ignore the way his face warms when you call him gorgeous. He knew it was stupid to focus on your little nicknames- you use them often enough that he should be used to it by now- but his heart flutters all the same.

Spencer stands at your side, his slender fingers finding their way back around your belt loop. He didn’t think you would do anything, but local cops could be unpredictable.

A few feet away, Emily leans over to Morgan, “So how long have they been dating?” She asks.

Morgan looks at her, quirking an eyebrow, “Who?”

“Reid and his attack dog, duh.” She points to the two agents attached at the hip next to JJ. Morgan snorts, covering his mouth with his hand.

“They’re not,” He shrugs, laughing when Emily’s head snaps to look at him, “I know- I know, we like to say they are, they just don’t know it yet.”

Emily looks back at the two of you, noting how you lean back into him. Your head tilts up and you whisper in his ear, motioning to whatever the unsub had sent loosely. “You’re kidding…”

“I wish I was,” Derek shakes his head, moving to place his hands on his hips, “you’re looking at a four year relationship between the two most oblivious profilers in the FBI.”

The entire team has thought the two of you were dating at some point- even Gideon before he left. In the beginning, Hotch came to the conclusion that the two of you lived together and got into the habit of only calling one on the assumption that you would arrive together. And you did. Always.

With the unsubs response, you and Spencer manage to put together a solid lead to who exactly you’re looking for. You hand the letter to Spencer, and break away to call Garcia- still with Spencer’s phone.

Garcia locates the unsub and the team hits the road. After securing your own bulletproof vest, you approach Spencer. Undoing the velcro on the sides of his vest to redo them. The velcro ripping apart is loud, drawing the attention of Rossi. He makes a face, looking over at Hotch and Derek who shrug in response. 

You make sure they’re snug, sliding your hands along the curve of his waist. Moving on to the straps over his shoulders, your face scrunches a little in focus. Your hands are warm, radiating their heat onto the skin of his neck. Spencer watches you, your lips parted slightly, the tip of your tongue fitted between your teeth. You shimmy the vest, eyes roving over his torso to make sure there were no loose points. 

Satisfied, you pat the FBI emblem on his chest, turning away without a word.

As the team approaches the house, you enter ahead of him. Moving methodically through the hallways, indicating clear rooms through your intercom. You enter the garage slowly, Spencer following closely behind you. 

“FBI, drop the gun and show me your hands!” You have your gun on the unsub, expression stone cold. The man huffs, sweat dripping from his nose and he switches between pointing the barrel of his hand gun at you or Spencer. He seems to settle on the latter and you step forward, rushing the unsub who in turn shoots. 

Spencer expects impact, but it doesn’t find him. Instead, coupled with the dull ringing in his ears from the shot, he can hear the crack of the man’s nose as the butt of your pistol slams into it. You gently push the little boy the unsub was holding towards Spencer, who cradles him to his chest. 

“We have the kid- garage.” He can hear you gasp into your intercom, the breath knocked from your lungs at the impact of the bullet. Slamming the unsub into the concrete and cuffing him, you attempt to take in air. The grimace on your face isn’t from rage, he can tell that much, the tension is sat in your throat rather than your jaw.

Once the man is cuffed beneath you, your knee holding his arms in place as he squirms, you huff. Long, drawn out, breaths are pulled into your lungs. Expanding them slowly as you feel the searing, white hot, tendrils of pain erupting from the base of your ribcage.

===  

“I’m fine,” You assure him for the fifth time since the team got back to the precinct. He goes to say something, but you hold up your hand, your finger pushing against his forehead, “Yes. I promise.”

“But-” He grabs your wrist, “but, even if you were shot in the “bulletproof” vest, the vest isn’t actually bulletproof. You could have bruised or cracked ribs, internal bleeding, even organ damage-”

Wiggling your arm out of his grip, you slap a hand over his mouth, “I got checked out by the paramedics, I’m fine.” He grumbles but nods, his eyes soft as he silently pouts. “Perfect, now go pack up your stuff.”

He slinks away, still pouting. Packing up the things in the conference room slowly, his worry plaguing his demeanor. You frown as you watch him. Making Spencer upset was the last thing you wanted to do.

Morgan slides up next to you, “Hey there rockstar, I know you’re just trying to reassure him. How is it really?”

Sighing, you rub a hand over your face, “He shot me at close range, the bullet pierced through and I’ve got the most wicked bruise and it hurts to breathe- but I’m definitely not telling him that.” 

Morgan laughs, his eyebrows raised in concern. “You know he just worries, let him take care of you.” He pats your shoulder in support, stalking away as Spencer comes back, bag slung over his shoulder. 

Landing back in Quantico, Spencer finds his way into your car- something he had taken a liking to. You were a good driver, and Spencer didn’t really like driving all that much. Having to focus on so many things means that he can’t talk as much as he wants to. But he sinks comfortably into the passenger seat of your car. His shoulders drooping as he leans his head back on the head rest. 

He tucks his duffel under his legs, relishing in the leg room your car offered. Since he was the only one who really rode with you he had the seat set how he liked.

“Are you gonna finish your rant about stellar collisions?” You ask, your voice soft as it carries over the sound of the car’s A/C. He turns his head, eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. You laugh, “You were explaining what would happen if two white dwarfs crashed into each other. Are you sure about that eidetic memory thing?” 

He rolls his eyes at your teasing, but he straightens up in his seat, taking a second to remember where he left off. 

“So, the two white dwarves would emit gravitational radiation, or waves, which would cause their orbit to become unstable- which would in turn cause the stars to spiral into each other,” He uses his hands as a model, “and once they collide, the force causes carbon fusion to ignite. White dwarfs are basically dead stars that no longer support fusions, but the fusion is re-ignited by the merge.”

You nod along, turning into the parking lot of your apartment building. Spencer is confused, usually you would drop him off first, but he decides to keep his question to himself, “And since the dwarfs are made up of that degenerate matter, the equilibrium needed to keep the merge stable is pretty much non-existent. So the thermal pressure combined with the unstable weight of them crashing into each other causes a full blown supernova.”

“Supernova, huh? That’s pretty cool.” You grin, putting the car in park. You turn your head to look at him, and he stays silent. A soft smile rests on his face, and he takes the time to memorize the way the warm lighting of the street lamp shines on your soft features.

You turn off the car, pocketing your keys as you open the car door, “I need your help with something really quick, then I’ll drop you off at home, okay?”

“Yeah, no, of course.” He gets out of the car, mindlessly grabbing his bag as he rushes to catch up with you. Unlocking your ground floor apartment, Spencer shuffles in after you. He kicks off his shoes, nudging them into a neat position with his foot before placing his bag next to them.

You shrug off your jacket, hissing lightly as you slowly stretch your arms over your head. Motioning with a small tilt of your head, you lead him further into your apartment, flicking on a few lights as you do. 

After all these years of knowing you, Spencer hadn’t been to your apartment much. He liked how homey it felt, dark wood furniture scattered around neatly, warm lighting, and a little clutter here and there. It was very you.

Opening the door to your bedroom, you usher him inside. Your hand was on his lower back to guide him, “Chill out, Pancake, I just need you to help me change my bandage.” You chuckle, pushing him a little firmer as he hesitates. You separate from him to grab the first aid kit from your bathroom, setting it down on the mattress when you return.

“I thought you said you were fine?” He asks, tilting his head and furrowing his eyebrows a little.

“I am, but I might’ve just told you that because I didn’t want you worrying.” Your confession frustrates him and he crosses his arms, “Don’t look at me like that you Grackle, just help me out, please?”

Spencer nods, dropping his hands at his sides, stuffing them into his pockets. He watches as you shuffle through the contents of your first aid kit. His hand mindlessly lifts to scratch at the inner part of his right elbow. Without looking away from your task, you reach one of your hands behind you. Gently hooking your fingers around his, you push his hand away.

“Okay, so, it definitely looks worse than it is.” You warn, turning to him. Before he can ask what you mean, you start unbuttoning your shirt. His head snaps to look away, the tense joint in his neck cracking at the force. 

His cheeks warm, his hands coming up to fiddle with his tie. Keeping his eyes averted, he wills himself to stop thinking all together. All trains of thought chug their way back to you, your face, your lips, your bare torso- he has to stop thinking. Blank. Blankness.

“Uh, if you’re gonna help me I kinda need you to look,” You chuckle awkwardly. He slowly turns his head, feeling like his head is sitting atop a stack of rusty gears. To both his relief and utter disappointment, you were wearing a tanktop. He doesn’t have time to decide if he should choose between the two, you shrug off the button up before quickly pulling the tank top over your head.

Spencer was afraid he wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from your chest, clad in a black bra, but his eyes were immediately drawn lower. At the base of your ribcage sits a large mass of purple and red splotchy skin spreading out from underneath a bloodied bandage. His mouth falls open when he sees it, his eyes flicking between your face and the bruising over and over. 

“Like I said,” you raise your hands, “It looks worse than it is. The bullet pierced through the vest a little and it hit skin.”

“What? Do you have any broken ribs, any organ damage, what if you’re bleeding internally?” He rushes, his hand cupping the curve of your ribs. His thumb grazes over the edge of the bandage.

Tensing at his touch, you respond swiftly, “I have a broken rib, a few fractures and a ton of bruising. The ribs took the brunt of the force, no organ damage.”

“That you know of-” 

You shush him, placing your hand over his. His fingers were warm against your bare skin. Making no move to remove his hand fully, you gently slide his hand lower to rest in the dip of your waist. He lets out a shuddering breath, briefly distracted by the softness of your side. 

Peeling back the bandage, you wince, swallowing the hiss bubbling at the back of your throat. The center of the impact was so red it looked black, the dark purple skin surrounding it giving the illusion of a black hole. Reminding himself of what exactly he was here for, Spencer sits on your bed, guiding you by your waist to stand between his legs.

He gets to work, gingerly removing his hand from your side to grab the contents of your kit. Working silently, he focuses on being as gentle as possible while also assessing the damage. His eyes squint softly, his jaw hanging open as he disinfects it. You watch him, your head tilted downwards, noting every small mole or freckle you can as you try to ignore the burning ache in your abdomen- both physically and metaphorically. 

Having him this close was supposed to be the norm, right? The two of you had been closer than anyone on the team for almost 5 years. But your heart pools into your stomach, settling itself in your wound. Just for the chance to be cared for by his hands. 

Spencer’s hands, warm and lightly calloused, slide along your ribs as softly as he can manage. His long, slender fingers, guiding a new bandage into place.

You had never considered that Dr. Spencer Reid would ever return your simmering feelings. Sure, he went along with your teasing, let you manhandle him, calmed you down, turned to you for everything, cried on your shoulder, comforted you. But that was just him, right? He was like that with everyone… Right?

No. Spencer was sweet, yes, but you knew. He was different around you, more open, more playful. Everyone on the team knows how you revolve, bound to each other via some inexplicable force. He knows how you like your tea, he knows what snacks you like, he knows the ins and outs of your past relationships. But he knows everything, from the probability of finding a four-leaf clover, to quantum physics. You weren’t special.

But once he’s done securing the bandage just beneath your sternum, he looks up at you. His eyes rounded and shining, their honey-like color looking richer than ever. 

And you feel like the only woman in the universe. 

It’s hard not to feel like you’re completely under his spell when the warm hazel color of his eyes bore into your own. The patterning on his irises were just as enchanting, throwing you into the labyrinth that has held your heart at its center for the past 4 years. 

“How often do you need to change it?” He whispers, suddenly finding himself closer to you, his warm breath wafting over the center of your chest. 

“Just once a day after this.” Is your breathy response. Your hands lift, gently pushing the front pieces of his hair behind his ears, “Your hair is getting long.”

“Should I cut it?” He asks, gaze unwavering. You shake your head no, brushing your fingers through his soft brown waves. The touch is attentive and gentle. The air grows thick with every passing moment, bathing every touch in an intimate nature. 

Spencer’s hands linger at your sides, fingers ghosting along your waist. He looks up at you, his eyes somehow softening further. You almost melt on the spot, your hands finding their place at the nape of his neck. Mindlessly, you press the pads of your thumbs into the space just below his skull. The pressure alleviates some of the tension in his neck, his eyes fluttering closed as you begin to move them in a circular motion.

“You really worry too much…” You murmur, face flushing as you watch his expression melt into contentment. 

“Hard not to when you’re rushing at a sociopath with a gun…” He mumbles in response, looking at you through his eyelashes. “Especially when this bullet was meant for me.” His thumb slides over the bandage, his bottom lip jutting out a little as his eyes round at the edges. 

That damn puppy dog look. You hated it. He used it in any situation where he wasn’t getting his way. He knew it worked on you, probably thinking that you just thought he was too cute to resist. Not quite, as much as you did think it was cute- it was just such a turn-on.

Scoffing, you push away the mounting arousal pooling in your stomach, “Neither of us died, so I call it a win…” his gaze doesn’t waver, clearly seeking to break you, “Stop looking at me like that.” You grumble, placing a hand over his eyes. 

Spencer laughs, reaching up to pull your hand away. His fingers curl around you, sliding against the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. “Like what?”

Rolling your eyes you sigh, “Come on, Handsome, don’t be coy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

His fingers slide up your wrist, spreading out to flatten your palm. Spencer’s hands are large, enveloping yours easily as he intertwined his fingers with your own. You had spent the last 4 years perfecting the art of hiding the way you feel about Spencer. But it was impossible to hide what he was doing to you here and now.

After years in steady orbit of each other, you were finally spiraling inwards.

He keeps his right hand intertwined with yours, his other hand sliding up your torso slowly. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, watching the miniscule changes in your flushed expression. His fingers slide along the band of your bra. The texture of the lace rubs along the pads on his fingertips. He guides his hand up, breathing shakily as it ghosts over the apex of your chest. You bristle at the contact, your hand gripping his tightly in an attempt to keep your composure. 

The only thing breaking up the silence permeating the room is the uneven breathing shared between you. Spencer takes his time, tracing the outline of your collarbone. He follows the line of it, dipping his index and middle finger into the center crevice of your clavicle. Dragging his fingers up the center of your throat, his short, dull nails lightly scratching the sensitive skin. You let out a strained hum, his fingers feeling the vibration of your vocal chords. His inner thighs press against the outside of your own, reminding you of how exactly you ended up here.

Following the line of your jaw, his knuckles gently tilt your head down. He keeps his eyes locked on you, still giving you that dreaded doe eyed stare. Once his hand reaches your face, he tears his gaze from your eyes, following his fingers as he caresses the soft skin of your cheek.

Turning his hand, Spencer lets his slender fingers flatten against your jaw. His thumb runs along your bottom lip, tracing the warm skin and gently pressing into it. Watching as the color of your lips changes with the light pressure, he finally speaks.

“The reason your heart races, or you feel nervous when you’re in love… is because of the sudden release of hormones. Dopamine, Cortisol, and Norepinephrine spike, but the mood stabilizer, Serotonin, drops.” His thumb gently tugs on your bottom lip.

“Do I make you nervous, Dr. Reid?” You whisper, your lips gently pressing into the pad of his thumb. Reaching up your free hand, you gently slide it under the front of his cardigan. Pressing it into his chest you could feel his heart hammering behind his ribcage.

Spencer nods, his bottom lip fitting between his teeth as he looks up at you. His face is flushed, the heights of his cheekbones radiating heat from the blood pooling beneath his skin. Adjusting in his seat, he pulls his legs towards himself, fitting one of his knees between your legs to spread them apart.

You look at him in surprise, but he dips his gaze to watch what he was doing. He puts his knees together, placing them between your own. Spreading his legs, he hooks them around your calves, forcing you forward. Yelping, you try your hardest not to collapse into him. You manage to get one of your knees onto the mattress before he fully knocks you over. Ignoring the way his gaze lingers on your flushed face, you settle into his lap, knees on either side of his hips.

Spencer could feel the strap of your thigh holster pressing into his leg. He unclasps his hand from yours, sliding it up your knee. He finds the buckles on the two straps digging into the flesh of your thigh. Maintaining eye contact while he unclasps them, you lift yourself off of him so he can take it off easier. He discards it onto the other side of the bed before letting his hand fall back to rest on your thigh. Spencer was constantly searching your face for approval, touching you slow and simple- He always made it a priority to make you comfortable. Mirroring his other hand, the one holding your face slides down the side of your torso to cup your thigh.The pressure of his touch increases, kneading your muscles through your jeans.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, gripping them lightly as he touches you. Growing restless, you reach down to unbutton his cardigan, sliding it off of his shoulders. He assists in taking it off, throwing it haphazardly across the room. His hands return to their places, but he tilts his head a little, his lips parting as his eyes slide across your face. 

Rocking your hips forward pulls a soft moan from his lips, his fingers curling into your thighs. “I- I don’t… think we should do this…” He gasps, contradicting himself as his hands slide up to your hips, pulling you against him again. 

“We don’t have to…” You gasp in response, the stimulation only slightly dulled by the thick material of your jeans. 

“I want to- but, you’re injured.” He mumbles, leaning forward to press his lips against your collarbone.

You shake your head, sighing at the feeling of his warm lips, “You won’t hurt me.” Loosening his tie, you pull it over his head and toss it to the side.

“I could- not on purpose, but strenuous activity should be avoided during recovery.” Spencer argues, his voice weakened by the way your hips slide into his. His breath falls from his lips heavily, fanning your face as you lean in close.

Laughing, you turn your head to press a kiss to his temple, “It doesn’t feel like you want to stop.” You could feel him underneath you, already straining against his slacks. He swallows, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. The hands on your hips tighten their grip, digging into your flesh. He keeps his eyes on you, leaning forward to press a small kiss to your sternum.

Spencer’s hands knew exactly what to do. Sliding over the apex of your hips, his thumbs pressing firmly into your soft skin. Traveling slowly up, the weight of his palms kneading your sides as the tips of his fingers find the band of your bra. The pressure of his touch lightens as he lifts his palms off of you. His fingers curl slightly, leaving just a few fingertips touching the lacy fabric. 

Reading you like a book, his hands circle around to your back. Finding the clasp, he makes quick work of undoing your bra. He makes no move to fully remove the garment, just flattening his hands against your exposed back. His fingers press into your spine, running along the outsides of it.

You slide the bra off, throwing it over your shoulder to join your shirt and his cardigan on the floor. His eyes leave yours, trailing along your skin, uninterrupted by fabric. One hand stays on your back, the other sliding around your side. The pressure of his touch lightens as he reaches your front, very careful to not disturb your injured ribs. 

His hand flattened on your torso scoops the underside of your breast, his thumb caressing the soft skin. Watching how your body molds to the shape of his hand, his lips part slightly, almost studying you. 

Spencer presses a few more kisses to your sternum, slowly making his way up to your collarbone. Your hips continue to slide against his, pulling soft breathy moans from the both of you. His noises are muffled by your neck as he presses his lips to the center of your throat. It almost hurts how badly you want him, your desire clouding over any possible pain stemming from your ribs.

Moving as quickly and as gently as possible, Spencer twists his body. He slowly lowers your back to the mattress, settling between your legs as he hovers over you. He continued to grind against you, the feeling of him through four layers of clothing was enough to drive you up the wall. 

It dawned on you then how easy this felt.

Just like everything with him, it all came to you like the most natural thing in the universe. The two of you had spent years memorizing everything about each other. You never thought it would translate so well into this situation. Then again, you never thought it was possible for you to end up in this position with him. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them quickly as his mouth finds your throat again. He takes his time exploring the warm skin of your neck, very gently nipping at your pulse. He takes in every noise he draws from you, filing them away in his mind with every roll of his hips. 

Just as easily as the dusk slides into the quiet of night, you turn to putty in his hands.

Trying to focus on getting his shirt off, you’re distracted by the intense way he kisses your neck. You hadn’t really expected Spencer to be so… possessive with his mouth, but in hindsight it made sense to you. 

He was possessive in other ways, always taking the seat next to you on the jet, calling dibs on partnering with you, not letting anyone else help you if he was nearby, getting pouty when your attention was drawn elsewhere. Listening to his heavy breathing as his warm, open mouthed, kisses press into your throat you’re suddenly aware of every way he’s laid his claim on you to the people around you.

To everyone else, you were his.

His hands hold your chest, squeezing and caressing the soft skin. Spencer’s teeth slowly drag along the side of your neck, biting you very gently, careful not to leave any marks where anyone would see. Your breathing comes out heavy and labored, your face scrunching slightly as you feel the strain of your ribs with each breath.

Spencer’s large palms slide down your torso after one last squeeze, finding the hem of your pants. He quickly gets your belt off, letting it clatter to the floor and unbuttoning your jeans. Pulling away from your neck. his eyes meet yours as he hooks his fingers over the hem of your underwear. He shimmies them down the length of your legs along with your pants, tossing them across the room carelessly. Pupils dilated wide, he drinks in the look of you like a starved man. His hand finds its way to your cheek, his eyebrows furrowing slightly at the pained look on your face. His thumb presses against the space between your brows, smoothing out the tension building there as your chest rises and falls heavily.

“Try to relax your breathing,” He whispers, pressing his lips to your cheek. His hand slips away from your face, the soft noise of his silver belt buckle unfastening filling your ears. Attentive kisses are pressed along the perimeter of your face, urging you to try and calm your racing heart. 

The air around you is cold, a stark contrast to the ever growing heat pooling between your legs. His warm chest presses against yours, one hand curling around your knee, the other sliding along your bare inner thigh. 

A soft moan falls from your lips, “You’re not exactly helping,” You whisper, feeling his lips press against your temple.

“It doesn’t feel like you want to stop,” He replies, throwing your words back at you as his fingers slide against your clit teasingly. You writhe underneath him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Trying your hardest not to move too much as his fingers slowly circle the bundle of nerves. If you move too much and aggravate your ribs, you might have to stop. His slender fingers slide along you, dipping into your entrance briefly before continuing to tease. You whine, lifting your hips to meet his hand as best as you can. 

As much as Spencer wants to keep teasing, his need to please you overwhelms any other desire that may be festering. He pushes his middle finger into you, kissing the corner of your mouth as a guttural moan is pulled from your lips. 

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing soothing circles into it as his finger fucks into you. His face remains pressed into yours, kissing along your cheekbone lovingly. Adding his ring finger, he pushes it into you slowly and allows you to adjust to the difference in size. His long, slender,  fingers slide in and out of you, the ministrations deliberate and slow. 

Despite the slow pace of his hand, the length and size of his fingers provides overwhelming stimulation. You had always loved how large his hands were, spending nights wondering and fantasizing about how they would feel touching you like this. But this was way better than any piss poor scenario you could dream up. 

Your head falls back onto the pillow, mouth hanging open as deep, breathy moans fall from your lips. Hissing a bit, you try to calm your breathing.

“Don’t stop…” You sigh out, knowing he was noticing the way your breathing changes in kind to the pain spreading from your fractured bones. Spencer listens to your request, his fingers curling slightly. The sensation draws out a loud gasp as the tips of his fingers press into you. Your hands move down his neck, sliding along his back. 

Your head swims with intense pleasure, not bothering to care about how badly your ribs hurt with every breath you take. Spencer’s name falls from your mouth like a mantra, eyes closing as you focus on not writhing underneath him. Hands pressing into his shoulder blades you pull him flush against you, feeling his hard length against your inner thigh as he pushes you closer to the edge with his fingers. 

The way he presses into your inner thigh pulls a small noise from the back of his throat. He speeds up the way his fingers fuck into you, rutting against your thigh instinctually to keep the friction going. His thumb presses into your clit, the pressure firmer as he continues to circle around it. The feeling draws out a strained moan from your lips, your hips jerking involuntarily. 

Spencer can feel you starting to fall apart underneath him, his lips pressing firmly into your neck. His soft gasps and moans muffled by your warm skin as he uses your thigh. Tightening around his fingers, your legs shake, and you mumble his name over and over. Biting down on your lip, his free hand slides just under your breast, holding your torso down when he feels your back begin to lift from the bed. Your orgasm crashes over you and the room spins, tremors vibrating through your spine.

You gasp, panting to try and catch your breath. His lips find your face again, smothering your cheeks and nose with affection as you come down from your high slowly. His desperate grinding against your thigh pulls you back to reality and you gently push on his shoulder to get his attention.

“Spencer… I need you…” You whine, your hands cupping his face. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, he nods. There’s a soft twitch to his face when he pulls his hips away from your thigh, his eyes searching yours for final approval. You nod, adoring the amber color at the center of his irises.

Gripping himself in his hand, he takes a second to slide his tip through your folds, pulling a desperate moan from the both of you. The tenderness left from your last orgasm causes you to whine and throw your head back onto the pillow. 

“Wait…” He gasps, looking up at you, “I- do you have a condom?” 

You can’t help but laugh a little, shaking your head, “I’m on birth control, it’s fine… please.” Your fingers curl and play with the long hair at the nape of his neck. 

He hesitates, seemingly working through the probabilities and statistics of not using one, but he nods. Spencer looks back down, lining himself up with you. One hand on your hip, the other wrapped around himself. 

“Tell me to stop if you need to,” He says, voice shaking with his heavy breathing. You nod, eyes locked on his features. The shadows of his face as he hovers over you are dark, seeping into the dips and curves of his brow and cheek bones. He looked ethereal.

When his tip pushes into you slowly, you gasp. His mouth finds yours, kissing you needily as he works his way inside of you. 

Spencer breathes heavily into your mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your outer thighs, “I… I love you.” He declares, his lips moving against yours with fervor.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, his kisses not allowing you to verbally reciprocate. You loved him. There was no doubt about that. But when he’s fully inside of you, filling you completely, there is nothing you can do to stop the way you ignite underneath him.

Moaning into his mouth, your legs shake from your earlier orgasm. He gives you time to slowly adjust, shivers running up and down his spine as your muscles flutter around him. Spencer slows down his kisses, resorting to soft presses as he waits for your signal. 

After a moment you nod, whispering a soft “I love you” and kissing him in return. With your quiet permission, he pulls his hips back. Letting out a strained groan, his lips loosely against yours, he rolls his hips back into you.

The feeling of you wrapped around him completely, your hands in his hair, your mouth against his. There is nothing that can compare to this. Nothing.

Spencer rocks into you slowly, keeping your hips pressed against the mattress. The angle is perfect, and the least likely to aggravate your rib cage. He’s fully in tune with how you feel underneath him, his hands gently sliding over your hips in a soothing motion. Feeling no need to rush, he pulls back from your lips to watch the way he slides in and out of you.

“I… I would beg you to go faster if my ribs didn’t feel like they were on fire.” You hum, your hands brushing over the perimeters of his face. His face scrunches a little and he almost slows to a stop, but you shake your head, “Don’t- don’t stop, please, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” He whispers shakily, one of his hands sliding down to press circles into your overly sensitive clit.

A whine falls from your lips at the feeling, “Yes, yes… I’ve never felt so good…” Your muscles flutter around him, the added sensation pulling your thoughts from the deep ache ringing from your torso. His lips meet yours again, one of his palms cupping the back of your hand. Pressing your hand firmly into his cheek, his mouth moves against yours in slow, loving motions. The amount of tongue he used was a pleasant surprise, his kisses never seeming to still. 

Keeping up his languid pace, Spencer memorizes the way you feel- which isn’t hard with his memory, but he files away every moan, every flutter of your core, every lingering kiss. It was all so perfect. 

The remnants of your first orgasm buzzes in your core, your entire body felt like it was on fire. You could feel yourself reaching the edge, your kisses getting sloppier and his name falling from your lips in quick succession. His hips roll deep into you, making up for the slow pace with the thumb rubbing evenly over your clit. 

His shoulders tense, the kiss between you breaking into just a sequence of heavy breaths against your lips. Hips twitching, the feeling of you around him almost unbearable as the pleasure causes his head to swim. All of the facts and knowledge constantly swimming through his mind fall silent, replaced with your soft whines and the feeling of your soft skin under his palms. 

“Spencer… god, please- come for me…” You murmur against his lips, your hands moving into his hair and sliding down the back of his neck. Your nails lightly scrape along his sensitive skin, coaxing him over the edge. It’s all he can do to keep his slow pace, lifting his face away from yours to look down at you. Your eyes are slightly glassed over, looking up at him with a pleading gaze. The eye-contact is the final push he needed, his fingers circling around your clit quickly. 

You gasp at the change in pace- the feeling of him inside of you, the length of him brushing against your sweet spot, his sweet gaze on your face all cause your muscles to contract as your second orgasm crashes over you. Spencer follows quickly behind you, groaning loudly as his hips stutter and he pushes himself into you as deep as he can. His release coats your insides, the added sensation pushing you even farther. Mouth falling open, his moans spike to a slightly higher pitch as he slowly rides out his own orgasm. 

Heavy gasps fall from your lips as the two of you come down from your high. Spencer’s lips press against yours sloppily, his hands reaching up to hold your face firmly. He pulls out of you slowly, listening to the soft whine that falls from your lips.

Overly sensitive from the two back to back orgasms, your head swims. Spencer attempts to pull away from you more, but your hands loosely capture his wrists and pull him back. Lips meeting again in a lazy fashion, your mind is in a daze, “I love you…” is softly mumbled into his mouth, your hands holding his to your face. 

“I love you too… How do your ribs feel?” He asks, kissing up the bridge of your nose.

You sigh into his affection, your thumbs rubbing the outside of his hands, “I feel great… it’s like a forgotten bruise.” Your lips pull into a sloppy grin.

“That’s because pain can be reduced by orgasms,” Is his response, pulling a soft laugh from you, “Potent analgesics, which are basically pain killers, are released in the endorphins during sex.”

“Maybe we should do this until my ribs are healed,” You hum, pressing a few soft kisses to his cheek.

Spencer laughs a little, shaking his head, “Let me get you cleaned up.”

He attempts to pull away again but you keep his hands held in your grip. You were still exhausted, your hold loose. Spencer could easily wriggle away, but he humors you with a few more kisses.

“Stay… I want you to stay.” You whine, tilting your head and kissing the corners of his mouth. “Please?” 

Spencer nods, moving to settle next to you. Being mindful of your injury, he wraps an arm around your shoulders. Scooting closer and  pressing his chest against your arm, he kisses your temple sweetly. The gravity of your connection holds your cores together in the wake of your collision.

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

I can’t tell you how much I love Hot Air, Lesley is perfect.

Mexican Margaritas (Lesley Fic)

Summary: Where Reader meets sunshine personified in the form of Lesley Smith-Juniment, and they help each other through their break ups. A/N: After watching Hot Air, I’m convinced Lesley deserved to be spoiled and chased after, and he didn’t get that with Summer. So here is my take on the perfect woman for Lesley Smith-Juniment (it’s you!). Couple: Lesley Smith-Juniment/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Alcohol, oral (male receiving), penetrative sex Word Count: 5.6k

MASTERLIST

The appeal of large scale resorts in foreign countries is the comfort of feeling that you aren’t as far from home as you really are. I knew that when I booked it, since they called it the home away from home, emphasizing the bastardization of a culture to fit into American ideals. That should have been enough of a reason to pick some other place to stay, but it still wasn’t the one that I was pondering over a weak margarita in the lobby of a hotel that had way too many fluorescent lights.

Why did I pick somewhere similar to my home when I wanted to get away? That was the thought that consumed me, drowning out the cheesy pickup lines I’d heard from the few men who approached me despite my horrible case of resting bitch face. Still, I continued to scan the crowd for someone who looked as miserable as I did, but in a more compatible way.

After nearly 3 hours, I found what I was looking for. Across the bar I saw a man, his chin resting on a hand propped up on the bar top. He had a far off look in his eyes that I recognized, and I decided that I had to talk to him.

Keep reading

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

"Hipsophobia"

Lesley Smith-Juniment x Gn!Reader

Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Word Count: 4.9k

Content Warning: Fear of heights, mild panic-attack, smut, oral (male receiving)

A/N: Writing smut as an Asexual is hard, sorry if it's not very good.

Summary: Lesley has been begging to take you on a hot-air balloon ride for a little more than 3 years. As much as you hated saying no to him, your fear of heights always stopped you from taking him up on his offer. But luckily for Lesley, you can’t resist when he pouts like that.

=======

You thought Lesley was awfully cute, even from 30 feet away. Lost in his own little world, surrounded by the big open space, bracketed in by large oak trees. You stood, arms crossed, the tall grass tickling your ankles as you watched him set up his prized hot air balloon.

Even from this far away, you could tell that he was humming to himself as he twisted a canister into place. He had been all smiles all day, gushing over how excited he was to test out his new balloon. He holds the opening of the balloon open, igniting the burner and pulling it up as the hot air floods in.

He knew what he was doing, that much was obvious, he had been taking balloons up for longer than you’d known him. Still, watching that huge flame so close to his pretty face twisted your stomach. Plus, he had almost dropped the canister on his foot earlier. 

Luckily he was wearing his construction boots rather than his birkenstocks. As much as you thought Lesley was perfect, you had a few qualms with his fashion sense. 

Unluckily, he was wearing these thick, chunky, brown gloves, covering up his perfect, model-esque hands.

You finally approach, keeping quiet as you do so, hands sliding onto his shoulders, up his neck and over his eyes. He completely freezes, hunching in on himself. Lifting onto your toes to whisper in his ear, you let the tension settle before speaking.

“Hey there, sunshine, what’re you up to?” You greet, whispering softly as you try not to laugh. 

Lesley relaxes, letting out a groan, “Do you have to do that? You scared the shit out of me” He lets a soft laugh follow, turning to face you. You giggle, the way he curses always sounds so awkward. It was cute. Your hands gently slide down to his shoulders as he spins around, settling just below his collarbones. 

“Yes I do have to do that, it’s my job, though I am grossly underpaid.” A smile gathers at the corners of your mouth, reaching your eyes as you gaze up into Lesley’s calm face. 

“Oh, are you?” He chuckles, his face glowing in the soft evening light. Underneath your palms, you could feel the steady thrum of his heart.

“Definitely, oh- and undervalued. I don’t think you appreciate me Mr. Smith- Juniment.” Lifting a hand, you poked into his shoulder accusingly. His toothy grin widens at your teasing, his head tilting slightly to the side and he lets out a long exhale. 

“Do you want to go up with me?” He asks, eyes shining brightly in the light of the sun, his skin glistening around the perimeter of his face. He slips off his gloves, tossing them at the basket behind him. They hit the ground with a soft thud.

Your face scrunches, “In that death machine? No thanks, I’ll pass.” though you can’t stay like that for long as Lesley’s smile falters.

“It’s not a death machine, actually, I’m sure you’d like it if you gave it a shot.” He pouts a little, his face slightly flushed in the early summer heat. You frown, your resolve bending a little as the corners of his eyes soften.

“Les, you know I’m scared of heights.” Your voice is a lot gentler this time around. The fabric of his plaid button up is surprisingly soft under your touch.

He frowns, pressing his lips together slightly in thought. “I’ll be with you”

“Well, then I would be worried about your impending doom on top of mine.” You wiggle your fingers, tapping them against his clavicle with the soft pursing of your lips.

Lesley watches you as you think, your eyes cast down to his boots. His gaze is soft, a small frown playing at his lips. He had been begging you to go on the balloon with him since you started working as his client relations coordinator three years ago. Your fear of heights always pushed you from taking him up in his invitation, though you didn’t have any issue listening to him gush about the rides after the fact. 

You wanted to go, you really did. But being suspended hundreds of feet in the air in nothing more than a wicker basket?

No fucking way. 

“Listen, Lesley, I would love to go but-”

“You’re coming.” He interrupts, lifting his hands and placing them on top of yours, stilling your nervous tapping.

“I’m sorry?” Tilting your head and furrowing your eyebrows, you watch as he flounders a bit, looking around at the scenery before settling his gaze back onto you.

“I- well- well, I think you need to get over it.” Your eyebrows raise at that, eyes widening at his bluntness, “Not that- not that I think that your fear isn’t valid or anything! God no- no, I just think that you might be a little too stuck in your head about this?”

Even when you should be offended he finds himself firmly planted in your good graces. You couldn’t help but soften a little more, your resolve cracking at his caring nature. You had noticed in the past few months that Lesley had been a lot better at advocating for himself. 

And apparently he was pretty good at advocating for you, too.

“I guess so, but I feel like this might be a little overboard for getting over my fear.” You glance over at the death-coated balloon standing tall behind the flushed man in front of you.

“But if you do this, everything else will seem so much smaller.” Lesley’s voice sounded like a chorus of bells, his logic was wishy-washy, but he was just so Lesley. 

So perfect. 

“I’m very glad that you’re not my therapist,” You chuckle, trying to ignore the way his thumbs brush against the sides of your hands. He laughs, eyes closing and all, and you break. Your posture slackening as you melt under the rays of his smile. He looked like the break of sunlight through the clouds of a thunderstorm.

Pouting a bit, you sigh, your head drooping to look at his boots again. He stays silent, letting you mull it over as you count the scuffs on the edge of the tan suede. Your core temperature rises as his body heat flows into you, your hands trapped between his chest and his all-too warm hands.

“Okay, okay, we can go,” 

His face lights up, somehow shining even brighter as the sun starts to cascade towards the horizon in the west. 

“However,” You ball up the front of his shirt in your hands, “If anything goes wrong, you bring us back down immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He nods vigorously, his hair falling into his face sloppily. He pulls away from you, his hands lingering on your wrists before he turns, grabbing his gloves off the ground. 

Lesley slips the thick gloves on, covering up his slender fingers. You almost whimper, frowning deeply at the sight.

He turns on the burner, the flame large and in charge, he waves you over. He had explained how the balloons worked to you before, but this time, he helped you into the wicker basket, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. 

He hops in with you, hauling the sandbags into the basket before turning to you. “Are you ready?”

You press yourself against the wall of the basket, clearing your throat and shaking your head both yes and no at the same time. Lesley laughs, and it soothes you for just long enough that he can crank the burner without much fuss from you. The hot air floats into the balloon and lifts it off of the ground steadily. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, Lesley, no- No, Lesley, I can’t!” You yelp, sliding down the wall of the basket, looking up at him with wide eyes. You press your hands into the basket, clawing at the material. He crouches in front of you in the enclosed space, putting his hands on your arms, gently guiding you to stand. 

His arm slides around your waist, holding you secure against him as your knees wobble. His gloved hand flattening around the curve of your ribs. 

“You’re okay, we’re fine.” He whispers, leaning forward and pressing his cheek against yours to whisper into your ear. His touch is muffled by the thick gloves, but his hand slides against your back in an attempt to sooth you. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” You grumble, your arms tossed around his shoulders. It took everything in your power to not strangle him in your grip. 

As the ground got further away, your face started to tingle, a wash of numbness falling over you. Behind the cage of your ribs, your heart hammers in your chest, heavy breaths falling from your lips as you watch the terrain drift away. 

“Lesley…” Your voice wobbles, the full weight of your body leaning into him. He responds in kind, adjusting himself to try and hold you up. Your hands claw at his back through his shirt, your panting breaths hitting his neck as your head swims. 

You were going to die. The balloon was going to pop and you were going to fall and you were going to die.

And Lesley.

No, no, no, no. Lesley can’t die, he’s perfect, he needs to live a full life and find someone that treats him right, and have a gajillion kids because there is no possible future that he would not be the world's best father. 

You tighten your grip around him, your thoughts going a mile a minute. They were mostly about Lesley: how to keep him safe in the impending crash, his future kids, the perfect world where you both survive and you have his kids, and the balloon being set on fire. 

The balloon is on fire and you’re dying.

The balloon is on fire and Lesley is dying.

Tears well up in your eyes and you choke out a sob. Lesley’s arm tightens around you, his other hand letting go of the trigger on the burner. He uses his teeth to pull off the fabric glove, securing his arm around you before doing the same with his other hand.

“Hey, hey, listen to me, we’re fine, everything is fine.” Lesley whispers, cupping the back of your head and manually turning you to look away from the ground. Holding you in place, Lesley looks you in the eyes, repeating his reassurance.

“Lesley, I’m scared, this is fucking terrifying.” You rush, your voice and octave shy of a shriek. He smiles in response, cupping your cheek with his warm hand, unobstructed by those gloves you were learning to hate.

“I’ve got you, and I’m not leaving, you're fine, we’re perfectly safe.” His soft voice only served to keep the tears flowing. He uses his thumbs to brush them away just for them to be replaced moments later. His sweetness was pushing you over the edge. 

“If you’re lying and you die, I’m going to kill you” You sob, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. Lesley chuckles at your threat, leaning his cheek on your head as he attempts to take one of your arms off of him. It takes a second before he can successfully pry your iron grip off of his shirt. 

Slipping his fingers around your wrist, Lesley guides your hand to rest on his chest, your palm flattening just over his heart. The steady rhythm is soft, only slightly elevated in comparison to your racing heart. 

“Feel that? We aren’t in danger, I’m not scared.” Lesley says, his voice slightly muffled by your hair, “I’ll let you know if you need to be scared,” 

He holds you flush against him, his hand flattened around your waist. He takes slow deep breaths, coaxing you through breathing exercises. Eventually he slides your hand up to his neck, pressing your fingers against his artery instead. You could feel the thrum of his heart with more clarity now, the vein pushing against your fingers with every steady pump of his heart.

Your body slowly relaxed into his, he was incredibly warm, and his steady, rock solid confidence in your safety gave you the comfort you needed to really try and reign yourself in. 

Your heart syncs up with Lesley’s, the rhythm steady and strong. A long silence follows as you focus on the thrumming of his heart against your fingers. Lifting your head, you take in the scenery, there’s a soft tension in your jaw as you peer over the edge of the basket. The ground was far below, the trees just clusters of vibrant green. You could see Austin not too far off, tall buildings breaking up the flat ground below.

His pulse against your fingers keeps you grounded. A soft breeze brushes over your tear stained cheeks, chilling your skin. Clouds blanket the sky, drifting calmly as the sun begins to kiss the horizon.

“I told you you’d like it.” He grins, his eyes locked on your face rather than the picturesque vision around him. 

“Oh shut up…” You grumble, watching a small cluster of birds circle around each other in the distance. Lesley’s smile softens as he takes in your face, flushed from your crying, blanketed in the warm glow of the setting sun. 

Your fingers adjust against his pulse, the touch gentle as you slide them a little further up, resting just beneath the underside of his jaw. He inhales sharply at the feeling.

“Y’know… I could never find the heartbeat in my wrist.” Lesley breaks the silence, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His smile is as bright and toothy as ever.

“Seriously?” You turn to look at him again, your eyebrows furrowing a bit, though the tension melts out of your jaw. 

He nods, letting go of you slowly and showing you his wrists. He attempts to find the vein, fumbling around with his fingers, making you laugh. 

“Here,” You gently slide your hands along his arm, one hand moving to cup the underside of his wrist, “It’s right next to your tendon,” the pads of your fingers slide along the tendon in the center of his wrist, making him jolt slightly as a chill runs up his spine. Settling your fingers next to his tendon, you apply a little pressure, smiling as you find it. He shuffles uncomfortably, pressing his lips together firmly in order to muffle the soft noise that bubbles up at the back of his throat.

Lesley follows your lead, pressing his fingers too far up his wrist. You correct him gently, placing your fingers over his and guiding him back down to the correct spot. 

“Thank you, Lesley.” You whisper, looking up at him. He smiles in response, shaking his head lightly. The sun begins to set further into the horizon, casting a bronze hue over his features.

There was no mistaking how gorgeous Lesley was on any given day, but in light of a sunset he was a whole other form of beautiful. The warm light shines over the apex of his flushed cheekbones, sinking into darkness within the hollows of his cheeks. His lips, soft looking and pink, are illuminated stunningly by the sun’s farewell. 

As you gaze at him, your fingers still pressed against his pulse, you could feel it quicken. Your anxiety rears its head and you look around the balloon, the absence of ground starting to freak you out as you realize how high up you are. 

Lesley, takes your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “We’re fine, what’s wrong?” He pouts, worried that he had done something to upset you. His thumbs slide over your cheekbones, wiping away any spare tears.

“Sorry- Sorry… your heart rate picked up and I was worried that something happened.” You chuckle dryly, taking a few deep breaths. Tilting your head a little into the warmth of his palms

He looks guilty, chewing his bottom lip slightly before speaking “No, sorry, I just- I just realized something is all.” 

Lesley’s eyes are soft and glistening, his cheeks tinted with more than just the sun’s kiss, and his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. Heat pools in your stomach at the sight of him, his messy hair falling over his face wildly.

You lift your hand tentatively, gently pushing his hair back. Attempting to tame the wildness of his hair, your fingers slide against his scalp. In the end, you just push it back, mumbling something about him growing it out.

His hands return to your sides, his touch light as his fingers settle into the curve of your waist. Bringing yourself towards him, the tip of your nose brushes against his lightly. Lesley lets out a shuddering breath at the proximity, his large hands sliding down to envelope the apex of your hips.

Lesley was perfect. In every conceivable way. And god he smelled so good.

He tilts his head a bit, letting his lips ghost over yours. You could feel his breath wafting over yours, shuddering and uneven. Your body gravitates into him, hands sliding along the sides of his face lightly, your nose pressing into his cheek. 

The fact that you were a little more than a thousand feet in the air couldn’t possibly bother you now. Your hands slide down his neck, cradling the base of his skull. In your peripherals the sky behind him is blanketed in a pinky-orange hue, clouds breezing across the scape slowly.

Growing impatient, you finally pull him closer, meeting his lips in a short delicate kiss. It doesn’t last long, and you could feel him chasing the feeling of your lips as you pull away. Lesley pouts a bit, his eyes big and round as they look into yours with a silent plea. You couldn’t help but smile, his warmth lingering on your skin. The heat pooling in your stomach simmers into a white hot desire to kiss him again. It’s almost as if he can read your mind when his arm hooks snugly around the small of your back and he finds your mouth again, capturing it within his. 

Lesley’s lips were every bit as soft and warm as you imagined, fitting against yours perfectly. All the years of longing glances and pent up sexual frustration pours out as you kiss him. His hands press firmly into your back as he pulls a long breath in through his nose. His shoulders droop as he melts into you, your chests pressing together as he holds you as close as humanly possible.

Your perfect, beautiful, gentle Lesley kisses with a surprising amount of force. His mouth moves against yours in an intense rhythm, his tongue teasing at your bottom lip as he envelopes your mouth in his. You sigh into his kiss, and his hands travel up your sides. Bracketing your face in his warm palms. He nudges your jaw open with his thumb, sliding the pad of his finger along the flesh of your bottom lip. 

Your hands find their way down his torso, sliding against his plaid shirt before hitting the hem of his jeans. You hook your fingers around his belt loops, keeping his hips up against you. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, sliding his own against it. He breaks the kiss briefly, huffing out a few breaths against your face before diving back in. You let out a muffled yelp as he crashes back into you, your eyes opening for a moment before fluttering closed once more.

Your fingers trail around his waist band, tugging on the loops a little. Your thumb circles the silver buckle of his belt, sliding down the front seam of his jeans. Lesley chokes out a moan, the force of it breaking the kiss. Rather than let him pull away from you, you trail your lips down his chin. 

Leaving hot open mouth kisses down the center of his throat, your teeth gently graze over his Adam's apple. The tip of your tongue circles it twice before dipping down to the start of his collarbones. 

You trace the outline of him through the fabric of his jeans, circling your index finger around the tip briefly. His jaw falls open at the tease, a shuddering groan falling from his pretty pink lips.

Adjusting, you push your knee between his legs, keeping his hips against you as you take your hands off his waistband. Sliding them up his torso, you unbutton his shirt a little further. You push your leg further between his own, grinding against him. 

“Wait…” He gasps out, contradicting himself and letting his head tilt back for you.

You pause, stilling your lips against the warm skin of his neck, “What’s wrong?” You whisper, pressing a small kiss to his throat.

“Are you- are you sure?” His hips slide against yours, his desperation evident. 

“Very.” You mumble, letting your teeth nip their way across his collarbone. Flattening your tongue, you slide it up the expanse of his throat, pausing as you find his pulse. His heart hammers against your tongue, your teeth nipping lightly at the artery. His hand cradles the back of your head, his slender fingers sliding into your hair.  

You take his skin between your teeth, biting gently into his soft skin with all the care in the world. You suck gently on the bite to soothe the small bruise left in its wake. The vibrations of his moans against your lips fuel the fire and winding you tight. 

Your hands slide down his torso again, leaving his shirt partially unbuttoned. You drag your teeth along his pulse, nudging the collar of his shirt aside as you reach his collarbone. Hands resting on his hips once more, you stop his desperate grinding. 

Lesley huffs out heavy breaths, lacking the stimulation his hips were providing. He goes to speak but is stopped by your hand sliding over his waistband, dipping down to tease him again. You pay special attention to his collarbone, leaving the length of him as an afterthought.

He sighs out your name, sounding a little strained at your touch. You detach from his neck, pressing small kisses to the hickeys darkening his lightly tanned skin. Hooking your fingers into the buckle of his belt, you quickly unfasten it. Lifting your head, you press your cheek into his, feeling the burning shyness simmering under his skin. 

Your lips graze the shell of his ear, “Tell me if you want me to stop.” is all you whisper. You turn slightly, kissing along his jawline in slow drags.

He nods, whispering back an almost inaudible ‘okay’ which is quickly cut off by a sharp inhale as you pop the button of his jeans. Your index finger hooks over his zipper, sliding it down slowly. He squirms a bit against you, the slowness of your movements only proving to frustrate him further. 

His hand grips your hair, tugging your head back to connect your lips to his once again. Mouth slotting against yours, his tongue weaves its way into your mouth, sliding along the expanse of your own. His other hand slides a finger along the line of your jaw, brushing your hair out of your face as he envelopes you in his affection.

You flatten your hand, sliding it into his unfastened jeans. He groans into your mouth, his hips moving up to greet your hand, only separated by the thin fabric of his boxers. You could feel his pulse under your palm as you cup him in your hand, your thumb circling the head lazily. Using your free hand to keep him still, eating up his breathy whines as you tease him. You detach your mouth from his, biting your way down his neck. Taking the time to worship his skin, leaving large dark bruises as your mouth dips down to his exposed chest. 

He huffs out into the open air, moaning loudly as you begin to stroke his length through his boxers. He twitches underneath your touch, attempting to grind against your hand to pick up the pace, but you push his hips up against the wall of the balloon’s basket. 

“Stop.” You whisper, taking his earlobe between your teeth briefly. He groans, untangling his hand from your hair to cover his reddened face. 

Stopping your slow ministrations, you kiss down his throat again, over the curve of his collarbone and down his sternum. Lowering yourself slowly, you kneel on the floor of the basket. You free your hand from his jeans, much to his displeasure, but your fingers hook around his belt loops. Tugging his jeans down his thighs, he lets out a small gasp, panicking a bit as he drops his hand and meets your eyes.

You smile up at him, your hand finding him again, leisurely sliding along him through the thin fabric. Sliding his boxers down his thighs to sit along with his jeans, you take in the full sight of him. 

Your fingers curl around him and he sucks in a breath through his clenched teeth. Tracing the thick vein running along the underside of his shaft, you meet his eyes. His hands grip the edge of the basket, his blunt fingernails digging into the wicker material. 

Lesley’s eyes are blown wide, the honey-like color of his irises limited to a thin ring around his dilated pupils. The flushed color of his skin is illuminated by the thin layer of sweat gathering at his temples. He watches you with labored breath as you slowly begin to pump him in your hand. Swiping your thumb over his tip, you use the precum gathering in the slit as a form of lubricant. He shudders, his mouth dropping open as he lets out a broken moan.  

Leaning forward, you slide your tongue along the side of him, the tip running along the pulsing vein. He buck his hips absentmindedly and you flatten your free hand over his stomach, keeping him pressed against the wall. He whines softly, your hand moving slowly along him, your tongue circling around the tip in an aggravatingly slow fashion. You were toying with him, watching him carefully as he writhes.

The noises falling from his lips sounded like the most gorgeous symphony. You knew full well how desperate he was, his hips fighting to move despite your restrictions.

Flattening your tongue, you take just the head of him into your mouth. You quicken the pace of your hand, pumping him a little faster. You drag your tongue along the underside of his irritated tip, sliding it along his slit. 

Lesley chokes out a strained moan, his head falling forward. Quickly pushing his hair out of his face, intent on watching you despite how achingly slow you were going. His eyelids flutter as you take him further, his head sliding along the flat of your tongue. Dropping your hands to gently grip his thighs, your fingernails lightly dig into the flesh. 

Without restrictions, his hips jerk into you, the tip of him hitting the back of your throat. You groan against him, the vibration almost causing him to unravel. Lifting yourself off of him a bit, you push back down, the tip of your nose brushing against his base continuously as you find a rhythm. Dropping all teasing and focusing on his pleasure, you keep your pacing steady, your tongue curling around his head to provide extra stimulation. 

As you push him closer to the edge, his muscles tense and his thoughts go flat. Lesley couldn’t think or say anything, his brain completely fogging over. His vision blurs as your soft noises vibrate into his sensitive skin, his tip sliding between your upper palate and the flat of your tongue. Completely overcome with everything around him, a bead of sweat trails its way down the tip of his nose.  He couldn’t possibly care how loud he was being under your control.

Feeling himself getting closer, his hands find their way into your hair. He gently rakes his fingers over your scalp as his back arches, pushing himself as far into you as he can. Lesley is completely incoherent, words coming out broken and jumbled in between pants and gasps. He twitches in your mouth, his hips stuttering lightly as he orgasms. 

You take it as well as you can, your nails digging into his thighs as you focus on not choking at his release. His knees wobble, and you pull off of him slowly. You take a second to swallow fully, standing from your kneeling position to hold him upright when he wavers. He looked completely fucked out, his eyes swimming as they land on your face.

Clearing your throat, you speak, “God, Lesley, you okay?” The question is accompanied by a light laugh. You lift your hand, brushing a hand through his hair to get a good look at his face.

“I love you.” He pants, leaning in to capture you in a kiss. He could taste himself on your lips, taking the time to rub his thumbs over your cheeks. 

When the kiss finally breaks, you laugh again, “I love you too, Les, now answer my question”.

“Oh! Shit- I’m so sorry, are you okay? I just-” He cuts himself off, floundering a bit as his mind races with the implications of what just happened. His hands keep your face bracketed in his palms, his eyes searching yours in a panic.

“I’m fine, promise,” Nodding, you press a few quick kisses to both of his cheeks. “Are you feeling okay? Lightheaded at all?” You ask, a little concerned considering the altitude. 

He shakes his head, “I’m perfect, great- you’re great, and perfect.” He scrambles to shower you in compliments, peppering your face in kisses in an oddly apologetic fashion.

“Thanks,” You giggle, smiling as he showers you in affection, “Now, can you bring us down? I’d like to take you to dinner.”

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

"Tequila and Palmistry"

Spencer Reid x Drunk!Reader

Words: 4,754

Tags: Drunken Flirting, Spencer Reid Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Spencer Reid takes care of drunk reader, Spencer Reid Ranting, Mentions of Violence, Spencer Reid's hands, I Love Spencer Reid, Feelings, Idiots in Love, Drunk Reader, Early Seasons Spencer (S1/Early S2)

After a tough case where you were almost killed by the unsub, the team decides to go to the bar and unwind. While there, Spencer ends up having to keep you from going off the deep end.

==========

Watching you drink was like watching an Olympic sprinter in their prime. You were slamming shots back like they were nothing as soon as the team got to the bar. 

The last case was particularly intense for you, considering you fit the unsubs target perfectly. No one batted an eye at you nursing yourself with alcohol.

Except Spencer.

He had attempted to say something after your fourth shot, but Morgan placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered a soft “Let her have this, kid.” 

After your sixth shot of tequila, you moved on to tequila sunrises, which you went through like water. Gideon finally put his foot down after your third sunrise, instructing you to make the fourth last because you were being cut off.

Luckily for Gideon, you weren’t a mean drunk.

Spencer was surprised at how peppy you were under the influence. During cases, you kept your guard up, letting loose just a little when you were alone with Spencer, but you always kept it at arm's length.

At some point, you slid your glass into Spencer’s hand, grabbing Elle and Penelope by the wrists and pulling them to the center of the bar to dance. He glances down at the glass in confusion before looking up at Hotch and Morgan. Hotch smiles to himself, sipping on his beer, while Morgan whistles playfully.

“She trusts you with her drink, Pretty Boy. That’s an accomplishment.” 

“Actually, this bar invests in straws that are able to detect whether or not Rohypnol or any other drugs are in the drink.” Spencer responds, still keeping the glass in his grasp.

“I’m sure she’s too slammed to notice, Reid.” Derek chuckles in response.

“This is a one-time deal; next time we go out together, we have to make sure she doesn’t go off the rails like this again.” Hotch sighs, glancing over at you, dancing with Elle and Penelope, who are more focused on making sure you don’t fall. Gideon grabs his jacket, sliding it on.

“It was a hard case for her; she needs to let off some steam. Why aren’t you drinking anyway?” Morgan asks, leaning over to Spencer.

“I don’t really drink.” Spencer shrugs, flicking his finger against the smooth of the glass. His eyes trained on the straw in your cup. As much as he wanted to convince himself that you gave him your drink on purpose, it was just too unlikely for him to really dwell on it. 

Except he did dwell on it. 

His eyes slid over to you. Your hair fell over your face as you danced around, your features illuminated by the dim lighting, and your soft eyes shone as you smiled. Spencer isn’t sure how to feel about you being so drunk. 

On one hand, you were pretty much catatonic after your interaction with the unsub. You sat next to him in the jet, staring down at your dirt-covered hands, completely still for the almost 3-hour flight.

On the other hand, he knew you were only drinking to try and get the awful taste out of your mouth. The terrible twisting of your stomach that caused you to dry-heave in the jet’s lavatory for half an hour before takeoff. 

Gideon stands from his place at the end of the booth; he rounds the table and leans down to speak with Spencer. “You’re in charge of her.” 

All Spencer can do is nod, as Gideon leaves quickly after with not much more than a wave. But as you made your way back to the table, somehow finding your way between Reid and Morgan in the booth, he couldn’t help but feel relief.

He handed you the drink, and you took a small sip before turning your whole body towards him and looking him directly in the eyes. 

“Did you try it?” You asked seriously.

“No- No, I didn’t.” Spencer shakes his head, embarrassment tinting his cheeks.

“Whaat??” You pulled back, your face contorting into stern confusion. “You have to try it, now—here, here.” 

You held it out to him, your fingers delicately holding the straw for him.

Ignoring the snickers from the others, Spencer leans in and takes a small sip. The tequila burns, but it’s rounded out nicely by the sweetness of the grenadine and the soft tart flavor of the orange juice.

Clearing his throat, Spencer speaks, “Originally, tequila sunrises contained tequila, lime juice, soda water, and créme de cassis when it was initially invented at the Arizona Biltmore Hotel in the 30s or 40s.”

You stared at him as he spoke, wide-eyed with your lips slightly parted. You blinked a few times, eyebrows furrowing as you tried to follow what he was saying.

“The modern tequila sunrise was popularized in the 70s by the Rolling Stones when they were kicking off their tour at a bar in Sausalito, California.” You nodded slowly at his explanation, your lips pulling into a bright smile as you set your cup down on the table. 

He didn’t really think you understood that. But your face shone like the first burst of light at dawn, waking the morning flowers from the chill of night.

His face warms, looking away from you to glance around the bar. Morgan taps your shoulder, grabbing your attention. Using his hands to shield your ear, he whispers something to you, causing you to break out into a fit of loud giggles. Derek shushes you, laughing along.

Your hands find your face as you slump back into the booth, muffling your laughter into your palms. After laughing for a good five minutes, you drop your hands into your lap. Your face was flushed, your eyes moist with laughter-filled tears. Your lips are pulled into a bright, sloppy smile, your teeth shining against the dull light of the bar. A few strands of hair fell into your face.

Derek looked proud of himself, shooting Spencer with a knowing look. Gesturing to you, mouthing ‘go for it’.

Spencer ignores him, looking around the bar in an attempt to ignore the flushed beauty beside him. But you turn, grabbing his arm. 

“Spencer,” You shake him a bit, trying to get his attention. He was already looking at you, but you shook him anyway. “Spencer, Spencer, where’s Gideon?”

“Uhm, he left a few minutes ago.” 

“Oh, boo, how lame." You pout, your hand still firmly holding Spencer’s bicep. You turn your head, eyeing your drink. A grin creeps slowly onto your face.

“Don’t get any ideas. You’re still cut off.” Hotch interjects, noticing the way you were eyeing your glass. 

You deflate immediately, slumping into the seat, your hands falling into your lap as you pout. Spencer watches you, a little amused but ultimately concerned with your shift in mood.

After letting you stew for a minute, Spencer turns to you, clearing his throat before opening his mouth to speak. He falters, however, when he sees your face. 

Your bottom lip juts out, glistening under the light and drawing his eyes. Downcast eyes steal his attention from your lips, leading him to your upturned palms. Your pout melts into a deep frown, your inebriated brain feeding the memories of what happened just 5 hours ago.

“Uhm,” Spencer starts, leaning over to point at your hands, “have you heard of palm reading?” His voice is unsure, wavering a little as you look up at him.

You both nod and shake your head, your eyes widening a little as he pulls you out of your thoughts. Putting your hands down on the seat, you push yourself up, giving Spencer your full attention. You stare at him for a second before scrambling to show him your hands again.

“It’s also called palmistry or chiromancy, and it’s unknown where it originated exactly.” Spencer bites his lip, glancing down at your palms. “But it has ties to a lot of eastern cultures.” 

“Like where?” You ask, your voice insistent.

“Indian, Tibetan, Chinese, Nepali, Persian, Babylonian, Canaan, Sumer, and Arabian cultures have history with palm reading.” He lists, watching as you slowly tilt your head down, trying to follow his words. Your eyes never leave his face, squinting slightly as his words slip in one ear and out the other.

Deciding to just keep talking rather than waiting for you to speak, Spencer continues, “Palm reading uses the natural creases in the flesh of your palms to predict things about your life and personality.” 

Spencer hesitates before placing his left hand underneath yours, settling his palm against the back of your hands. Chewing on his bottom lip, he uses his right hand to map out your palms. His index finger hovers, making sure not to touch the lightly calloused skin.

“Are my palms-” You lean a little closer, your eyes wide as your gaze flicks between his face and your hands. “Are my palms whispering to you?”

You were whispering to him—well, more like mumbling. Spencer furrows his eyebrows, leaning back a bit.

“Are your- are they what?” He stammers, a smile threatening to pull at the corners of his lips. You giggle, letting your head fall forward and rest in your open hands. You stay like that for a second to let it out before lifting your head again.

“You’re so cute, Dr. Reid.” A heavy sigh follows that statement, along with a sloppy grin. Before Spencer has the opportunity to flounder in response, you continue, “What were we talking about?”

“Um... Palm Reading?” His slender fingers tap against the back of your hands mindlessly.

You purse your lips, squinting your eyes just a smidge before smiling again. 

“Okay, okay, keep telling me about it." You scoot a little closer, folding one of your legs under you, your knee knocking against his thigh. “Please?”

Your face was still flushed, though Spencer wasn’t sure if it was from the tequila that still lingered on your breath or from the fact that you were sitting so close to him.

“Oh, yeah- yeah, sure…” He bites at his bottom lip, looking back down at your palms. “So... the main lines used for palmistry are the life line, the heart line, the fate line, and the head line…” 

Spencer continues talking, making sure to keep his gaze cast down to your hands as he explains what people look for when reading palms. You stayed quiet, and he was almost positive that you weren’t listening; honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if you had fallen asleep. 

He maps out each line for you after thoroughly explaining what each of them meant. Spencer didn’t really believe in palmistry or astrology, but he had to admit that so far it was pretty accurate.

Especially when your life line described you as enthusiastic and courageous. 

That was one of the many things Spencer admired about you. You had no qualms about being who you wanted to be, and it gave him the confidence to do the same.

Though sometimes you had a hard time remembering that about yourself.

“…and your heart line tells us about your cardiac health, possible depression, emotional stability, and, um… and romantic perspectives.” Spencer swallows, his shoulders slightly hunched as he looks intently at your palms. You straighten up, drawing his eyes to your face. 

Your lips parted, your eyes holding excitement as you looked down at your own palms. Glancing up at him and meeting his eyes, you smile, the tip of your tongue fitting between your teeth. 

“Keep going.” You whisper, nodding at him incessantly. Spencer pauses, unable to tear away from the light shine in your eyes, illuminated by the warm lighting hanging from the rafters of the bar.

“…your- your heart line, um,” he stumbles over his words, snapping his head back down to look at the crease in the fleshy part of your palm. “Your heart line begins in between your middle and index fingers, and it’s straight and parallel to your head line.”

Spencer finally presses the pad of his finger into your palm, dragging it along the crease as he talks. He still cradles your hand lightly with his other, his thumb absentmindedly sliding against your knuckles.

“Mm, what does it mean?” You ask sloppily, your articulation faltering.

“It means that you are... caring and understanding.” He slides his finger back to where the line begins, noticing how your fingers twitch. “And that you have a good handle on your emotions.” At that, you laugh, gently bumping your head against his as you do.

“Doesn’t feel like it.” You mumble, your head partially sliding against his as you slump into him. Spencer stiffens at the contact.

“Sorry, ‘m tired,” You wiggle your fingers, attempting to draw his attention back to your hands. 

“So, like- does it say anything about who I’m gonna… marry?” 

“No- uhm, no, not who.” Spencer swallows; the weight of your head dropping onto his shoulder scrambles his thoughts. “But the marriage line is here.” He slides his finger to the small line underneath your pinky.

“It’s pretty straight, which means that you’ll have a long, happy marriage.” 

You hum in acknowledgment, looking down briefly at your palms before turning your hands over and wrapping your hands around his. Spencer looks up, making eye contact with Elle, who mouths a ‘wow’ before sipping her drink. 

His attention is drawn back to you as you drag yourself off of him haphazardly. You turn his hands, exposing his own palms as you lean down, hunching over them to get a closer look. 

There is almost no way you could even see the lines in his palms very well, considering that your head was blocking the lights. 

Lifting your head suddenly, Spencer has to pull back to avoid getting smacked in the face. 

“This line probably means that you’re suuper smart and stuff,” you say, tapping his head line with your pinky. “And this line probably says that you’re really cute, and this line probably says that you’re like… I dunno, a little silly." You alternate tapping at his different lines. You were trying—kind of. 

Spencer’s face grows hot, swallowing hard and trying to remind himself that this was just you, completely inebriated and not thinking straight.

“Silly?” He raises his eyebrows, watching your face with concern.

“Uhuh, silly. Like… like… I don’t know; you’re just silly. And gorgeous.” You look down at his hands and say, “And you have really pretty hands.”

Spencer stares at you, his mouth gaping like a fish as his eyes slide around your features. 

You blinked slowly, your hands sliding against his as you fidget with his slender fingers. 

“Oh!” You exclaimed way too loudly for the small bar. You pull yourself away from him, the force with which you do so causes you to tilt back and fall into Morgan. 

Spencer scrambles to grab your forearms, pulling you off of Morgan. “Are- are you okay?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“You don’t like it when people touch you!” You attempt to wiggle yourself out of his grip, failing despite how loose his hold was.

A deep pout rests on your lips, and you look up at him guiltily.

“No, it’s fine.” He tries to still you, embarrassed by your antics. “It’s okay; you’re fine, I don’t mind. Let's get you home, okay?”

“Huh?? No, no, I’m having so much funn” You flounder, slumping yourself into the seat in protest. You start to slide off the booth seat, your lower body disappearing under the table. 

Spencer stammers, hooking his arms around yours and attempting to keep you from slipping to the floor.

“Woah, no, come on, I’ll take you home and I can teach you how to read my palms?” He pulls on your arms, looking over at Morgan, who lends a hand by wrapping an arm around your torso and pulling you back onto the seat. Morgan snickers, but leaves Spencer to handle your state of unrest.

“I already know enough about you, gorgeous-genius-doctor-boy, but can’t you dance with me?” You whine, Spencer’s arms are still hooked around you to keep you from slipping away again.

“I- well… No- no, not here, we can dance at your apartment?” he suggests, gently pulling you out of the booth.

You let him pull you, offering little help until he forces you to stand. Staring up at him with a pouty glare, you huff, the gears turning in your head.

“Promise?” You hold out your pinky, wiggling it at him. 

He relents, hooking his pinky around yours. You smile, latching your finger around his in a tight grip.

“Okay! Bye losers!” You shout at the rest of the table, unceremoniously dragging Spencer away. He attempts to grab his bag from the booth, but your grip is too tight. 

Elle manages to toss it to him, his hands fumbling to get a good grip on it as he’s wrenched through the exit of the bar.

“Wait, slow down!” He yelps, shoulder-checking the door as you tug him down the stairs.

“Come on, pretty boy, relax!” You laugh

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Northbound.” You say, deepening your voice and pointing to your right.

“That’s east.” Using his free hand, Spencer spins you to face him. “We’re calling a cab.”

You scoff, letting go of his pinky finally as you flail your arms at your sides.

“No, what, no- no, no, no, I’m not getting buried again, Spencer." You whine, the weight of your words slipping off your shoulders, numbed by the tequila in your system.

Spencer frowns, his eyebrows raising slightly as he looks at you. Your loosened, drunken state could only mask your worries to some extent.

“You won’t be buried; I’m with you,” he says, placing his hands on your biceps.

“But you could get hurt... and I don’t wanna see your gorgeous face and body all... like... dead." Your articulation slips, words blending together. Tapping the tip of his nose with the side of your finger, you pout, shuffling your weight from foot to foot.

“I won’t die; I’m gonna get you home, and then you’re going to bed-“ A hand slaps over his mouth, a little harder than necessary.

“We’re dancing.” You say sternly, rubbing his mouth with your palm, when you realize that you hit him harder than intended. 

“Okay- okay, stop-stop doing that,” He grabs your wrist, pulling your hand to the side. “I’m gonna get you home, and then we’ll dance.” 

Pleased, you hum lightly, closing your eyes. “Let’s do it, honey bee.” 

Spencer ignores the churning in his stomach as he leads you along the sidewalk. Your hand slides around his body as you circle around him. Up and down his chest, around his waist, and up his spine. It was dizzying how well you were circling him despite the alcohol coursing through your system. You only stumbled once or twice, grabbing onto him each time to steady yourself.

Spencer was having a hard time keeping it together; it was already hard enough keeping his feelings to himself day to day when you acted like a normal person. Drunk you was making everything way harder. He wondered if he told you exactly how he felt if you would remember.

You weren’t acting completely blacked out drunk, and Spencer had never seen you like this before. He was just glad you were a nice drunk. And mildly manageable.

He was very glad that your apartment was on the ground floor; he didn’t have to worry about getting you up stairs. You stood next to Spencer, your right hand against the white door, as you fumbled with your keys in your left. Pouting down at the object, you let out an annoyed huff, tilting your head to the side and squinting at the ring of keys.

“Who needs this many keys?” You grumbled, letting your fingers go slack as Spencer takes the keys from you. 

“You, apparently.” Spencer smiles, finding your door key and unlocking the door. He ushers you inside, his hand finding its way to rest on your back, pretty much pushing you through the doorway.

Kicking your shoes off, you turn to Spencer “Shoes off, Cowboy, we can’t have my carpeting get all grody.” 

Spencer nods, smiling at the nickname but ultimately ignoring it. He takes off his shoes, setting his bag next to them, before straightening up and beelining to your kitchen. Opening each cabinet, he finally finds your cups. You stumble your way to lean on the counter next to him, pursing your lips at him.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, glaring at the cup in his hand as he fills it with water.

“Drink this,” Spencer holds it out to you. You just stare at it, pressing your lips into a thin line. “Please?” He sighs, pouting just a little. Your face lights up at his plea, your mouth falling open and your face flushing red.

"Spencer, you can’t do that, not fair.” You snatch the cup from him, chugging the water out of spite. Spencer watches you, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together in confusion. 

Slamming the cup onto the counter, you hold up your arms, “Okay! Dance time, come here!”

Spencer is dragged back into the living room, your hands firmly grasping his wrists as you walk backwards. He watches your path for you, maneuvering you gently to avoid your coffee table. 

Dropping his arms, you bow sloppily with a giggle, “May I have this dance?”

He chuckles, offering an awkward bow in response as he fumbles over his words, “Yeah- sure… okay.” 

You laugh, sliding your hands down his forearms, your fingers brushing against the center of his palms. Curling your fingers around his, you lift his hands, tugging him closer.

He swallows the lump in his throat as his chest presses into yours. Spencer chews on his bottom lip as you settle his hands on your waist. You smelled like tequila, but the scent of your shampoo still lingered in close proximity. You smelled good—drunk, but good.

“No music?” He asks, clearing his throat as your arms wrap around his shoulders. 

“Nah, my head hurts." You shake your head, guiding him in a small sway. Spencer was a little worried that you were going to have him actually dance, but he was happy to sway along with you. 

Your apartment was dark, only lit by the weirdly bright fluorescent light from your kitchen. You giggled quietly to yourself as you swayed, finding it a little difficult to get him to move with you. His heart rate calms slowly as you both sway in silence. You had closed your eyes, threading your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tracing small circles into his skin. It was nice.

The heat of your body against his fills him with warmth, and he can’t help but look away. His eyes training on the light switch a few feet away as he wills his face to not get any redder. Your touch simmered against him, the low burning embers of his feelings threatening to ignite in the dark space of your living room. 

But you were drunk, and there was very little he could do to rationalize your actions beyond that. If you weren’t completely inebriated, Spencer might consider the fact that you might like him too. 

“Spencer,” you call out to him softly, goading him into meeting your eyes again. He couldn’t help but notice the gravity added to your previously weightless tone.

“Yeah?” He whispers his reply, his eyes returning to your face. The swaying continues, offering a loosely followed rhythm to the conversation.

“How did you feel?” You mumble back, letting your head fall back slightly. You keep your eyes on his face, scanning his expression.

“How did... what feel?” 

“Watching me crawl out.” You let out a small huff, as if he were supposed to read your mind, “Like, how did it feel for you?” Spencer freezes, his hands tightening their grip on your waist.

It felt awful.

Watching you, his headstrong, kind, confident, and loving friend, crawl your way out of a freshly packed grave. Hands bound, tears soaking mud to your cheeks, clothing torn, a hateful fire in your eyes.

It felt awful.

Watching you grapple with the unsub, using your bindings as leverage to choke the man out before crumbling to the ground in tears.

It felt awful.

Watching you bottle it up, riding to the hospital in silence, only letting the team touch you despite the insistence of the doctors. 

It felt awful.

Washing off your dirt-covered hands in the jet with a small rag he had found, soaked in the cold water from the lavatory sink. 

It felt awful.

But Spencer couldn’t claim that awful feeling, knowing that you must feel so much worse. You fought and fought for those two days you were held captive, feeding into the unsubs delusion to keep yourself alive.

You were the one who was thrown into a six-foot-deep hole and buried alive.

He’s not sure how to answer your question, but you watch him patiently, your fingers gently sliding down his neck. 

“I… I don’t know, I was- I was scared, worried..." He whispers, his stomach churning with the thought that he shouldn’t burden you with the way he was feeling. 

“You were scared…” Mumbling, you tilt your head to the side, your lips pursing and twisting to the side. “Is it bad… that you being scared for me, makes it hurt less?” Your articulation is off, and your words are almost lost to him. Inhaling sharply, Spencer leans forward a bit, his arms circling around your back and flattening against your shirt. 

“No, no, it’s not bad... How did it feel for you?” He asks carefully, watching your face as it contorts in ten different ways. You sigh heavily, your arms loosely resting on his shoulders.

“It’s the worst thing... you fight and you fight, you do what you can to survive... and then you get thrown in a hole and smothered in the earth.” You pout, tilting your head to the side, fiddling with your fingers behind his head.

Spencer bites his lower lip, his eyebrows raising in concern. He watches your face, your eyes glossing over, staring into the pattern on his tie. 

“Spencer… I dunno what to do with myself…” You murmur, pulling yourself closer and resting your forehead on his shoulder.

Tilting his head, his cheek presses into your hair. His hands press into your shoulder blades, giving you an awkward squeeze. 

“…you don’t have to know; we can just take it one step at a time.” He speaks gently, letting his hand circle over your shoulder blade.

“Ugh… your mouth words are so gorgeous…” You mumble.

Spencer isn’t really sure what you mean, but he decides to take it at face value. “Thanks?” 

You lift your head, a frown etched on your lips. As you look up at Spencer, the frown dissolves into a small smile. The bright lighting coming from your kitchen illuminates the side of your face in stark contrast to the rest of the dark room. 

“You’re so gorgeous in your face too.” You slide your hands around to bracket his face, squishing it a little between your palms. Spencer’s face grows hot under the feeling of your hands, his eyes widening a bit.

“If you ever, like- I dunno, do you ever think- like, think about kissing me? Cause… if you do, you should kiss me.” Spencer goes to respond, but you slap your hand over his mouth again, rubbing his mouth soothingly afterwards.

“When I’m sober! When I’m sober so I can remember and stuff…” You take your hand off his mouth, sliding the tip of your finger down the bridge of his nose. 

“Oh- uhm… yeah okay." He nods, biting his lip anxiously. His eyes flutter close at your touch, the heat of his emotions burning at the apex of his cheekbones.

You smiled sloppily up at him, content with the plan you set in place, guiding him into swaying with you again. Your finger traces his features loosely, your muscles relaxing into his touch as you start to come down from your drunken high. Tiredness crawls its way up your spine, settling into your eyelids, and you find yourself having a hard time holding them open. 

“When I wake up...” You start, letting your eyes fall closed, “…when I wake up, don’t- don’t let me push you away.” 

Spencer smiles at that, laughing affectionately at your words.

“Okay.”

[deepcreekvultures-writing]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Chapters: 2/3

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, language

Being in the military has caused Ghost's walls to be built up thick and almost unbreakable. Keyword: Almost. Your love and persistence had broken through the first barrier, but even after three years you were still being held at arms length. Maybe someday he'd realize how hard you try to carry his burdens for him.

OR

Simon comes to terms with the fact that he does want to be loved.