eideticmemory

[eideticmemory]

[eideticmemory]

merry christmas pookies 🫶 i hope you enjoy the holidays 🥂🩷

[eideticmemory]

Omg one of these are about to be pfp omg he’s so fine eeek

[eideticmemory]

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!! I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCHHHHH I HOPE YOUR HOLIDAYS HAVE BEEN NOTHING BUT FULL OF JOY AND LOVE AND PEACE!!!! now which one of you woke up w matthew under the tree bc it wasn’t me….😔😔

[eideticmemory]

merry christmas ash :D

MERRY CHRISTMASSSS ILY!! ❤️💚❤️💚❤️💚❤️

[eideticmemory]

SCRIBE | SPENCER REID

You: I need someone to document everything I say.

Spencer Reid: Done.

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Older!Reader, FamousRealityStar!Reader, Fuckboy!Gradschool!Spencer?? My brand I guess?? PreBAU!Spencer. And smut of course!!!

There is a perpetual knot in your neck. You cannot remember the day you woke up with it, but when doctors ask you about it, you estimate that it’s been there for about two months. Around the time the current season went on air. It is located between the base of your brain and your shoulder blade. It’s hard to raise your right arm too high. It is prominent and sharp at the most inconvenient times and only rests when you are asleep.

Today, it is giving you a migraine. You are slurring your speech in interview from interview, only halfway focused on each person. Each bright eyed, ivy bred, I-Am-The-One candidate with words per minute as high as 290. You are sitting at your desk, elbows resting on the glass as you rub the back of your neck, grimacing.

“Are you having a stroke?” Spencer asks.

“What?”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Um…concern?”

“I’m not having a stroke.”

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Good.”

You shake your head, “How many words did you say you can type a minute?”

“Oh, like, on the computer?” he asks. You actually look up at him when he says this and he is chiseled in the face. Leaned back in his seat, his head held up by his hand. “Like…70, maybe?”

You look him dead in the eye and say, “70?”

“Yeah, around there.”

“Around there?”

“Plus or minus 5.”

You take a deep breath and your head hurts. You put both arms on the desk and ask, “What’s your name again?”

“Spencer.”

“Spencer, right,” you nod. “How, exactly, did you make it to the interview round?”

“Oh, I slept with your personal assistant. He’s a fiery little guy.”

And for a second, you think about Luke, you look at this pretty little boy and you think that it is plausible until Spencer says, “Oh, my god. Is that really all I had to do?”

You’re stunned, and you keep having to shake your head because there is no way this interview is happening.

“I have an eidetic memory. I don’t need to type. I just stand there and look pretty. Kinda like what you do.”

“Bite me.”

“Sore spot?”

“Okay, thank you for coming,” you say and you start to get up from your chair. Your head hurts with movement.

“Are you having a stroke?”

You stop in your tracks, you look at him, and with every fiber of your being, you say, “What?”

“Are you having a stroke?” he continues. “Why would you ask me that? Um…concern? I’m not having a stroke. Oh, okay, good. How many words did you say you can type a minute? Oh, like, on the computer? Like…70, maybe? 70? Yeah, around there. Around there? Plus or minus 5. What’s your name again? Spencer. Spencer, right, how, exactly, did you make it to the interview round? Oh, I slept with your personal assistant, he’s a fiery little guy. Oh, my god. Is that really all I had to do? I have an eidetic memory, I just stand there and look pretty, kinda like what you do. Bite me. Sore spot? Okay, thank you for coming.”

You stare at him.

“And the conversation repeats from there,” he nods.

You continue to stare and he says, “I know. It freaks people out. But I thought, hey, a job as a scribe. I’m perfect for that. I’m not that ugly I can be on TV-“

“When can you start?”

“O-oh,” he stutters. “Start? I can start tomorrow.”

You pick up the stack of applicants on your desk and drop them in the trash and tell him, “Luke will show you out.” And you go home to take a nap.

This is the one interaction in your life that was not filmed. Figures. Something of substance, something truly integral to the coming months of your life and it is done in private. How it should be, supposedly.

On Spencer’s first day, you are negotiating with Vogue. Vogue. The crew is there an hour before you. And he has the nerve to show up in sweats. A slutty little shirt with sleeves that cuts off at his elbow. He has prominent blue veins that run down his forearm and he is unbelievably pale today. His hair is disheveled and he walks in with his hands in pockets. Truthfully, there has not been much contact between the two of you, most communications running between him and Luke, who has a massive crush on Spencer.

He’s just so magnetic, Luke says. And the fact that he couldn’t care less is just soooo attractive.

But he’s a dick. He says to you, “You look professional.”

“You look sloppy. Did no one send you a dress code?”

“No, just a tax form.”

You roll your eyes, “Someone needs to dress you,” and with a snap of your fingers, you call, “Marcie!”

“Do you always snap at people like dogs?”

Marcie dresses Spencer in spare clothes. A nice button down and slacks. There are no spare shoes in his size so he has on his sneakers. He is sitting at the meeting room roundtable and from the waist up, he looks a bit more distinguished. He has bags under his eyes that have to be touched up with makeup.

You sit down beside him, because, after all, he is your backup here. He leans over and whispers, “Is every day like this?”

“Every minute, pretty boy, keep up.” You rub the back of your neck.

“Oh,” he smiles at you. “You think I’m pretty?”

You give his question some thought, get nervous when the two of you make eye contact. And then the cameras are rolling.

For most of the meeting, Spencer is leaned back. His eyes flicker from person to person, from camera to camera to you.

His eyes fall on you a lot.

In the weeks to come, he is, surprisingly, good at his job. He submits transcripts at the last minute, and he still hasn’t nailed the A-List dress code, but his work is immaculate. With every day, every week, every month that goes by, there is a new reason not to fire him. There is subtle assurance that you will not find a better scribe, even if you tried.

He comes to your home while the cameras are rolling and winks at Luke, who has to hide his face as he blushes.

“What are you doing here?” you ask him. You are poking around your walk in closet, fabric swatches for your upcoming fashion line splayed across the floor.

“The Elle Magazine meeting? Doesn’t it start soon?”

“Not for another hour,” Luke tells him. He’s giving Spencer this gooey, lovesick smile.

“Well, hey, look at that, I’m never early,” Spencer laughs.

You turn around as he plops down in your loveseat and you groan.

“What?” he asks. “What?”

“Come with me,” you order. You are at your limit. You leave the room and Luke and Spencer look at each other. “Now!” and they hop out of their seats.

Cameras trail behind you all through your massive home. You grab your car keys and Luke asks, “Where are you going?”

“We,” you explain. “Are going to get this boy some new clothes.” You stick your finger in Spencer’s face and he is very tempted to smack it away.

“I don’t need any new clothes,” he says.

And you only reply by looking him up and down. His gym shorts, his white shirt.

“Oh, spare me, little miss I-have-a-new-versace-outfit-for-every-day-of-my-life,” he rolls his eyes. “I dress just fine.”

“No, you don’t,” you tell him, and he crosses his arms over his chest like a child. You look over at the camera crew, “Tell production we’ll be behind two hours.”

Spencer is overwhelmed by paparazzi. He is in utter shock over the way they invade your space, crowding your car before he can even get out the back seat. He pops open the door and a flash goes off his face and he shoves the guy out the way.

“Hey!”

“Get out of the way, dude!” he grumbles.

“I’ll sue!”

“I know [y/n] [y/l/n], I’d like to see you try!”

Luke looks over at you from the passenger seat. His cheeks are red. “Could he be any hotter?”

Spencer has never set foot in any of these stores. GQ, Maxfield, Fred Segal. He is in awe by the size of these stores alone, and even more so by the price tag on everything. Luke takes the lead, strolling through each department, plopping shirts and pants over his forearm in collection. Cameras and faces are pressed against the glass, watching you all like animals in a zoo. The pain in your neck is starting to radiate down your arm and you take every chance you can to sit. You offer comments from the sidelines, watching Luke dress Spencer from head to toe.

Spencer comes out in a polo and khaki pants and says, “I feel stupid.”

“You look amazing,” Luke grins, and he takes this opportunity to touch Spencer. Fix up his collar, smooth out his chest.

And while he may feel stupid, Spencer looks so good. The thought flashes through your mind for just an instant. You’d be blind to ignore it. The black fabric contrasts starkly against his skin. His waist is hugged by the fit and his hair falls into his face just enough that he has to tuck it behind his ear. You do not realize you are staring until he looks at you. His eyes catch yours and you look away.

“Oh, yes,” Luke grins, placing one last touch on Spencer’s shoulders before turning to the sales associate. “This is perfect. Evan, add this to the tab.”

You look back at Spencer and he has not stopped staring at you. He is fixated and holding your gaze. He gives you a small smile and you avert your eyes once again.

You drop five grand on Spencer and he cannot believe it every time you swipe your card. “Holy crap,” he says. “Thanks, sugar mama.”

Luke chuckles and you cut your eyes at him. Security surrounds you as you put shades on and leave the store. Spencer attends the Elle Magazine meeting in the polo and khaki combo. He has a tendency to make people nervous, the way he just sits there and watches and listens. When executives ask about him, you say he’s a scribe and you say nothing more. You’ve asked him to bring a computer, something, to make him appear less crazy, but he is incapable of listening.

“And, so, basically, what we would do, [y/n],” an executive says before clearing his throat. “Is use your image to promote the skincare line and divide those residuals amongst your team with, of course, you taking forty percent off the top.”

“It should be fifty,” Spencer says. Everyone’s eyes cut to him, including yours.

“I’m…” the executive laughs anxiously. “I’m sorry?”

“It should be fifty. [y/n] should be getting fifty off the top.”

“No…no, scribe, I’m pretty sure it’s forty.”

“Really? Hm?” Spencer tilts his head. “Clause 4, paragraph 5 of the contract sent to Miss [y/l/n]: Elle Magazine agrees to distribute remaining residuals amongst the [y/l/n] team, provided a fifty percent split profit between Elle and Miss [y/l/n] as per applicable profits. Now, I don’t have the document with me, but I’m willing to bet that fifty percent that I’m recalling correctly. Y’know, as a scribe and all.”

You take your eyes away from Spencer and turn to the executive who has gone red in the face, “Trying to pull one over on me, Vince?”

Vince sputters, “Of course not, [y/n]. I-I simply misspoke. Um, Eva, can we get an updated transcript to reflect the fifty percent divide, please? Thank you.”

You slowly turn your head back to Spencer, your lips pursed. He winks at you and leans back in his chair, tapping his finger to his forehead, “Eidetic memory,” he whispers.

Business discussions are very rarely filmed from start to finish, but once you exit the meeting room, you wish you hadn’t made an executive exception today. “What the hell were you thinking, dude?” you snap at Spencer.

“They were trying to go over your head. Isn’t that what I’m there for? To make sure contracts you signed are being honored? Why am I in trouble? Vince should be in trouble.”

“Actually, Spencer, that’s not your job. Your job is to sit and listen and document. Did you read the duties in your job description or what?”

“I can list them off the top of my head right now. Attend all relevant business and editorial meetings…”

“Okay, I can’t - I can’t do this right now,” your neck hurts. “Luisa, scrap that footage.”

“No can do,” Your producer responds. “We’re keeping that in.”

“What?” you cut your head to him and wince.

“In fact…” Luisa trails off, stepping closer to you and Spencer. “I think we should shoot the scribe here more often.”

“What?” you and Spencer ask at the same time.

“We’ll chat,” she tells Spencer. “Let’s get you some updated forms, a new NDA, and you’re gonna need some new clothes.”

“This shirt was five-hundred dollars,” Spencer pinches his polo. “What more do you want from me?”

“Luisa!” you interject.

“We’ll chat,” she touches your shoulder and walks off.

You sigh, pinching your neck and rolling your head back.

“You okay?” Spencer asks, reaching in to touch your neck, but you flinch and step back.

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m going home.”

“Want me to give you a neck massage?” Spencer asks. “We could add that to my contract.”

But you have professionals for that. You lay on a massage table, your favorite masseuse’s hands on your neck and Luke is standing in the corner, his hands clasped together, going, “Please, [y/n], please, please, please.”

“Lucas!”

“Pleaseeee. He’d be so good.”

“The boy has star power, [y/n],” Luisa chimes in and you groan. “You can’t deny it.”

“Do we have to talk about this right here? Right now?”

“I’m not quite saying we make him a regular. No,” Luisa continues. “But we get a few decent shots over the next few months, start off with that Elle debacle, maybe script a few more business disagreements. Oh, it’s perfect.”

“Why don’t you just offer him his own show?” you mutter.

“Well, y’know, the sexy broody genius thing is not a bad pitch.”

“Oh, he’d be so good!” Luke exclaims.

“Luke,” you sigh. “I’m begging you, just fuck him already.”

“Oh, p…please…like he’s interested?” he chuckles. “Why? Why? Did he say something to you?”

“That’s it!” you pop your head up and your neck cracks and you wince, “Fuck! Out, now!”

Nothing goes without your permission. Nothing is done, nothing is said. Nothing is written, nothing is signed. Spencer knows this. Yet, when he sits down to read and sign a new contract, he looks you dead in the eye and asks, “This is what you want?”

You avert your eyes, rub your neck without thinking.

“[y/n]’s already read over the contract, finalized filming schedules, updated your salary,” Luisa rambles and Spencer only gives her a quick, tired glance and looks back at you.

“This is what you want?” he repeats himself and he stares at you until he catches your eyes.

“Mhm,” you nod. “You’re already on camera enough. It makes sense.”

“It makes sense?”

“It makes sense.”

Spencer scoffs. It’s more of a huff. He glances down at the newly revised contract and shakes his head, “No.”

“No?” Luisa cuts her head to him.

“No,” he says to you. “No. I signed up to be a scribe, not some TV personality. I have classes, I have…goals. No.”

And you don’t say anything. But you look at him and you smile. Just a small smile, but he’s a smart boy and once he sees that smile, he stands. He leaves.

Luisa scoffs as she looks at you, her mouth open in shock. You drop your smile, purse your lips tightly.

You shrug, “It’s a shame I can’t fire him. He really is such a good scribe.”

He is. He knows his job description, he knows it well. He performs nothing more and nothing less. He authorizes the use of any film prior to the ill fated meeting and whenever he works, he thinks about that smile.

Hard as he tries, he can’t go unnoticed. He’s too pretty. Too…nonchalant. He’s not there to make friends, though the crew strikes up conversations when he can. He’s not there to get laid, though pretty girls and boys flock to him when he’s least expecting it. It’s obnoxious. The whole too pretty for the room thing. You don’t actually expect him to show up to the wrap party but he was explicitly invited.

Throughout the festivities, you massage the incessant pressure point on your neck, exhausted from doing nothing at all to put this party in motion. You’re there as a figurehead, an image to be photographed and immortalized. But your neck is fucking killing you. It’s the one thing that can kill the facade very quickly and it’s working overtime. You tuck yourself away in a corner and just across the room, Spencer is leaning against the wall, practically pinned underneath a tall, slender girl who drunkenly fiddles with the top buttons on his shirt. You can see the signs she’s spitting out from a mile away yet you don’t see him rejecting them. He even wraps his long fingers around her wrist and scrunches his nose up at her and whatever he’s saying is so funny that her laugh actually echoes.

With a vocal, “Ugh,” you roll your eyes and march to the bathroom, a single stall with a crystal mirror and a toilet that somehow sparkles. You splash water on your face and the cold grounds you just a bit. You rub the water into your eyes and press your frozen palm to the back of your neck. Blinking, you reach for a paper towel and press it into your cheekbones. It’s while you’re temporarily blind that you hear the door swing open. You gasp, coming face to face with Spencer who looks the most apologetic you’ve ever seen him.

“Oh! Sorry!” he implores. “Sorry. Thought it was empty.”

“It’s fine.”

He notices the way you lean on the sink, your head ducked down like you’re avoiding eye contact, so he naturally asks, “You alright?”

“Fine. I’ll get out of your way.”

But when you go to exit, he steps in front of you. “Woah,” His arms reach out to caress your shoulders but he stops himself so his hands hover over you. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” you shake your head. “Clearly you’re having a good time so don’t worry about me.”

His eyebrows raise and furrow in such rapid sync with his confusion that his face eventually just falls flat. “Yeah…the fancy spring water is a real rager…”

“And all the girls.”

“What…” he stumbles, he laughs, “The…brunette?”

“Oh, that’s what you call her? It looked like you were already on a first name basis.”

“Her name’s Erica,” he shrugs. “But it wasn’t relevant to our conversation.”

“Oh, well, then, please. You and Erica carry on. Just avoid the vertical dry humping.”

“Oh, the…” he dissolves into chuckles. “You’re exaggerating.”

“It was pornographic.”

“And why does that bother you so much?”

It’s the first thing to actually throw you off guard because you don’t have an answer. So you shrug, “It doesn’t.”

“You sure?” he takes a step closer to you. “I don’t remember a no flirting, no dry humping and no sex clause in my contract.”

“Um, actually, it kinda is in your contract. It’s about the image.”

“The image? There’s people sniffing coke out there!”

“It’s tacky. It’s a PR nightmare.”

“Is it?” he takes another step and you instinctively step back even though he smells so good. “I mean, is that really what it’s about?”

“What?” you roll your eyes. You step back further but find yourself backed against the sink. “What are you implying?”

“That you think I’m pretty,” he grins.

“Ugh! Whatever.”

“That maybe…you wish you were the girl pressed against me? Not the brunette.”

“You are something else,” you shake your head. “Just so full of yourself.”

“I think you’re pretty,” and at the same time he murmurs the words, his hands run up your thighs. All the air leaves your lungs so you’re done talking. “I think you’re the prettiest girl at the whole party. Don’t you?”

His hands reach underneath your dress and when you don’t swat them away, when, instead, you stare him down and climb up to sit on the counter, he persists. “I knew you were the prettiest girl the second I met you.” He starts to rub you through the very thin material of your panties and you have to lean on your palms just to keep from falling back. You suck in a quick breath and exhale it with a soft moan. He grins, he presses against you a little harder.

“I just thought…” he kisses your cheek once, softly, and you all but melt. “She’s too tense. And you are, you’re too tense.”

You agree. By the way you’re rolling your hips against his hand, your body fully agrees.

“Can I push these to the side?” he asks, his fingers hooked onto your undies. He only hooks them further once you nod. He shudders at the feelings of his fingertips instantly drowning in an ocean of your own creation. Or…his? Either way, it’s nice and inviting. He shoves his fingers all the way into you and instantly, your thighs clamp down around his wrist. You release this strained moan before you clamp your hand over your mouth. Self satisfied and emboldened, Spencer starts to pump his fingers against your tummy and his dick is sooooo jealous. But this will do for now.

He wraps his arm around your waist to keep you right where he needs you. He peppers kisses all along your collarbone just so your muffled sounds are right beside his ear. Although his wrist aches at the angle and his veins are threatening to break through his skin, he never loses his rhythm or intensity. He presses his crotch against your knee but it’s too much, he doesn’t trust himself not to explode in his pants so he pulls away, counters it with a hard flick of his wrists that makes your body jolt.

And when the wave starts to roll over you, dangerously close to pulling you underneath, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him close. Spencer’s crotch lands in the warmest place possible and he realizes he’s gonna have to finish this fast before he loses his dominant aura. He follows the cues of your body and increases his pace and determination and you have to bite down on his shirt to maintain control of your volume. It all happens so fast that when you tense up, dig your nails into his back, Spencer’s mind struggles to keep up. He pushes his fingers even deeper just to feel the way your pussy tightens so perfectly around them and then he withdraws them slowly.

He rubs your back, gives you another kiss on the cheek as he wipes his hand on your thighs. He tries to help you pull your dress back down since all you’re doing is whimpering but you huff, “I’ve got it…I’ve got it.”

“Okay.” Spencer steps back to let you off the counter and you wobble as your heels hit the floor. “Not bad for a guy who can only type 70 words per minute, huh?”

You break a smile and shake your head, “This…never happened.”

He figured. Is it a fun thing to hear? No. But nothing could ruin his mood, not right now. “What never happened?” he shrugs and leaves the bathroom.

You splash more cold water on your face. Immediately after, you’re driven home where you have a nice, warm bath and the best night’s sleep you’ve had in a long time.

Where, for the first time in an eternity, you awake in the morning without any pain in your neck.

And it’s like it never happened. Spencer got the memo. He’s the scribe who’s primary duties include attending all relevant business and editorial meetings, document all verbal communication within said meetings, and fingering Miss [y/l/n] whenever she’s in the mood. He just hopes you’re in the mood soon.

He has no idea that you’re doing your best to keep him out of your thoughts. That your feelings are all scrambled inside since the dust was shaken off your g-spot. Every time you hear his name, your tummy caves in like it’s missing something it only had once. So when Luke says, “Would it be crazy to shoot my shot with Spencer?” you just say, “Yes.”

“But I know he likes boys. He’s always flirting with me.”

“You’re always flirting with him.”

“Exactly, so we should hunch.”

“Ugh,” you gag. “Lucas.”

“[y/n], I need him so bad. It’s driving me insane, do you have any idea what that feels like?”

Oh, yes. You do. “Since when is the lanky, scrawny nerd your type? Don’t you prefer them a bit more big and beefy?”

“Aha, see, that’s the illusion. The beefy muscle men get all the hype when in reality, it’s the lanky, scrawny nerds who can put you through the mattress.”

You scoff. You roll your eyes. But what a concept.

As if the universe knew you needed a distraction, you’re pulled into a PR crisis. Immediate damage control is required and when that happens, there is a very specific change of events that must occur and in a concise amount of time. Like world leaders preparing for war, you gather with your team and assume your Barbie position. As in, wherever you need to be, you’ll go. Whatever words you need to say, you’ll speak. And by the end of it all, you’ve ground your teeth dust and you can hardly swivel your head on your neck.

At home, you drink directly from a bottle of wine. Your mouth around the rim is necessary to live to fight another day. When your doorbell rings, you’re dubious that it’s one last command, coming in to stage and pose you in the required manner but it’s not. It’s Spencer. His tall frame looks so tiny on the front porch, a camera peering down at him from the corner. You open the door and he can see there’s no light left in you so he’s soft when he speaks, “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Tough day.”

“Yeah…”

He invites himself in and you’re stunned but not surprised. You just close the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, “Just wanted to check on you.”

“You don’t need to check on me…” you shake your head. “I’m a grown woman. If anything, you need someone to check on you.”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“I’m fine!” you implore and the vibration causes an ache in your neck so you grab your shoulder. “Fuck…I’m okay.”

He sighs, “You know, you should really get that checked out,” and he touches your throat so lightly.

“It’s fine! I’m…you’re not gonna do this.”

“Do what?”

“Swoop in a-and end up inside me again. It’s not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Spencer.”

“Why not? You had a nice time. I had a nice time. That’s…a-a nice time. That’s nice.”

“Eloquent.”

“You don’t even have to pay me for it. I’ll give it up for free.”

“You are…a child.”

“A…I’m 23!”

“Just a baby.”

“I can buy alcohol.”

“And my employee.”

“I can buy cigarettes.”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“What else you got?”

“It would be a media shit show if word got out, you could end up suing me, I could end up being labeled a cradle robber, and for what?”

You are trying so hard to convince yourself.

“I wouldn’t sue you. And I wouldn’t tell a soul. And I would-I would do whatever you asked and whatever you needed and…”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you groan and with a careless force, you pull him in by his shirt collar and kiss him. He moans but it could just be the shock or the wine on your lips. Either way, he wraps his arms around your waist, his hand grabbing anything they can reach because holy shit! Being absolutely pathetic works!

“Come on,” you order and his feet scurry immediately as you drag him into your bedroom.

His first thought is that he’s never seen a bed this big but then he’s thrown on top of it and watching you undress.

“Oh my god,” he exclaims. He actually holds his face in his hands, his jaw dropped wide open.

You have to bite back your smile as you tear off your panties, step out of them. “Okay, hot shot, your turn.”

And he thrashes around as his pants fly off and then his shirt and then his boxers and his out of breath already. His entire body is so long, so pale, save for the red blush on his nose and chest. He reaches for you, his hand grabby and pleading. And as soon as you run into them, there’s so much commotion that the fitted sheet pops off the mattress.

Spencer is so eager that he forgets to purse his lips so every time and everywhere he kisses you, his mouth is wide open and wet. You can’t stop shuddering because he can’t stop groping you and his hands are big enough to spread warmth throughout your entire body. The rush is the only thing distracting you from his dysfunction but he’s vividly aware of his inability to get it up. The anxiety of finally having you is making him so insecure that his cock refuses to get hard. So he slides his fingers into you again but it’s nice because this time he gets to pin you down and watch your face. He gets even deeper than he did last time and you don’t have to be so quiet. It’s nice.

When you reach for his flaccid cock, he goes straight to eating you out because he’s not ready yet. He buries his face between your thighs and he starts off rough, pushing his entire tongue against you so you lose the ability to think. The trick, he suspects, is making you come. He grunts as you pull at his hair and scoot away from him because his mouth is just too much. That’s it. More, more, he needs more.

Once he gets past it, the anxiety, the nerves. Once he reaches the ideal maximum blood flow and his soldier stands straight up, once you roll the condom onto him so swiftly, he puts you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders and yeah, Luke was right.

Spencer puts you through the fucking mattress.

Afterwards, you’re upside down on the bed and wheezing like you’ve punctured a lung. You can’t even feel your legs. When Spencer starts kissing your angle, all the way up your knee, it helps you get the feeling back a bit. He kisses your lips, your cheek, your neck. He doesn’t want to stop.

“You okay?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you huff. You wipe the sweat off your face and nod, “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Oh, now, that seems much more honest,” he grins and you can’t help but laugh. He’s quite proud of himself. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh.”

“What? Sure you have.”

“Nope. Trust me, I’d remember. You laugh much more on TV.”

You cut your eyes at him, tilting your head, “You watch my show?”

“Of course,” he shrugs, like this is common knowledge.

“You just don’t strike me as a reality TV guy.”

“Oh, well, thank you.”

You chuckle and prop yourself on your elbows, “Wanna take a bath?”

His eyes widened because he expected to be kicked out three minutes ago. But a bath? Completely unexpected and completely accepted. “Yes. Yeah. Yes.”

And in this bath, which is big enough to fit you both with room for one more, your bodies recover and your guard is down and you ask Spencer all the things you probably should’ve asked when he was first interviewed. Turns out, he’s a genius. Turns out, if you give him a chance, he’s funny. You don’t know if you keep inviting him back for the orgasms, or the fun facts or the laughs. Who cares?

He keeps coming back.

Spencer keeps coming back and each time, he’s nervous, but a little less than the time before. He’s great at still performing his scribe position like he hasn’t seen you naked. He’s still accurate and precise. He still has your back when executives don’t quite remember every clause of their contracts as well as he does. The sex. The baths. The time you eat Chinese food on the floor together. All of that is just a perk. Charge free.

You should’ve known it was doomed because it’d been weeks since you felt an ache in your neck. You should’ve known. The pain is your true state of equilibrium. The cloud you’ve been riding on was doomed to burst.

“What is this?” your publicist, Clara, asks as she sets a photo down in front of you.

It’s clearly Spencer, leaving your house at some ungodly hour, but you shrug, “That’s my scribe.”

Clara chuckles but it’s far from genuine. She glances at Luisa and back at you. “Mhm. What’s he doing at your house at one in the morning?”

Another shrug, “Scribing.”

“[y/n], what are my four D’s?”

“Oh, god,” you roll your eyes. “Clara…”

“You are required to tell me about all dates, dick, disasters and disagreements. That’s my rule.”

“Well…I forgot.”

“Yes, the dick option is well known for causing amnesia.”

“Paparazzi shouldn’t be allowed past the gate, that’s the whole reason I live there.”

“Oh, they’re not. A neighbor’s friend took this. Crazy inventions, those smartphones. They really make my job a lot harder.”

You sigh, “So…what do I do?”

“You gotta fire him, babe,” Luisa chimes in and it’s the casualty with which she says this that makes your head swivel, which it can now do with ease.

“What?”

“Look, I could’ve spun the scribe to lover storyline if he had let me, but he didn’t. Now, it’s not a good optic. I’m sorry, but pretty boy has to go.”

“Is that not more incriminating than just keeping him on?”

“He can easily be replaced. He’s a background character, it won’t cause commotion. Plus, if you wanted, this frees him up completely to be your boy toy.”

“Oh, my god…” you shake your head, put your face in your hands.

“Hey, plenty of scribes out there,” Clara shrugs. “Problem solved.”

Yeah, there’s plenty. But one like Spencer?

Never.

You go to his apartment with the full intention of telling him. You locate his address on file and take yourself to a neighborhood that you’d normally never frequent. You knock on his door and when he opens it, it’s only for a second before he slams it in your face. Stunned, you listen to the commotion on the other side. He is tossing clothes in the hamper, tidying up his bathroom, stacking books in some type of order to make them appear less scattered. This is as good as it’s gonna get so he opens the door back up.

“Hi. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t call,” you shake your head. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

You step into the small studio and it’s exactly how you pictured it. Tiny, cluttered, dark, but charming. Maintained.

“Can I get you anything? I don’t have that fancy spring water but, um, there’s tap.”

You chuckle, “No, thank you. This place is cute.”

“Ah, rich people speak for crap pile.”

Now, you cackle, “Nooo. No, not at all. It’s nice.”

He smiles as he wraps his arms around you. It’s so casual, so mindless. He’s so happy to have you here. You can see it all over his face. Feel it in the gentleness of his touch. So, you fuck him. For a while, you rattle around on his tiny bed so hard that his neighbor ends up banging on the wall. It’s spineless of you, to use your body to procrastinate, but you have to admit. It helps.

“Coffee?” Spencer offers and you haven’t fully landed from the stars yet so you give him a weak nod.

He kisses your forehead and springs into action, walking around naked in the kitchen. You pull his bed sheet around your body and keep a hold of it as you wander around his apartment. You check out all the photos and the books and the mess overrunning on his desk. You catch a quick glimpse of his assignments and all the numbers and big words hurt your brain so you salute him silently for managing it all. What truly catches your eye is the FBI logo buried underneath the chaos. You think it can’t possibly be the actual Federal Bureau of Investigation so you look closer. Despite the obvious invasion, you read through the letter.

You pick it up, your eyes flicking off the last word and over to Spencer. “What-what’s this?”

Spencer looks up at you with a smile but it quickly drops when he sees the paper in your hand. Awkward. “It’s…” he breaks eye contact with you. “It’s a job offer.”

“Oh,” you respond immediately but not for the reason he thinks.

“I-I…wasn’t sure I would be accepted. I’m not at all buff or tough or anything of the sort but, um…the behavioral analysis unit…it’s a pretty big deal.”

“Yeah…” you nod, floating over to him with the sheet hugging your body. “I could tell just from the stationary.”

He laughs, but it’s uncomfortable. He feels like he’s been caught. So you want to assure him. “You…want this? You want this job? You’d move to DC?”

He exhales a long breath out of his nose and he knows he has to look at you, “It’s a solid offer. I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t accept it. Is there…”

You furrow your eyebrows at him, “Is there what?”

“A reason I shouldn’t take it.”

Fuck. You want to say there is. Any reason. Any reason at all. But, “You should take it.”

Spencer feels like his entire chest just got cracked open. He can feel the ache in his sternum like he’s been shot. But, he just nods. He holds up a mug, “Coffee?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Informally, that night is his one month notice, even though he doesn’t come into work any more after that. He still gets two final checks. And severance. Major severance. That was your call.

The next time you visit his place, you don’t make it to the bed. His stuff is all in boxes, his bed doesn’t have any linens, his plane is taking off in the morning so there’s no time. You stand in the middle of the living room and hold each other tight. You smother each other with your lips, making out so passionately that you can hardly breathe.

Spencer has to take a moment just to catch his breath. Just to touch your face, “If…you ever find yourself in DC…”

You laugh. It’s sad, but you laugh. “You think they’ll let me into Quantico?”

“Oh, yeah,” he nods. “I’ll leave your name at the door. [y/n] [y/l/n], allowed entry any time.”

You giggle and you kiss him. And you kiss him and you kiss him. You roll around on a bed with no sheets and then you refuse to spend the night. If this is it, you demand to do it yourself. You demand to be the one to leave. You never say it out loud but Spencer understands. It’s the reason he doesn’t fight you on it. Instead, he hugs you. For an eternity, tight. Tight, tight, tight, tight. You can feel the pressure decrease as soon as he lets you go. You give him one last kiss. You whisper, “Give ‘em hell, pretty boy.” And he swears he will, just because you asked.

You walk out, you close the door behind you and almost immediately, you cradle your neck.

Author’s Note:

As always, thank you for reading!!! Please like, reblog, comment, all the things!!! Thought of this while I was binge watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians so this fic was entirely inspired by Kris Jenner randomly deciding to get a scribe to document everything she said. Been in the drafts for a while!! SingleDad!Spencer x Nanny!Reader coming up next. Love you all, stay safe out here! Mwah 💋

[eideticmemory]

I was SO excited to see your requests are open! Your fica are some of my favorites I love your characterization of Spencer.

I was watching Friends recently and was inspired by the opening scene of Rachel coming into the coffee shop in her wedding dress.

I’m hung up on exes to lovers again. Maybe a fic where Spencer’s ex comes barreling into the bar or BAUS, mad as hell and looking for Spencer. The team is beyond confused and gobsmacked. Runaway!Bride!Reader essentially is super cordial with everyone and as soon as she sees Spencer, she explodes.

He broke up with her to keep her safe but because he wasn’t in love with her. They go off and argue but essentially ends with her confessions that the only one she ever wanted to marry and have a whole life with, was Spencer. It’s a happy, funny fic filled with sassy and passionate and possessive love-making.

queen!! first of all thank u for reading my work, i love u!!! and second i LOVE this concept!!! thank u sm for sending it in!!!

[eideticmemory]

Matthew Gray Gubler at the Sundance Film Festival (2014)

[eideticmemory]

"I choose to stay silent"

The face i stay silent with:

[eideticmemory]

nvm y’all no one even showed up 😭😭

matthew gray gubler look alike contest in washington square park today and miss eideticmemory herself JUST left nyc 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[eideticmemory]

ahhhhhhhh thank u! <3

SNAP OUT OF IT | SPENCER REID

Spencer knows he’s just a coworker. He knows he’s just a friend. He knows you’ve got a boyfriend. He just doesn’t really give a fuck!

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning/Includes: Taken!Reader, DownBad!Spencer, a little angst and a little smut.

Dedicated to wifetthew + future mrs stewart (and sidepiece) who inspire me everyday and don’t even realize it.

Spencer vividly remembers the moment he realized he was in love with you. Spencer remembers everything about you but this moment in particular, he recounts in his mind a lot. You had just joined the unit. He could tell you - you'd only been there three months, two weeks, and five days. You were flying across time zones so by the time you landed, it would be six days. Everyone else had fallen asleep or was nearly there. Save for you two. You tried your hand in a round of chess but you're shit at it so you'd taken to a game of cards. Spencer remembers thinking it was the easiest conversation he's ever had in his life. He could talk and talk and talk until he lost his breath and when he was done, you'd do the same until there was no air left in your lungs either. He shuffled the cards between his fingertips, hanging onto your every word, watching the sparkle in your eye as you spoke. He kept firing out subtle agreements between your words like, 'yeah...oh, I know...absolutely,’ not just because it's impossible to disagree with your pretty face but because you’re so smart. You get it. He actually had the thought: she gets it.

Finally, he thought, someone gets it.

And you felt just the same. You said to him, "Thank you for agreeing. No one ever gives a shit about my foreign film analysis."

"I...I give a shit."

You chuckled at the gentleness with which he swore and although his voice was soft, it was genuine. "I appreciate it. My boyfriend's unreasonably against the horror genre as a whole. I think it's his biggest flaw. I like being scared."

Because you were too busy counting up your cards, you couldn’t see the bright smile instantly drop from Spencer's face. He could feel the shift in his muscles, the way his eyes stretched wide. He promptly shifted his gaze down and cleared his throat, “B-boyfriend?"

"Yeah..." you shrugged. Very casual, very nonchalant. "Three years next month."

"Oh, wow," he replied and it sounded kind of snide but you didn't think much of it. “That's nice."

He had realized he was in love with you three years too late.

Spencer could have accepted defeat, yeah. Absolutely. If there's one thing the boy genius can do, it's compartmentalize. This is work. This is [y/n]. This is my coworker. This is our job. This is our jet. These are the cards we've been dealt. The best thing to do would be to play them as they fall. Yet, he keeps himself awake for six hour flights just to hold your undivided attention, to talk about things nobody else cares about. His eyes linger on you as you deliver a profile and he thinks: That's [y / n]. That's her face. That's her voice. That's the sweater that matches her eyes just right and the boots she wears when we travel down south. If there's one thing the boy genius can't do when it comes to you, it's compartmentalize. How could he?

He finds himself standing by the elevator at four in the morning. There is nothing exciting about being called in at four in the morning, save for the prospect of seeing you. The elevator dings and he stands up straight, poses his satchel just perfectly on his hip. He wants to be picture perfect ready. Like a model directly out of a Backup Boyfriend catalog. Although, when you step out, you don't even notice he's there. You storm through the bullpen, your phone held up to your ear and your head ducked down. You sequester yourself in an awkward corner, far enough that you feel secluded but not enough so that Spencer can't see you. He sways in place, an attempt to look casual, his hair tucked behind his ear so he can hear you better. He picks up strained words like, 'please...I don't know...okay...fine...bye!' It all comes to a sudden end, your thumb landing on the screen with such force that it could crack.

You seamlessly join the rest of the team, shoving your phone in your back pocket. Try as you might to shift your focus, the edge hasn't quite left your body so when Spencer asks, "You okay?" You respond with a curt, "Yeah. I'm fine.”

He thinks: That's fine. That's okay. I can take it. On the jet, you bury your nose in a case file and when your phone won't stop vibrating, you silence it completely. Spencer brings you a cup of coffee and you hardly even process it.

"Cream and extra sugar," he pips because he knows that's how you like it.

"Thanks.”

That's it. Spencer waits for more but it never comes. He sits on the opposite side of the jet, watching you pick up your phone, huff, and type, type, type in a rage. He thinks: I cannot take this.

The case is a good distraction. A relief for him to know that even when you are not yourself, you're still brilliant. You just can't help it. There's a moment where he just finishes the geographical profile and you stand at his side, arms crossed as you look it over. Your gasp cuts through the air like a knife and his eyes land on you instantaneously.

"Spencer Reid." You put your hand on his shoulder and oh, he almost drops to his knees. “You're a fucking genius."

You race out of the room and he exhales a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He grips onto his shoulder and his skin is still red hot.

A win is good. You needed a win. You all needed a win. Makes you feel good for something. Makes the flight home much less suffocating than its departure. On top of solving murders in a rush, the mental gymnastics your brain has endured over the week leaves you exhausted. You pull a blanket over your body and snuggle against the solid walls of the jet. You let out this big, heavy sigh just as Spencer sits down across from you.

“Close call today, huh?” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod. You look up at him with these bleary eyes and they’re so beautiful that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to talk.

But he does, “All thanks to you.”

You smile. You want to be bashful, to deny the praise, but you don’t have the energy. “Thanks for the pat on the back.”

“Oh, anytime.”

He watches you take another deep breath, your body lulling into further peace by the second. He hates to disrupt it. “You, uh…” he stutters. “You wanna share what’s been bothering you now?”

You glance over at him from the corner of your eye, “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to a profiler.”

You chuckle. He loves to make you laugh. “It’s nothing,” you shake your head.

“You…you know I’m the profiler, right?”

You sit up, another laugh escaping your throat without much thought. It feels nice. “Yeah. Right.”

“So?”

“I’m just…stressed…” you finally admit, though that part was evident.

“Blackjack?” He sets an array of cards in front of you.

You nod, “I have a stressful job. Hit me.”

He flips another card, “Five. Yeah, you do.”

“And…it’s hard when…when things at home are stressful, too. Makes it worse. Hit me.”

Another card, “Ooh, six. That makes sense.”

“Sometimes, I…I don’t know…I let myself get pulled in too many different directions,” you look over your cards, dangerously close to 21, and you take a leap of faith. “Hit me.”

He turns the final card over and it brings you right to 21. The way it unfolds shocks you, pulls you from your brain fog and you break out in a grin. “21? That’s 21, right?”

“Yeah,” he nods. He bites down on the smile on his lip and it’s a look on him you’ve never seen before. You can’t stop staring at it. “All you, money bags.”

You giggle, “Did you rig that?”

“Me? No,” he shakes his head, casually clearing the pile. “There’s no rigging in blackjack.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’ve heard that before.”

“Everything should be that easy for you,” he whispers. There’s a slight change in his tone that even an untrained profiler could pick up. He glances up to meet your gaze, “I’d rig it all for you if I could.”

Now, he thinks because he’s resetting the table that you’re not focused on the subliminal message in his voice. But you notice. You look down at your cards, look back at him, “Hit me.”

When the boyfriend is a concept, an idea trapped inside your phone, a mirage that you only mention in passing conversation, Spencer doesn’t think much of him. Spencer doesn’t think of the motherfucker at all. You clock into work and he’s determined to take the time he can get with you, any way he can, the only way he knows how.

You get back into DC one night and the sun hasn’t even set yet. Emily and JJ invite you out for drinks and it’s with an anxious nod that you accept. So Spencer super graciously accepts. He strides beside you on the walk from the bureau, keeping you tucked in on the safety of the sidewalk because he doesn’t know how to not shield you. From anything. You order a wine and a glass of water. Spencer sits right beside you and orders himself a shirley temple.

You gasp, “Ohhh my god, I should’ve got that.”

“Here,” he slides the glass over to you.

“Oh, no, no. It’s okay.”

“No, take it.”

“I can’t.”

“But I’m offering. I don’t even want it. Maraschino cherries, yuck, gross. You have it.”

You chuckle and shyly grab the drink, sticking a straw in. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” he nods. And he means that mhm in the way of it’s really no big deal. He’d give you a kidney if he was a match.

He trades you for your water though he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He watches you fall into loud conversation with the other ladies, yours being the only laugh to match Penelope’s in pitch.

You lean into him, cackling, “She’s insane. Oh my god, she’s ridiculous.”

His skin buzzes where your shoulders make contact and his face is bright red from how wide he smiles at you. “Oh, yeah. I could’ve told you that.”

Spencer’s absolutely obsessed with the joy in your eyes, the way you nearly choke on your second shirley temple. The way you’re so close to him. He cannot look away. So when your smile suddenly drops and that joy’s promptly replaced with anxiety, he’s the first to notice.

“Hey,” you whisper to the figure behind him. He turns around and looks the man up and down. “You’re early.”

The Boyfriend shrugs, “Sorry. Hi, everyone.”

He’s not at all like Spencer imagined him. He’s taller. Not as much of a little bitch.

You rise from your seat and wrap your hand around Boyfriend’s bicep. “Uh, this is just some of the team. That’s Emily, Penelope, JJ and, uh, Spencer. This is my boyfriend.”

They all dole out polite waves and smiles. Except for Spencer. He stands up tall and ha, just as he thought, they’re the same height. He gives Boyfriend a stern handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Spencer? Heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Haven’t heard that much about you.”

The ladies exchange confused glances and you exhale a quick breath to cut the tension.

“Well, we’ve been together a while. Too much there to sum up in words, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Spencer nods and here is another smile you’ve never seen on his face before. It’s not genuine. That, you know.

“You ready to go?” Boyfriend asks and you nod.

“Mhm. Bye, you guys!” you wave, falling into the grip of the possessive hand around your waist.

Emily glares at Spencer as he lowers back onto his stool, his eyes not leaving the door even when you’re long out of sight. “You done swinging that thing around?” she mutters.

“Hm?” he hums. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mhm.”

As Boyfriend opens the car door for you, he can’t help but comment, “So that’s Spencer, huh?”

“Yeah?” you buckle yourself in and it’s an anxious few seconds before he’s buckled in beside you.

“Well, it makes sense now.”

“What?”

“The little toothpick’s in love with you.”

Spencer doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the time you spend on your phone at work becomes more frequent after that. That you come in looking drained and pale even at ten o’clock in the morning. That, carefully, you distance yourself from him. It’s not a coincidence. It just hurts.

As he reads over a case file, he builds a tower of cards. You can’t help but admire the way his brain splits in two, one side reading and the other stacking each piece just right. It’s cool. You think it’s cool, but there’s not a kind bone in your body today and you snip, “Got nothing better to do?” as you sit across from him. “People are dying.”

“People are always dying. Kind of how we get a paycheck.”

“Mm. How altruistic of you.”

“I’m just passing the time,” he continues to stack. He’s very near the top of the pyramid. “People do all sorts of things to pass time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know. They spend hours, days, weeks, years…building something. And you know, you would think that would ensure some type of stability or longevity or…anything, right?”

“I guess.”

“But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes no matter how much time passes or…how much effort you put in,” he places the final two cards on top. “It’s just not meant to last.”

And with a tiny flick of his finger, the whole pyramid comes tumbling down. You can’t help but watch the picturesque scene, the way they float down onto the table in a big mess.

Spencer doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell that you don’t know what he’s talking about. You’re smart. You get it.

You don’t acknowledge it, though.

That night, you can’t sleep. For some reason, you’ve got this idea in your head that if you force your eyes open for a few hours longer, you can make yourself useful on a case that, so far, has no end in sight. The hotel accommodating the team is a nice one. There’s a library on the first floor that they leave open 24/7, perfect for a profiler on the hunt. You flip through the files in the near pitch black, curled up in a chair beside the tiniest lamp in the world. Despite your eye for detail, you don’t even notice when Spencer walks in. Not until he clears his throat.

You look up at him, startled, until you see his face, “Oh,” not the reaction he was hoping for. “Should’ve known you’d find me here.”

“I like to think I’d find you anywhere,” he shrugs. He sits down in the chair beside you and looks over your shoulder. You can smell him from just a foot away but it doesn't affect you. It can’t affect you. “Any luck?”

“No. Care to help?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, great.”

“[y/n], it’s late. Nothing you can do without brain power.”

“I just hate…” you start, the exclamation coming out before you can hold yourself back. Spencer watches you intently, hanging onto your voice. “T-the detergent they use on the linens. Gives me a headache.”

He sighs, “Yeah. Me too. I swiped some extra pillow mints. Want one?”

“Mhm,” you hold your hand out and unwrap the candy instantly. It helps your anxiety.

Enough so that you open up just a bit more, you tell Spencer about the headache that’s been bashing against your skull all day. “But maybe I’ve just had too much coffee.”

“Or not enough.”

You laugh, “Yeah, no, that must be it.”

Your phone pings in your lap and you check the message very quickly, the small smile that once sat on your lips dissipating in thin air. Just when he wrangled a laugh out of you, Spencer thinks. Of course. He watches your entire mood change in the blink of an eye and he fucking hates it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Yeah…tired. Should probably head to bed.”

“But the detergent?”

You chuckle, “I’ll survive.”

On the elevator ride up to your floor, you rest your back against the wall, Spencer perched right beside you. You keep your eyes closed, your hands gripping the bar for balance. The motion doesn’t help your headache. You gulp, clear your throat, and when you open your eyes, Spencer is staring at you. Shamelessly. You furrow your eyebrows at him, tracking his eyes as they focus in on your mouth.

“Are you looking at my lips?”

He nods, “Mhm.”

“Can you read them?”

“Mhm.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” that snaps him out of his trance and he stands up straight, shaking his head. The elevator dings and he walks off, exasperated, exhausted, exclaiming, “[y/n], who cares?”

Your jaw drops in shock and by the time you step out to follow him, he’s already marched into his room. You scoff as you burst into your own suite. You crash in bed and you lay there tossing and turning for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s only thirty minutes but it’s long enough. Long enough for this unbridle, illogical rage to build within you. Long enough for your mind to fill with thoughts like: who the fuck does he think he is? What the fuck does he know? Oh, I’ll tell him what he doesn’t know. And you hop out of bed. You storm down the hall in your slippers, knocking on Spencer’s door like, ironically, the feds.

Lucky for you, he was nowhere near asleep yet. He swings the door open and he opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“Listen, Einstein.”

“I’m listening.”

“Just…just because you don't get it doesn’t mean you have the right to shit on my relationship.”

“Who was shitting on your relationship?”

“Stop it.”

“Fine, I was shitting on your relationship.”

“And that’s not fair.”

“But you’re…” and he enunciates this next word very clearly. “Not happy.”

“Don’t tell me what I am. You don’t know anything. You don’t know me or my life. You don’t get to cast judgement.”

“Oh, okay. Okay. Well, then, I’m so happy for you, [y/n]. I am.”

You’ve said all you need to say and you have no interest in hearing any more. You turn around and march away but he persists, “Hey, I really am. I’ll be the first one to buy something off your wedding registry!”

There are no more card games on the jet for a while.

And that sucks, but you’re trying to prove a point here. Spencer knows nothing. Maybe no one’s ever told him that before and maybe that’s why it stings. Maybe that’s why he can hardly look you in the eye, but you’re trying to prove a point here.

You’ve drawn a boundary that should’ve been drawn long ago. Not even because you wanted to but out of spite. Spite can carry you a long way. It has before. The nature of your work makes it easy to clock in and think of nothing else. Focus on nothing other than getting the job done. It’s the moments in between that are hard.

Like tonight, as you’re typing up case notes at your desk. It’s too quiet. It leaves too much room for opportunity. Taking full advantage, Spencer sets a small gift bag in front of you. You tilt your head as you look up at him, your face etched with inhibition.

“I…” he stutters. “I got it a while ago. Thought it’d be a nice birthday present and I won’t see you tomorrow, so…”

You give him a small smile. The ice doesn’t just thaw, it melts. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you dive into the bag, pulling out the hardcover book and holding it flat between your palms. You release a small gust of air from your nose. You touch the textured font of the lettering along the cover. “Oh, Spencer.”

He has to act like the tone in your voice doesn’t have the biggest effect on him. Hearing his name in such a gentle whisper. He just shrugs, “I recognized the limited edition cover while I was in this library near the art museum. It’s a nice library, you’d like it.”

“I love it,” you breathe before you can censor it. “The book. I love the book. It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s so much more to be said. The weight of it all vibrates behind your teeth and you grind them together as you gaze at Spencer. He can see your mouth aching to open but he knows it won’t.

“Well…happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope it’s a great one.”

“Thank you.”

And you watch him disappear. You feel your heart sink to the barrel of your stomach, like all the words you’re destined to scream out to him are making you sick.

This nausea lasts well into your birthday. No matter the sheer amount of fuss. No matter the amount of texts or calls or gifts that arrive at your door. You’re sick. Even when you put on your fanciest dress for dinner, you curl up in your office with your new book, finally and for no reason, gathering the courage to open its pages and read the quote recounted on the first page.

“And here you come

with a shield for a heart

and a sword for a tongue”

Happy Birthday, [y/n]

Spencer

You slam the book shut and trap it in the drawer of your desk. You’re sick.

You still eat at your birthday dinner. The love and affection reserved for a day like today helps settle your stomach. You think: I am [y/n]. It’s my birthday. These are my gifts. They are from people who love me. This is my boyfriend. This is my birthday cake. It works, it’s working.

Then he pulls out that fucking ring.

The angle at which he kneels in front of you catches the light just right and the diamond blinds you in the eye. Your mind, along with the entire room, falls silent. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime - silence. When his voice cuts through the thick air, you can see his lips moving, you can hear the vibrations going wah wah wah wah wah. But nothing is as loud as the sound of your own breathing, heavy and rapid. Your hands are over your heart but just to keep it from forcing its way out of your chest. You’re sick.

You’re sick.

Spencer had just gotten in bed. He made it the entire day without allowing himself to call you and now he figures he can force himself to sleep. That is until there’s a booming knock at his door. Now he’s wired. He springs into action like it’s not a potential threat and he throws his body against the door to glance out the peephole.

When he opens it, you are still out of breath. Your chest is heaving and you wheeze with every exhale. His eyes travel down your body, the pretty dress and your beaten and bare feet, the heels dangling from your fingers. The look in your eyes is a mystery to him. It’s laced with exasperation and desperation and he furrows his brows trying to figure it all out. Nonetheless, when he sees you moving towards him, he wraps his arms tight around your waist, opens his mouth and gasps as you kiss him.

He’s quick to close the door behind you, stumbling when you drop your shoes to the ground, but only for a moment. No time for stumbling here. He moans at the sudden grip you take of his hair and his body pushes into yours even more, directing you to his bedroom with just the pressure of his chest.

Never expecting this to happen, let alone tonight, Spencer is quick to swipe away all the books that have piled up on his bed. He promptly takes their place and grabs your waist to pull you back into the kiss. You have to hike your dress up your thighs to properly straddle him but once you, he swears he can feel the warmth all the way to his toes.

Your eyes roll back as he licks all over your neck, attacking your chest with sloppy kisses and sudden bites. You feel his erection raise between your legs and the pressure of it has you moaning directly in his ear. The vibration scratches just the right spot in his brain and he bunches your dress up in his hands, the veins along his arm straining through his skin.

You huff, pull back to look at his face, his eyes hooded and hungry. “What…” you pant. “What am I doing?”

Caught off guard, Spencer can’t do much but blink. And shrug. “What…are you doing?”

You stumble over your words, if that’s what you could even call them. It’s more a collection of whines and one short whimper before you simply carry on. Grab his face, catch his mouth and let it go. Perfect for Spencer, because he didn’t really need an answer.

He follows your lead as you undo the tie on his sweatpants. He pushes and you pull until his throbbing cock is free. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. It just all feels so unreal, like a dream, like a fantasy. Except it’s not, it’s tangible. You can feel it. You can touch him - and you do. You wrap your hand around him and shudder as he grips onto your forearms. His teeth are clenched tight so it makes it harder for him to kiss you, harder for him to breathe but he keeps you locked in place. If he could talk, he’d beg please don't stop, please. Please, please, please.

And it’s like you can read his mind. Through the ferocity with which he pushes his face into yours, the way his hips buck underneath you, you get it. You’ll give it to him. You pull your panties to the side and just the tip pressing against you sends a visual jolt through your body.

“Yeah?” You whisper. More like - right? This is right? Right?

Almost immediately, Spencer grunts, “Yes. Yes. Yeah,” he could say it in a million other languages if it would get the point across but english is good enough. You lower yourself down on him and thoughtless, he yelps, “Yes!” as he falls back on the bed.

Even though he’s transcended his own body, Spencer keeps his eyes locked on you. His gaze follows your jaw as it drops wide open and both of your moans fall in sync as you start to roll your hips. Spencer’s hand clamps down on your thigh, the other reaching up to touch your face. The tender contact makes your vision blurry but you can still see the way he’s looking at you.

He touches your hair and your jaw and takes a soft sweep over your cheekbone. His thumb runs over your bottom lip. He can feel your breath coming out hot and quiet each time you land on him, the rhythm of your body taking the air out of both of you.

Is this really happening? he thinks. This can’t be happening. But you increase your speed, lower your inhibition, send a shock of pleasure through him so good that he has no choice but to believe it’s real. You catch his thumb between your lips and he grunts, whines out for you, “[y/n]…”

“Mm, yes?” you lay your body flat against his, your hands intertwining with his amongst the bedsheets and he clenches his fist tight, tight, tight, tight. It’s all so much. Stimulation coming from everywhere at once. From your chest rubbing against his, from your pussy tightening around him like you’re nearly swallowing him whole. From the messy kiss your lips tangle in and the ever increasing volume from you both.

Spencer bends his knees behind you, supporting your body when your movements become rushed and uncontrollable. With your hand pressed to his chest and your head thrown back, he’s emboldened enough to grope your breasts, losely place his hands around your throat.

“Oh…” you whimper. “G-god…” and Spencer hangs onto the broken sound of your voice, enamored by the way your eyes cross over one another. He feels like he’s not doing much, like his body is still in shock and most focused on keeping himself grounded. As you crash down on him, he bends underneath the pressure, overwhelmed as each bounce grows more deliberate than the last. Each collision accompanied by a throaty, “Mm…mm…hmm.” Until your thighs come to a grinding halt and latch onto him, the orgasm radiating from your belly to your chest and directly to your head. He responds to your boisterous moan with a breathless gasp, catching you in his arms when you land on his chest.

He peppers your shoulder with tiny kisses, licking his way to your neck, biting your throat because he absolutely has to. Your hips continue in this mindless rhythm, draining every last twitch from your body as he whispers, “[y/n]…”

“Hm?”

“[y/n]…I, mm,” you catch his voice in your mouth, pushing your tongue between his lips. You attack his neck. You push his shirt up his torso just to move down his body and kiss his stomach.

“[y/n]…ah!” and though you love the sound of your name on his lips, you love to hear him scream even more and after you suck his cock into your mouth, he can’t stop screaming. Mouth open, body trembling, ear ringing moans. He reaches down to keep your hair out of your face and his hips jolt a bit rougher than he means to. He wants to look at you but his body is too taut. He wants to hold you in the palm of his hand, to call out your name one last time to make sure this is real. But he shoots into your mouth, his legs flailing around your frame, and all he can do, still, is scream.

You hum. You swallow. You slide off of him with a sharp pop. You crawl off of his body and drop as soon as your head hits the pillow. Spencer’s hand keep track of you, grazing your thigh, sad to feel you leave, begging to keep you close. Even as he struggles to breath, he balls up the edge of your dress in his fist. You lean back against the headboard, looking up at his ceiling fan, your body finally exerting all its energy and unable to move any further. The room has settled into nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and catharsis.

Spencer looks up at you and when you make eye contact with him, there are so many more complicated thoughts you could have. But the only thing that swims in your mind is the slow bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You rest your knuckles on his cheekbone and he promptly grabs your wrist, peppers soft kisses all over your hand.

You owe him something. He has every right to ask. As he opens his mouth, you’re prepared to tell the truth. You will give him nothing but the truth.

“Did you see they’re adapting another Stephen King novel into a movie?”

You exhale a small laugh. Partially because you weren’t expecting it and partially because you had been dying to talk to him about it. “Yes. And I think it’s stupid.”

“Me too! I mean, the premise is promising, I think it can be done, but it’s the…”

“Supernatural element.”

“Yeah!”

“It’s hard to pull off. Major chances of it turning out cheesy and robotic.”

“Yes! Thank you! I’m still going to see it.”

“Oh, me too,” you laugh and his laughter blends in just perfectly.

It can wait. There’s a lot to catch up on. A lot of questions to ask and answer but for now, it’s easy. This, Spencer thinks. This is it. This is actually the easiest conversation he’s ever had in his life. And he’s not gonna fuck it up now.

Author’s note:

Ahh 😝 thanks for reading!!! Like, reblog, comment, all the things!! Just wanted an excuse to post this meme. Stay safe out here 😚

[eideticmemory]

matthew gray gubler look alike contest in washington square park today and miss eideticmemory herself JUST left nyc 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[eideticmemory]

SNAP OUT OF IT | SPENCER REID

Spencer knows he’s just a coworker. He knows he’s just a friend. He knows you’ve got a boyfriend. He just doesn’t really give a fuck!

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning/Includes: Taken!Reader, DownBad!Spencer, a little angst and a little smut.

Dedicated to wifetthew + future mrs stewart (and sidepiece) who inspire me everyday and don’t even realize it.

Spencer vividly remembers the moment he realized he was in love with you. Spencer remembers everything about you but this moment in particular, he recounts in his mind a lot. You had just joined the unit. He could tell you - you'd only been there three months, two weeks, and five days. You were flying across time zones so by the time you landed, it would be six days. Everyone else had fallen asleep or was nearly there. Save for you two. You tried your hand in a round of chess but you're shit at it so you'd taken to a game of cards. Spencer remembers thinking it was the easiest conversation he's ever had in his life. He could talk and talk and talk until he lost his breath and when he was done, you'd do the same until there was no air left in your lungs either. He shuffled the cards between his fingertips, hanging onto your every word, watching the sparkle in your eye as you spoke. He kept firing out subtle agreements between your words like, 'yeah...oh, I know...absolutely,’ not just because it's impossible to disagree with your pretty face but because you’re so smart. You get it. He actually had the thought: she gets it.

Finally, he thought, someone gets it.

And you felt just the same. You said to him, "Thank you for agreeing. No one ever gives a shit about my foreign film analysis."

"I...I give a shit."

You chuckled at the gentleness with which he swore and although his voice was soft, it was genuine. "I appreciate it. My boyfriend's unreasonably against the horror genre as a whole. I think it's his biggest flaw. I like being scared."

Because you were too busy counting up your cards, you couldn’t see the bright smile instantly drop from Spencer's face. He could feel the shift in his muscles, the way his eyes stretched wide. He promptly shifted his gaze down and cleared his throat, “B-boyfriend?"

"Yeah..." you shrugged. Very casual, very nonchalant. "Three years next month."

"Oh, wow," he replied and it sounded kind of snide but you didn't think much of it. “That's nice."

He had realized he was in love with you three years too late.

Spencer could have accepted defeat, yeah. Absolutely. If there's one thing the boy genius can do, it's compartmentalize. This is work. This is [y/n]. This is my coworker. This is our job. This is our jet. These are the cards we've been dealt. The best thing to do would be to play them as they fall. Yet, he keeps himself awake for six hour flights just to hold your undivided attention, to talk about things nobody else cares about. His eyes linger on you as you deliver a profile and he thinks: That's [y / n]. That's her face. That's her voice. That's the sweater that matches her eyes just right and the boots she wears when we travel down south. If there's one thing the boy genius can't do when it comes to you, it's compartmentalize. How could he?

He finds himself standing by the elevator at four in the morning. There is nothing exciting about being called in at four in the morning, save for the prospect of seeing you. The elevator dings and he stands up straight, poses his satchel just perfectly on his hip. He wants to be picture perfect ready. Like a model directly out of a Backup Boyfriend catalog. Although, when you step out, you don't even notice he's there. You storm through the bullpen, your phone held up to your ear and your head ducked down. You sequester yourself in an awkward corner, far enough that you feel secluded but not enough so that Spencer can't see you. He sways in place, an attempt to look casual, his hair tucked behind his ear so he can hear you better. He picks up strained words like, 'please...I don't know...okay...fine...bye!' It all comes to a sudden end, your thumb landing on the screen with such force that it could crack.

You seamlessly join the rest of the team, shoving your phone in your back pocket. Try as you might to shift your focus, the edge hasn't quite left your body so when Spencer asks, "You okay?" You respond with a curt, "Yeah. I'm fine.”

He thinks: That's fine. That's okay. I can take it. On the jet, you bury your nose in a case file and when your phone won't stop vibrating, you silence it completely. Spencer brings you a cup of coffee and you hardly even process it.

"Cream and extra sugar," he pips because he knows that's how you like it.

"Thanks.”

That's it. Spencer waits for more but it never comes. He sits on the opposite side of the jet, watching you pick up your phone, huff, and type, type, type in a rage. He thinks: I cannot take this.

The case is a good distraction. A relief for him to know that even when you are not yourself, you're still brilliant. You just can't help it. There's a moment where he just finishes the geographical profile and you stand at his side, arms crossed as you look it over. Your gasp cuts through the air like a knife and his eyes land on you instantaneously.

"Spencer Reid." You put your hand on his shoulder and oh, he almost drops to his knees. “You're a fucking genius."

You race out of the room and he exhales a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He grips onto his shoulder and his skin is still red hot.

A win is good. You needed a win. You all needed a win. Makes you feel good for something. Makes the flight home much less suffocating than its departure. On top of solving murders in a rush, the mental gymnastics your brain has endured over the week leaves you exhausted. You pull a blanket over your body and snuggle against the solid walls of the jet. You let out this big, heavy sigh just as Spencer sits down across from you.

“Close call today, huh?” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod. You look up at him with these bleary eyes and they’re so beautiful that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to talk.

But he does, “All thanks to you.”

You smile. You want to be bashful, to deny the praise, but you don’t have the energy. “Thanks for the pat on the back.”

“Oh, anytime.”

He watches you take another deep breath, your body lulling into further peace by the second. He hates to disrupt it. “You, uh…” he stutters. “You wanna share what’s been bothering you now?”

You glance over at him from the corner of your eye, “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to a profiler.”

You chuckle. He loves to make you laugh. “It’s nothing,” you shake your head.

“You…you know I’m the profiler, right?”

You sit up, another laugh escaping your throat without much thought. It feels nice. “Yeah. Right.”

“So?”

“I’m just…stressed…” you finally admit, though that part was evident.

“Blackjack?” He sets an array of cards in front of you.

You nod, “I have a stressful job. Hit me.”

He flips another card, “Five. Yeah, you do.”

“And…it’s hard when…when things at home are stressful, too. Makes it worse. Hit me.”

Another card, “Ooh, six. That makes sense.”

“Sometimes, I…I don’t know…I let myself get pulled in too many different directions,” you look over your cards, dangerously close to 21, and you take a leap of faith. “Hit me.”

He turns the final card over and it brings you right to 21. The way it unfolds shocks you, pulls you from your brain fog and you break out in a grin. “21? That’s 21, right?”

“Yeah,” he nods. He bites down on the smile on his lip and it’s a look on him you’ve never seen before. You can’t stop staring at it. “All you, money bags.”

You giggle, “Did you rig that?”

“Me? No,” he shakes his head, casually clearing the pile. “There’s no rigging in blackjack.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’ve heard that before.”

“Everything should be that easy for you,” he whispers. There’s a slight change in his tone that even an untrained profiler could pick up. He glances up to meet your gaze, “I’d rig it all for you if I could.”

Now, he thinks because he’s resetting the table that you’re not focused on the subliminal message in his voice. But you notice. You look down at your cards, look back at him, “Hit me.”

When the boyfriend is a concept, an idea trapped inside your phone, a mirage that you only mention in passing conversation, Spencer doesn’t think much of him. Spencer doesn’t think of the motherfucker at all. You clock into work and he’s determined to take the time he can get with you, any way he can, the only way he knows how.

You get back into DC one night and the sun hasn’t even set yet. Emily and JJ invite you out for drinks and it’s with an anxious nod that you accept. So Spencer super graciously accepts. He strides beside you on the walk from the bureau, keeping you tucked in on the safety of the sidewalk because he doesn’t know how to not shield you. From anything. You order a wine and a glass of water. Spencer sits right beside you and orders himself a shirley temple.

You gasp, “Ohhh my god, I should’ve got that.”

“Here,” he slides the glass over to you.

“Oh, no, no. It’s okay.”

“No, take it.”

“I can’t.”

“But I’m offering. I don’t even want it. Maraschino cherries, yuck, gross. You have it.”

You chuckle and shyly grab the drink, sticking a straw in. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” he nods. And he means that mhm in the way of it’s really no big deal. He’d give you a kidney if he was a match.

He trades you for your water though he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He watches you fall into loud conversation with the other ladies, yours being the only laugh to match Penelope’s in pitch.

You lean into him, cackling, “She’s insane. Oh my god, she’s ridiculous.”

His skin buzzes where your shoulders make contact and his face is bright red from how wide he smiles at you. “Oh, yeah. I could’ve told you that.”

Spencer’s absolutely obsessed with the joy in your eyes, the way you nearly choke on your second shirley temple. The way you’re so close to him. He cannot look away. So when your smile suddenly drops and that joy’s promptly replaced with anxiety, he’s the first to notice.

“Hey,” you whisper to the figure behind him. He turns around and looks the man up and down. “You’re early.”

The Boyfriend shrugs, “Sorry. Hi, everyone.”

He’s not at all like Spencer imagined him. He’s taller. Not as much of a little bitch.

You rise from your seat and wrap your hand around Boyfriend’s bicep. “Uh, this is just some of the team. That’s Emily, Penelope, JJ and, uh, Spencer. This is my boyfriend.”

They all dole out polite waves and smiles. Except for Spencer. He stands up tall and ha, just as he thought, they’re the same height. He gives Boyfriend a stern handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Spencer? Heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Haven’t heard that much about you.”

The ladies exchange confused glances and you exhale a quick breath to cut the tension.

“Well, we’ve been together a while. Too much there to sum up in words, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Spencer nods and here is another smile you’ve never seen on his face before. It’s not genuine. That, you know.

“You ready to go?” Boyfriend asks and you nod.

“Mhm. Bye, you guys!” you wave, falling into the grip of the possessive hand around your waist.

Emily glares at Spencer as he lowers back onto his stool, his eyes not leaving the door even when you’re long out of sight. “You done swinging that thing around?” she mutters.

“Hm?” he hums. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mhm.”

As Boyfriend opens the car door for you, he can’t help but comment, “So that’s Spencer, huh?”

“Yeah?” you buckle yourself in and it’s an anxious few seconds before he’s buckled in beside you.

“Well, it makes sense now.”

“What?”

“The little toothpick’s in love with you.”

Spencer doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the time you spend on your phone at work becomes more frequent after that. That you come in looking drained and pale even at ten o’clock in the morning. That, carefully, you distance yourself from him. It’s not a coincidence. It just hurts.

As he reads over a case file, he builds a tower of cards. You can’t help but admire the way his brain splits in two, one side reading and the other stacking each piece just right. It’s cool. You think it’s cool, but there’s not a kind bone in your body today and you snip, “Got nothing better to do?” as you sit across from him. “People are dying.”

“People are always dying. Kind of how we get a paycheck.”

“Mm. How altruistic of you.”

“I’m just passing the time,” he continues to stack. He’s very near the top of the pyramid. “People do all sorts of things to pass time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know. They spend hours, days, weeks, years…building something. And you know, you would think that would ensure some type of stability or longevity or…anything, right?”

“I guess.”

“But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes no matter how much time passes or…how much effort you put in,” he places the final two cards on top. “It’s just not meant to last.”

And with a tiny flick of his finger, the whole pyramid comes tumbling down. You can’t help but watch the picturesque scene, the way they float down onto the table in a big mess.

Spencer doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell that you don’t know what he’s talking about. You’re smart. You get it.

You don’t acknowledge it, though.

That night, you can’t sleep. For some reason, you’ve got this idea in your head that if you force your eyes open for a few hours longer, you can make yourself useful on a case that, so far, has no end in sight. The hotel accommodating the team is a nice one. There’s a library on the first floor that they leave open 24/7, perfect for a profiler on the hunt. You flip through the files in the near pitch black, curled up in a chair beside the tiniest lamp in the world. Despite your eye for detail, you don’t even notice when Spencer walks in. Not until he clears his throat.

You look up at him, startled, until you see his face, “Oh,” not the reaction he was hoping for. “Should’ve known you’d find me here.”

“I like to think I’d find you anywhere,” he shrugs. He sits down in the chair beside you and looks over your shoulder. You can smell him from just a foot away but it doesn't affect you. It can’t affect you. “Any luck?”

“No. Care to help?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, great.”

“[y/n], it’s late. Nothing you can do without brain power.”

“I just hate…” you start, the exclamation coming out before you can hold yourself back. Spencer watches you intently, hanging onto your voice. “T-the detergent they use on the linens. Gives me a headache.”

He sighs, “Yeah. Me too. I swiped some extra pillow mints. Want one?”

“Mhm,” you hold your hand out and unwrap the candy instantly. It helps your anxiety.

Enough so that you open up just a bit more, you tell Spencer about the headache that’s been bashing against your skull all day. “But maybe I’ve just had too much coffee.”

“Or not enough.”

You laugh, “Yeah, no, that must be it.”

Your phone pings in your lap and you check the message very quickly, the small smile that once sat on your lips dissipating in thin air. Just when he wrangled a laugh out of you, Spencer thinks. Of course. He watches your entire mood change in the blink of an eye and he fucking hates it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Yeah…tired. Should probably head to bed.”

“But the detergent?”

You chuckle, “I’ll survive.”

On the elevator ride up to your floor, you rest your back against the wall, Spencer perched right beside you. You keep your eyes closed, your hands gripping the bar for balance. The motion doesn’t help your headache. You gulp, clear your throat, and when you open your eyes, Spencer is staring at you. Shamelessly. You furrow your eyebrows at him, tracking his eyes as they focus in on your mouth.

“Are you looking at my lips?”

He nods, “Mhm.”

“Can you read them?”

“Mhm.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” that snaps him out of his trance and he stands up straight, shaking his head. The elevator dings and he walks off, exasperated, exhausted, exclaiming, “[y/n], who cares?”

Your jaw drops in shock and by the time you step out to follow him, he’s already marched into his room. You scoff as you burst into your own suite. You crash in bed and you lay there tossing and turning for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s only thirty minutes but it’s long enough. Long enough for this unbridle, illogical rage to build within you. Long enough for your mind to fill with thoughts like: who the fuck does he think he is? What the fuck does he know? Oh, I’ll tell him what he doesn’t know. And you hop out of bed. You storm down the hall in your slippers, knocking on Spencer’s door like, ironically, the feds.

Lucky for you, he was nowhere near asleep yet. He swings the door open and he opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“Listen, Einstein.”

“I’m listening.”

“Just…just because you don't get it doesn’t mean you have the right to shit on my relationship.”

“Who was shitting on your relationship?”

“Stop it.”

“Fine, I was shitting on your relationship.”

“And that’s not fair.”

“But you’re…” and he enunciates this next word very clearly. “Not happy.”

“Don’t tell me what I am. You don’t know anything. You don’t know me or my life. You don’t get to cast judgement.”

“Oh, okay. Okay. Well, then, I’m so happy for you, [y/n]. I am.”

You’ve said all you need to say and you have no interest in hearing any more. You turn around and march away but he persists, “Hey, I really am. I’ll be the first one to buy something off your wedding registry!”

There are no more card games on the jet for a while.

And that sucks, but you’re trying to prove a point here. Spencer knows nothing. Maybe no one’s ever told him that before and maybe that’s why it stings. Maybe that’s why he can hardly look you in the eye, but you’re trying to prove a point here.

You’ve drawn a boundary that should’ve been drawn long ago. Not even because you wanted to but out of spite. Spite can carry you a long way. It has before. The nature of your work makes it easy to clock in and think of nothing else. Focus on nothing other than getting the job done. It’s the moments in between that are hard.

Like tonight, as you’re typing up case notes at your desk. It’s too quiet. It leaves too much room for opportunity. Taking full advantage, Spencer sets a small gift bag in front of you. You tilt your head as you look up at him, your face etched with inhibition.

“I…” he stutters. “I got it a while ago. Thought it’d be a nice birthday present and I won’t see you tomorrow, so…”

You give him a small smile. The ice doesn’t just thaw, it melts. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you dive into the bag, pulling out the hardcover book and holding it flat between your palms. You release a small gust of air from your nose. You touch the textured font of the lettering along the cover. “Oh, Spencer.”

He has to act like the tone in your voice doesn’t have the biggest effect on him. Hearing his name in such a gentle whisper. He just shrugs, “I recognized the limited edition cover while I was in this library near the art museum. It’s a nice library, you’d like it.”

“I love it,” you breathe before you can censor it. “The book. I love the book. It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s so much more to be said. The weight of it all vibrates behind your teeth and you grind them together as you gaze at Spencer. He can see your mouth aching to open but he knows it won’t.

“Well…happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope it’s a great one.”

“Thank you.”

And you watch him disappear. You feel your heart sink to the barrel of your stomach, like all the words you’re destined to scream out to him are making you sick.

This nausea lasts well into your birthday. No matter the sheer amount of fuss. No matter the amount of texts or calls or gifts that arrive at your door. You’re sick. Even when you put on your fanciest dress for dinner, you curl up in your office with your new book, finally and for no reason, gathering the courage to open its pages and read the quote recounted on the first page.

“And here you come

with a shield for a heart

and a sword for a tongue”

Happy Birthday, [y/n]

Spencer

You slam the book shut and trap it in the drawer of your desk. You’re sick.

You still eat at your birthday dinner. The love and affection reserved for a day like today helps settle your stomach. You think: I am [y/n]. It’s my birthday. These are my gifts. They are from people who love me. This is my boyfriend. This is my birthday cake. It works, it’s working.

Then he pulls out that fucking ring.

The angle at which he kneels in front of you catches the light just right and the diamond blinds you in the eye. Your mind, along with the entire room, falls silent. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime - silence. When his voice cuts through the thick air, you can see his lips moving, you can hear the vibrations going wah wah wah wah wah. But nothing is as loud as the sound of your own breathing, heavy and rapid. Your hands are over your heart but just to keep it from forcing its way out of your chest. You’re sick.

You’re sick.

Spencer had just gotten in bed. He made it the entire day without allowing himself to call you and now he figures he can force himself to sleep. That is until there’s a booming knock at his door. Now he’s wired. He springs into action like it’s not a potential threat and he throws his body against the door to glance out the peephole.

When he opens it, you are still out of breath. Your chest is heaving and you wheeze with every exhale. His eyes travel down your body, the pretty dress and your beaten and bare feet, the heels dangling from your fingers. The look in your eyes is a mystery to him. It’s laced with exasperation and desperation and he furrows his brows trying to figure it all out. Nonetheless, when he sees you moving towards him, he wraps his arms tight around your waist, opens his mouth and gasps as you kiss him.

He’s quick to close the door behind you, stumbling when you drop your shoes to the ground, but only for a moment. No time for stumbling here. He moans at the sudden grip you take of his hair and his body pushes into yours even more, directing you to his bedroom with just the pressure of his chest.

Never expecting this to happen, let alone tonight, Spencer is quick to swipe away all the books that have piled up on his bed. He promptly takes their place and grabs your waist to pull you back into the kiss. You have to hike your dress up your thighs to properly straddle him but once you, he swears he can feel the warmth all the way to his toes.

Your eyes roll back as he licks all over your neck, attacking your chest with sloppy kisses and sudden bites. You feel his erection raise between your legs and the pressure of it has you moaning directly in his ear. The vibration scratches just the right spot in his brain and he bunches your dress up in his hands, the veins along his arm straining through his skin.

You huff, pull back to look at his face, his eyes hooded and hungry. “What…” you pant. “What am I doing?”

Caught off guard, Spencer can’t do much but blink. And shrug. “What…are you doing?”

You stumble over your words, if that’s what you could even call them. It’s more a collection of whines and one short whimper before you simply carry on. Grab his face, catch his mouth and let it go. Perfect for Spencer, because he didn’t really need an answer.

He follows your lead as you undo the tie on his sweatpants. He pushes and you pull until his throbbing cock is free. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. It just all feels so unreal, like a dream, like a fantasy. Except it’s not, it’s tangible. You can feel it. You can touch him - and you do. You wrap your hand around him and shudder as he grips onto your forearms. His teeth are clenched tight so it makes it harder for him to kiss you, harder for him to breathe but he keeps you locked in place. If he could talk, he’d beg please don't stop, please. Please, please, please.

And it’s like you can read his mind. Through the ferocity with which he pushes his face into yours, the way his hips buck underneath you, you get it. You’ll give it to him. You pull your panties to the side and just the tip pressing against you sends a visual jolt through your body.

“Yeah?” You whisper. More like - right? This is right? Right?

Almost immediately, Spencer grunts, “Yes. Yes. Yeah,” he could say it in a million other languages if it would get the point across but english is good enough. You lower yourself down on him and thoughtless, he yelps, “Yes!” as he falls back on the bed.

Even though he’s transcended his own body, Spencer keeps his eyes locked on you. His gaze follows your jaw as it drops wide open and both of your moans fall in sync as you start to roll your hips. Spencer’s hand clamps down on your thigh, the other reaching up to touch your face. The tender contact makes your vision blurry but you can still see the way he’s looking at you.

He touches your hair and your jaw and takes a soft sweep over your cheekbone. His thumb runs over your bottom lip. He can feel your breath coming out hot and quiet each time you land on him, the rhythm of your body taking the air out of both of you.

Is this really happening? he thinks. This can’t be happening. But you increase your speed, lower your inhibition, send a shock of pleasure through him so good that he has no choice but to believe it’s real. You catch his thumb between your lips and he grunts, whines out for you, “[y/n]…”

“Mm, yes?” you lay your body flat against his, your hands intertwining with his amongst the bedsheets and he clenches his fist tight, tight, tight, tight. It’s all so much. Stimulation coming from everywhere at once. From your chest rubbing against his, from your pussy tightening around him like you’re nearly swallowing him whole. From the messy kiss your lips tangle in and the ever increasing volume from you both.

Spencer bends his knees behind you, supporting your body when your movements become rushed and uncontrollable. With your hand pressed to his chest and your head thrown back, he’s emboldened enough to grope your breasts, losely place his hands around your throat.

“Oh…” you whimper. “G-god…” and Spencer hangs onto the broken sound of your voice, enamored by the way your eyes cross over one another. He feels like he’s not doing much, like his body is still in shock and most focused on keeping himself grounded. As you crash down on him, he bends underneath the pressure, overwhelmed as each bounce grows more deliberate than the last. Each collision accompanied by a throaty, “Mm…mm…hmm.” Until your thighs come to a grinding halt and latch onto him, the orgasm radiating from your belly to your chest and directly to your head. He responds to your boisterous moan with a breathless gasp, catching you in his arms when you land on his chest.

He peppers your shoulder with tiny kisses, licking his way to your neck, biting your throat because he absolutely has to. Your hips continue in this mindless rhythm, draining every last twitch from your body as he whispers, “[y/n]…”

“Hm?”

“[y/n]…I, mm,” you catch his voice in your mouth, pushing your tongue between his lips. You attack his neck. You push his shirt up his torso just to move down his body and kiss his stomach.

“[y/n]…ah!” and though you love the sound of your name on his lips, you love to hear him scream even more and after you suck his cock into your mouth, he can’t stop screaming. Mouth open, body trembling, ear ringing moans. He reaches down to keep your hair out of your face and his hips jolt a bit rougher than he means to. He wants to look at you but his body is too taut. He wants to hold you in the palm of his hand, to call out your name one last time to make sure this is real. But he shoots into your mouth, his legs flailing around your frame, and all he can do, still, is scream.

You hum. You swallow. You slide off of him with a sharp pop. You crawl off of his body and drop as soon as your head hits the pillow. Spencer’s hand keep track of you, grazing your thigh, sad to feel you leave, begging to keep you close. Even as he struggles to breath, he balls up the edge of your dress in his fist. You lean back against the headboard, looking up at his ceiling fan, your body finally exerting all its energy and unable to move any further. The room has settled into nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and catharsis.

Spencer looks up at you and when you make eye contact with him, there are so many more complicated thoughts you could have. But the only thing that swims in your mind is the slow bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You rest your knuckles on his cheekbone and he promptly grabs your wrist, peppers soft kisses all over your hand.

You owe him something. He has every right to ask. As he opens his mouth, you’re prepared to tell the truth. You will give him nothing but the truth.

“Did you see they’re adapting another Stephen King novel into a book?”

You exhale a small laugh. Partially because you weren’t expecting it and partially because you had been dying to talk to him about it. “Yes. And I think it’s stupid.”

“Me too! I mean, the premise is promising, I think it can be done, but it’s the…”

“Supernatural element.”

“Yeah!”

“It’s hard to pull off. Major chances of it turning out cheesy and robotic.”

“Yes! Thank you! I’m still going to see it.”

“Oh, me too,” you laugh and his laughter blends in just perfectly.

It can wait. There’s a lot to catch up on. A lot of questions to ask and answer but for now, it’s easy. This, Spencer thinks. This is it. This is actually the easiest conversation he’s ever had in his life. And he’s not gonna fuck it up now.

Author’s note:

Ahh 😝 thanks for reading!!! Like, reblog, comment, all the things!! Just wanted an excuse to post this meme. Stay safe out here 😚

[eideticmemory]

SNAP OUT OF IT | SPENCER REID

Spencer knows he’s just a coworker. He knows he’s just a friend. He knows you’ve got a boyfriend. He just doesn’t really give a fuck!

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning/Includes: Taken!Reader, DownBad!Spencer, a little angst and a little smut.

Dedicated to wifetthew + future mrs stewart (and sidepiece) who inspire me everyday and don’t even realize it.

Spencer vividly remembers the moment he realized he was in love with you. Spencer remembers everything about you but this moment in particular, he recounts in his mind a lot. You had just joined the unit. He could tell you - you'd only been there three months, two weeks, and five days. You were flying across time zones so by the time you landed, it would be six days. Everyone else had fallen asleep or was nearly there. Save for you two. You tried your hand in a round of chess but you're shit at it so you'd taken to a game of cards. Spencer remembers thinking it was the easiest conversation he's ever had in his life. He could talk and talk and talk until he lost his breath and when he was done, you'd do the same until there was no air left in your lungs either. He shuffled the cards between his fingertips, hanging onto your every word, watching the sparkle in your eye as you spoke. He kept firing out subtle agreements between your words like, 'yeah...oh, I know...absolutely,’ not just because it's impossible to disagree with your pretty face but because you’re so smart. You get it. He actually had the thought: she gets it.

Finally, he thought, someone gets it.

And you felt just the same. You said to him, "Thank you for agreeing. No one ever gives a shit about my foreign film analysis."

"I...I give a shit."

You chuckled at the gentleness with which he swore and although his voice was soft, it was genuine. "I appreciate it. My boyfriend's unreasonably against the horror genre as a whole. I think it's his biggest flaw. I like being scared."

Because you were too busy counting up your cards, you couldn’t see the bright smile instantly drop from Spencer's face. He could feel the shift in his muscles, the way his eyes stretched wide. He promptly shifted his gaze down and cleared his throat, “B-boyfriend?"

"Yeah..." you shrugged. Very casual, very nonchalant. "Three years next month."

"Oh, wow," he replied and it sounded kind of snide but you didn't think much of it. “That's nice."

He had realized he was in love with you three years too late.

Spencer could have accepted defeat, yeah. Absolutely. If there's one thing the boy genius can do, it's compartmentalize. This is work. This is [y/n]. This is my coworker. This is our job. This is our jet. These are the cards we've been dealt. The best thing to do would be to play them as they fall. Yet, he keeps himself awake for six hour flights just to hold your undivided attention, to talk about things nobody else cares about. His eyes linger on you as you deliver a profile and he thinks: That's [y / n]. That's her face. That's her voice. That's the sweater that matches her eyes just right and the boots she wears when we travel down south. If there's one thing the boy genius can't do when it comes to you, it's compartmentalize. How could he?

He finds himself standing by the elevator at four in the morning. There is nothing exciting about being called in at four in the morning, save for the prospect of seeing you. The elevator dings and he stands up straight, poses his satchel just perfectly on his hip. He wants to be picture perfect ready. Like a model directly out of a Backup Boyfriend catalog. Although, when you step out, you don't even notice he's there. You storm through the bullpen, your phone held up to your ear and your head ducked down. You sequester yourself in an awkward corner, far enough that you feel secluded but not enough so that Spencer can't see you. He sways in place, an attempt to look casual, his hair tucked behind his ear so he can hear you better. He picks up strained words like, 'please...I don't know...okay...fine...bye!' It all comes to a sudden end, your thumb landing on the screen with such force that it could crack.

You seamlessly join the rest of the team, shoving your phone in your back pocket. Try as you might to shift your focus, the edge hasn't quite left your body so when Spencer asks, "You okay?" You respond with a curt, "Yeah. I'm fine.”

He thinks: That's fine. That's okay. I can take it. On the jet, you bury your nose in a case file and when your phone won't stop vibrating, you silence it completely. Spencer brings you a cup of coffee and you hardly even process it.

"Cream and extra sugar," he pips because he knows that's how you like it.

"Thanks.”

That's it. Spencer waits for more but it never comes. He sits on the opposite side of the jet, watching you pick up your phone, huff, and type, type, type in a rage. He thinks: I cannot take this.

The case is a good distraction. A relief for him to know that even when you are not yourself, you're still brilliant. You just can't help it. There's a moment where he just finishes the geographical profile and you stand at his side, arms crossed as you look it over. Your gasp cuts through the air like a knife and his eyes land on you instantaneously.

"Spencer Reid." You put your hand on his shoulder and oh, he almost drops to his knees. “You're a fucking genius."

You race out of the room and he exhales a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He grips onto his shoulder and his skin is still red hot.

A win is good. You needed a win. You all needed a win. Makes you feel good for something. Makes the flight home much less suffocating than its departure. On top of solving murders in a rush, the mental gymnastics your brain has endured over the week leaves you exhausted. You pull a blanket over your body and snuggle against the solid walls of the jet. You let out this big, heavy sigh just as Spencer sits down across from you.

“Close call today, huh?” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod. You look up at him with these bleary eyes and they’re so beautiful that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to talk.

But he does, “All thanks to you.”

You smile. You want to be bashful, to deny the praise, but you don’t have the energy. “Thanks for the pat on the back.”

“Oh, anytime.”

He watches you take another deep breath, your body lulling into further peace by the second. He hates to disrupt it. “You, uh…” he stutters. “You wanna share what’s been bothering you now?”

You glance over at him from the corner of your eye, “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to a profiler.”

You chuckle. He loves to make you laugh. “It’s nothing,” you shake your head.

“You…you know I’m the profiler, right?”

You sit up, another laugh escaping your throat without much thought. It feels nice. “Yeah. Right.”

“So?”

“I’m just…stressed…” you finally admit, though that part was evident.

“Blackjack?” He sets an array of cards in front of you.

You nod, “I have a stressful job. Hit me.”

He flips another card, “Five. Yeah, you do.”

“And…it’s hard when…when things at home are stressful, too. Makes it worse. Hit me.”

Another card, “Ooh, six. That makes sense.”

“Sometimes, I…I don’t know…I let myself get pulled in too many different directions,” you look over your cards, dangerously close to 21, and you take a leap of faith. “Hit me.”

He turns the final card over and it brings you right to 21. The way it unfolds shocks you, pulls you from your brain fog and you break out in a grin. “21? That’s 21, right?”

“Yeah,” he nods. He bites down on the smile on his lip and it’s a look on him you’ve never seen before. You can’t stop staring at it. “All you, money bags.”

You giggle, “Did you rig that?”

“Me? No,” he shakes his head, casually clearing the pile. “There’s no rigging in blackjack.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’ve heard that before.”

“Everything should be that easy for you,” he whispers. There’s a slight change in his tone that even an untrained profiler could pick up. He glances up to meet your gaze, “I’d rig it all for you if I could.”

Now, he thinks because he’s resetting the table that you’re not focused on the subliminal message in his voice. But you notice. You look down at your cards, look back at him, “Hit me.”

When the boyfriend is a concept, an idea trapped inside your phone, a mirage that you only mention in passing conversation, Spencer doesn’t think much of him. Spencer doesn’t think of the motherfucker at all. You clock into work and he’s determined to take the time he can get with you, any way he can, the only way he knows how.

You get back into DC one night and the sun hasn’t even set yet. Emily and JJ invite you out for drinks and it’s with an anxious nod that you accept. So Spencer super graciously accepts. He strides beside you on the walk from the bureau, keeping you tucked in on the safety of the sidewalk because he doesn’t know how to not shield you. From anything. You order a wine and a glass of water. Spencer sits right beside you and orders himself a shirley temple.

You gasp, “Ohhh my god, I should’ve got that.”

“Here,” he slides the glass over to you.

“Oh, no, no. It’s okay.”

“No, take it.”

“I can’t.”

“But I’m offering. I don’t even want it. Maraschino cherries, yuck, gross. You have it.”

You chuckle and shyly grab the drink, sticking a straw in. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” he nods. And he means that mhm in the way of it’s really no big deal. He’d give you a kidney if he was a match.

He trades you for your water though he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He watches you fall into loud conversation with the other ladies, yours being the only laugh to match Penelope’s in pitch.

You lean into him, cackling, “She’s insane. Oh my god, she’s ridiculous.”

His skin buzzes where your shoulders make contact and his face is bright red from how wide he smiles at you. “Oh, yeah. I could’ve told you that.”

Spencer’s absolutely obsessed with the joy in your eyes, the way you nearly choke on your second shirley temple. The way you’re so close to him. He cannot look away. So when your smile suddenly drops and that joy’s promptly replaced with anxiety, he’s the first to notice.

“Hey,” you whisper to the figure behind him. He turns around and looks the man up and down. “You’re early.”

The Boyfriend shrugs, “Sorry. Hi, everyone.”

He’s not at all like Spencer imagined him. He’s taller. Not as much of a little bitch.

You rise from your seat and wrap your hand around Boyfriend’s bicep. “Uh, this is just some of the team. That’s Emily, Penelope, JJ and, uh, Spencer. This is my boyfriend.”

They all dole out polite waves and smiles. Except for Spencer. He stands up tall and ha, just as he thought, they’re the same height. He gives Boyfriend a stern handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Spencer? Heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Haven’t heard that much about you.”

The ladies exchange confused glances and you exhale a quick breath to cut the tension.

“Well, we’ve been together a while. Too much there to sum up in words, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Spencer nods and here is another smile you’ve never seen on his face before. It’s not genuine. That, you know.

“You ready to go?” Boyfriend asks and you nod.

“Mhm. Bye, you guys!” you wave, falling into the grip of the possessive hand around your waist.

Emily glares at Spencer as he lowers back onto his stool, his eyes not leaving the door even when you’re long out of sight. “You done swinging that thing around?” she mutters.

“Hm?” he hums. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mhm.”

As Boyfriend opens the car door for you, he can’t help but comment, “So that’s Spencer, huh?”

“Yeah?” you buckle yourself in and it’s an anxious few seconds before he’s buckled in beside you.

“Well, it makes sense now.”

“What?”

“The little toothpick’s in love with you.”

Spencer doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the time you spend on your phone at work becomes more frequent after that. That you come in looking drained and pale even at ten o’clock in the morning. That, carefully, you distance yourself from him. It’s not a coincidence. It just hurts.

As he reads over a case file, he builds a tower of cards. You can’t help but admire the way his brain splits in two, one side reading and the other stacking each piece just right. It’s cool. You think it’s cool, but there’s not a kind bone in your body today and you snip, “Got nothing better to do?” as you sit across from him. “People are dying.”

“People are always dying. Kind of how we get a paycheck.”

“Mm. How altruistic of you.”

“I’m just passing the time,” he continues to stack. He’s very near the top of the pyramid. “People do all sorts of things to pass time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know. They spend hours, days, weeks, years…building something. And you know, you would think that would ensure some type of stability or longevity or…anything, right?”

“I guess.”

“But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes no matter how much time passes or…how much effort you put in,” he places the final two cards on top. “It’s just not meant to last.”

And with a tiny flick of his finger, the whole pyramid comes tumbling down. You can’t help but watch the picturesque scene, the way they float down onto the table in a big mess.

Spencer doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell that you don’t know what he’s talking about. You’re smart. You get it.

You don’t acknowledge it, though.

That night, you can’t sleep. For some reason, you’ve got this idea in your head that if you force your eyes open for a few hours longer, you can make yourself useful on a case that, so far, has no end in sight. The hotel accommodating the team is a nice one. There’s a library on the first floor that they leave open 24/7, perfect for a profiler on the hunt. You flip through the files in the near pitch black, curled up in a chair beside the tiniest lamp in the world. Despite your eye for detail, you don’t even notice when Spencer walks in. Not until he clears his throat.

You look up at him, startled, until you see his face, “Oh,” not the reaction he was hoping for. “Should’ve known you’d find me here.”

“I like to think I’d find you anywhere,” he shrugs. He sits down in the chair beside you and looks over your shoulder. You can smell him from just a foot away but it doesn't affect you. It can’t affect you. “Any luck?”

“No. Care to help?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, great.”

“[y/n], it’s late. Nothing you can do without brain power.”

“I just hate…” you start, the exclamation coming out before you can hold yourself back. Spencer watches you intently, hanging onto your voice. “T-the detergent they use on the linens. Gives me a headache.”

He sighs, “Yeah. Me too. I swiped some extra pillow mints. Want one?”

“Mhm,” you hold your hand out and unwrap the candy instantly. It helps your anxiety.

Enough so that you open up just a bit more, you tell Spencer about the headache that’s been bashing against your skull all day. “But maybe I’ve just had too much coffee.”

“Or not enough.”

You laugh, “Yeah, no, that must be it.”

Your phone pings in your lap and you check the message very quickly, the small smile that once sat on your lips dissipating in thin air. Just when he wrangled a laugh out of you, Spencer thinks. Of course. He watches your entire mood change in the blink of an eye and he fucking hates it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Yeah…tired. Should probably head to bed.”

“But the detergent?”

You chuckle, “I’ll survive.”

On the elevator ride up to your floor, you rest your back against the wall, Spencer perched right beside you. You keep your eyes closed, your hands gripping the bar for balance. The motion doesn’t help your headache. You gulp, clear your throat, and when you open your eyes, Spencer is staring at you. Shamelessly. You furrow your eyebrows at him, tracking his eyes as they focus in on your mouth.

“Are you looking at my lips?”

He nods, “Mhm.”

“Can you read them?”

“Mhm.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” that snaps him out of his trance and he stands up straight, shaking his head. The elevator dings and he walks off, exasperated, exhausted, exclaiming, “[y/n], who cares?”

Your jaw drops in shock and by the time you step out to follow him, he’s already marched into his room. You scoff as you burst into your own suite. You crash in bed and you lay there tossing and turning for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s only thirty minutes but it’s long enough. Long enough for this unbridle, illogical rage to build within you. Long enough for your mind to fill with thoughts like: who the fuck does he think he is? What the fuck does he know? Oh, I’ll tell him what he doesn’t know. And you hop out of bed. You storm down the hall in your slippers, knocking on Spencer’s door like, ironically, the feds.

Lucky for you, he was nowhere near asleep yet. He swings the door open and he opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“Listen, Einstein.”

“I’m listening.”

“Just…just because you don't get it doesn’t mean you have the right to shit on my relationship.”

“Who was shitting on your relationship?”

“Stop it.”

“Fine, I was shitting on your relationship.”

“And that’s not fair.”

“But you’re…” and he enunciates this next word very clearly. “Not happy.”

“Don’t tell me what I am. You don’t know anything. You don’t know me or my life. You don’t get to cast judgement.”

“Oh, okay. Okay. Well, then, I’m so happy for you, [y/n]. I am.”

You’ve said all you need to say and you have no interest in hearing any more. You turn around and march away but he persists, “Hey, I really am. I’ll be the first one to buy something off your wedding registry!”

There are no more card games on the jet for a while.

And that sucks, but you’re trying to prove a point here. Spencer knows nothing. Maybe no one’s ever told him that before and maybe that’s why it stings. Maybe that’s why he can hardly look you in the eye, but you’re trying to prove a point here.

You’ve drawn a boundary that should’ve been drawn long ago. Not even because you wanted to but out of spite. Spite can carry you a long way. It has before. The nature of your work makes it easy to clock in and think of nothing else. Focus on nothing other than getting the job done. It’s the moments in between that are hard.

Like tonight, as you’re typing up case notes at your desk. It’s too quiet. It leaves too much room for opportunity. Taking full advantage, Spencer sets a small gift bag in front of you. You tilt your head as you look up at him, your face etched with inhibition.

“I…” he stutters. “I got it a while ago. Thought it’d be a nice birthday present and I won’t see you tomorrow, so…”

You give him a small smile. The ice doesn’t just thaw, it melts. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you dive into the bag, pulling out the hardcover book and holding it flat between your palms. You release a small gust of air from your nose. You touch the textured font of the lettering along the cover. “Oh, Spencer.”

He has to act like the tone in your voice doesn’t have the biggest effect on him. Hearing his name in such a gentle whisper. He just shrugs, “I recognized the limited edition cover while I was in this library near the art museum. It’s a nice library, you’d like it.”

“I love it,” you breathe before you can censor it. “The book. I love the book. It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s so much more to be said. The weight of it all vibrates behind your teeth and you grind them together as you gaze at Spencer. He can see your mouth aching to open but he knows it won’t.

“Well…happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope it’s a great one.”

“Thank you.”

And you watch him disappear. You feel your heart sink to the barrel of your stomach, like all the words you’re destined to scream out to him are making you sick.

This nausea lasts well into your birthday. No matter the sheer amount of fuss. No matter the amount of texts or calls or gifts that arrive at your door. You’re sick. Even when you put on your fanciest dress for dinner, you curl up in your office with your new book, finally and for no reason, gathering the courage to open its pages and read the quote recounted on the first page.

“And here you come

with a shield for a heart

and a sword for a tongue”

Happy Birthday, [y/n]

Spencer

You slam the book shut and trap it in the drawer of your desk. You’re sick.

You still eat at your birthday dinner. The love and affection reserved for a day like today helps settle your stomach. You think: I am [y/n]. It’s my birthday. These are my gifts. They are from people who love me. This is my boyfriend. This is my birthday cake. It works, it’s working.

Then he pulls out that fucking ring.

The angle at which he kneels in front of you catches the light just right and the diamond blinds you in the eye. Your mind, along with the entire room, falls silent. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime - silence. When his voice cuts through the thick air, you can see his lips moving, you can hear the vibrations going wah wah wah wah wah. But nothing is as loud as the sound of your own breathing, heavy and rapid. Your hands are over your heart but just to keep it from forcing its way out of your chest. You’re sick.

You’re sick.

Spencer had just gotten in bed. He made it the entire day without allowing himself to call you and now he figures he can force himself to sleep. That is until there’s a booming knock at his door. Now he’s wired. He springs into action like it’s not a potential threat and he throws his body against the door to glance out the peephole.

When he opens it, you are still out of breath. Your chest is heaving and you wheeze with every exhale. His eyes travel down your body, the pretty dress and your beaten and bare feet, the heels dangling from your fingers. The look in your eyes is a mystery to him. It’s laced with exasperation and desperation and he furrows his brows trying to figure it all out. Nonetheless, when he sees you moving towards him, he wraps his arms tight around your waist, opens his mouth and gasps as you kiss him.

He’s quick to close the door behind you, stumbling when you drop your shoes to the ground, but only for a moment. No time for stumbling here. He moans at the sudden grip you take of his hair and his body pushes into yours even more, directing you to his bedroom with just the pressure of his chest.

Never expecting this to happen, let alone tonight, Spencer is quick to swipe away all the books that have piled up on his bed. He promptly takes their place and grabs your waist to pull you back into the kiss. You have to hike your dress up your thighs to properly straddle him but once you, he swears he can feel the warmth all the way to his toes.

Your eyes roll back as he licks all over your neck, attacking your chest with sloppy kisses and sudden bites. You feel his erection raise between your legs and the pressure of it has you moaning directly in his ear. The vibration scratches just the right spot in his brain and he bunches your dress up in his hands, the veins along his arm straining through his skin.

You huff, pull back to look at his face, his eyes hooded and hungry. “What…” you pant. “What am I doing?”

Caught off guard, Spencer can’t do much but blink. And shrug. “What…are you doing?”

You stumble over your words, if that’s what you could even call them. It’s more a collection of whines and one short whimper before you simply carry on. Grab his face, catch his mouth and let it go. Perfect for Spencer, because he didn’t really need an answer.

He follows your lead as you undo the tie on his sweatpants. He pushes and you pull until his throbbing cock is free. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. It just all feels so unreal, like a dream, like a fantasy. Except it’s not, it’s tangible. You can feel it. You can touch him - and you do. You wrap your hand around him and shudder as he grips onto your forearms. His teeth are clenched tight so it makes it harder for him to kiss you, harder for him to breathe but he keeps you locked in place. If he could talk, he’d beg please don't stop, please. Please, please, please.

And it’s like you can read his mind. Through the ferocity with which he pushes his face into yours, the way his hips buck underneath you, you get it. You’ll give it to him. You pull your panties to the side and just the tip pressing against you sends a visual jolt through your body.

“Yeah?” You whisper. More like - right? This is right? Right?

Almost immediately, Spencer grunts, “Yes. Yes. Yeah,” he could say it in a million other languages if it would get the point across but english is good enough. You lower yourself down on him and thoughtless, he yelps, “Yes!” as he falls back on the bed.

Even though he’s transcended his own body, Spencer keeps his eyes locked on you. His gaze follows your jaw as it drops wide open and both of your moans fall in sync as you start to roll your hips. Spencer’s hand clamps down on your thigh, the other reaching up to touch your face. The tender contact makes your vision blurry but you can still see the way he’s looking at you.

He touches your hair and your jaw and takes a soft sweep over your cheekbone. His thumb runs over your bottom lip. He can feel your breath coming out hot and quiet each time you land on him, the rhythm of your body taking the air out of both of you.

Is this really happening? he thinks. This can’t be happening. But you increase your speed, lower your inhibition, send a shock of pleasure through him so good that he has no choice but to believe it’s real. You catch his thumb between your lips and he grunts, whines out for you, “[y/n]…”

“Mm, yes?” you lay your body flat against his, your hands intertwining with his amongst the bedsheets and he clenches his fist tight, tight, tight, tight. It’s all so much. Stimulation coming from everywhere at once. From your chest rubbing against his, from your pussy tightening around him like you’re nearly swallowing him whole. From the messy kiss your lips tangle in and the ever increasing volume from you both.

Spencer bends his knees behind you, supporting your body when your movements become rushed and uncontrollable. With your hand pressed to his chest and your head thrown back, he’s emboldened enough to grope your breasts, losely place his hands around your throat.

“Oh…” you whimper. “G-god…” and Spencer hangs onto the broken sound of your voice, enamored by the way your eyes cross over one another. He feels like he’s not doing much, like his body is still in shock and most focused on keeping himself grounded. As you crash down on him, he bends underneath the pressure, overwhelmed as each bounce grows more deliberate than the last. Each collision accompanied by a throaty, “Mm…mm…hmm.” Until your thighs come to a grinding halt and latch onto him, the orgasm radiating from your belly to your chest and directly to your head. He responds to your boisterous moan with a breathless gasp, catching you in his arms when you land on his chest.

He peppers your shoulder with tiny kisses, licking his way to your neck, biting your throat because he absolutely has to. Your hips continue in this mindless rhythm, draining every last twitch from your body as he whispers, “[y/n]…”

“Hm?”

“[y/n]…I, mm,” you catch his voice in your mouth, pushing your tongue between his lips. You attack his neck. You push his shirt up his torso just to move down his body and kiss his stomach.

“[y/n]…ah!” and though you love the sound of your name on his lips, you love to hear him scream even more and after you suck his cock into your mouth, he can’t stop screaming. Mouth open, body trembling, ear ringing moans. He reaches down to keep your hair out of your face and his hips jolt a bit rougher than he means to. He wants to look at you but his body is too taut. He wants to hold you in the palm of his hand, to call out your name one last time to make sure this is real. But he shoots into your mouth, his legs flailing around your frame, and all he can do, still, is scream.

You hum. You swallow. You slide off of him with a sharp pop. You crawl off of his body and drop as soon as your head hits the pillow. Spencer’s hand keep track of you, grazing your thigh, sad to feel you leave, begging to keep you close. Even as he struggles to breath, he balls up the edge of your dress in his fist. You lean back against the headboard, looking up at his ceiling fan, your body finally exerting all its energy and unable to move any further. The room has settled into nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and catharsis.

Spencer looks up at you and when you make eye contact with him, there are so many more complicated thoughts you could have. But the only thing that swims in your mind is the slow bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You rest your knuckles on his cheekbone and he promptly grabs your wrist, peppers soft kisses all over your hand.

You owe him something. He has every right to ask. As he opens his mouth, you’re prepared to tell the truth. You will give him nothing but the truth.

“Did you see they’re adapting another Stephen King novel into a movie?”

You exhale a small laugh. Partially because you weren’t expecting it and partially because you had been dying to talk to him about it. “Yes. And I think it’s stupid.”

“Me too! I mean, the premise is promising, I think it can be done, but it’s the…”

“Supernatural element.”

“Yeah!”

“It’s hard to pull off. Major chances of it turning out cheesy and robotic.”

“Yes! Thank you! I’m still going to see it.”

“Oh, me too,” you laugh and his laughter blends in just perfectly.

It can wait. There’s a lot to catch up on. A lot of questions to ask and answer but for now, it’s easy. This, Spencer thinks. This is it. This is actually the easiest conversation he’s ever had in his life. And he’s not gonna fuck it up now.

Author’s note:

Ahh 😝 thanks for reading!!! Like, reblog, comment, all the things!! Just wanted an excuse to post this meme. Stay safe out here 😚

[eideticmemory]

just started yowling like a cat in heat

[eideticmemory]

Just saw a post on instagram from a recent interview of Matthew and he said he filmed a new episode of Criminal minds ?????????

i just saw 😭 its all adding up. paget’s post from november saying she was with him, the welcome back post on cm’s insta, the secrecy around the new season. idk if he was supposed to tell anyone but babyyyyy its out!!

[eideticmemory]

i’d do anything just for one make out session with matthew gray gubler