futuremrsreid

[futuremrsreid]

SLIDE NUMBER 42

spencer struggles to stay focused during his FBI seminar after watching you accept another man's phone number

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: post prison spencer, fem reader, fluffy fluff, pre-relationship mutual pining, jealousy, hot people who don't know they're hot, reader is so oblivious wc: 2.4k request: here

His speech is going fine. Good even, by technical standards. Solid pacing, no detectable tremor in his voice, and the audience seems engaged, or at least polite enough to fake it.

No eyes have glazed into vacant stares of boredom, no one has made sudden exits conveniently coinciding with his most critical points. Someone even laughed at his heuristics joke. Sure, that laugh might have stemmed from social obligation rather than genuine amusement, but Spencer’s ego isn’t picky. Validation is validation, however pitiful its origins.

After a hundred (give or take, but who’s counting? Certainly not him anymore) FBI seminars, public speaking has downgraded itself from gut-twisting terror to something more akin to low-level tinnitus. Persistent, yes, but easily ignored if he doesn’t focus on it.

Today, though, there’s a blemish in his confidence, a nearly imperceptible fissure disrupting an otherwise flawless delivery, and annoyingly, he knows exactly what’s causing it.

Or rather, who. 

It would be easy, tempting, even, to attribute it to jet lag or his questionable decision to skip breakfast, despite knowing precisely how much glucose his brain demands to function optimally.

It’s approximately 130 grams daily, for the record.

But under close examination, these excuses collapse.

His mouth dutifully churns out the familiar concepts — cognitive shortcuts, behavioral reinforcement, and a half-dozen other psychological principles he could probably recite even if heavily sedated.

His eyes, though, are less disciplined.

Spencer no longer pretends he isn’t looking for you. Plausible deniability lost its appeal around the hundredth time, so now he’s squarely planted in the acceptance stage, routinely scanning briefing rooms, glancing down the jet aisle, even sweeping through crowded streets that realistically hold zero probability of your sudden appearance.

Stranger things have happened though.

Your usual chair, predictably front and center, has been taken by someone else. The disruption alone unsettles him, an absurd reaction, he knows, considering the concept of assigned seating vanished after high school.

But worse, far worse, your new seat, slightly further back to the left, is paired closely with a stranger. A male. A male stranger.

Did he mention that?

From this distance, Spencer reads you the way he would scrutinize grainy case footage — frame by frame, microexpression after microexpression. You sit poised, shoulders relaxed in a way that seems sincere, fingers neatly intertwined in practiced, polite calm. The hesitant half-smile on your face is one he’s memorized by now, the kind you deploy when responses fail you but courtesy remains compulsory. 

There’s nothing outwardly troubling. No anxious shifts, no rapid blinking patterns, no unconscious signals suggesting underlying distress. And the man beside you remains scrupulously neutral, displaying no signs of threat or territorial intent. No encroaching hand, no aggressive hand over your chair.

Textbook respectful. Harmless, even.

Spencer hates him, regardless.

Maybe hate is a strong word. Spencer is self-aware enough to admit that. He’s nothing if not precise with language, after all. But the irritation brewing in his chest feels warranted, even if it’s inconvenient and flagrantly unprofessional. 

He should be paying attention to his own presentation, should be demonstrating at least a shred of respect for the material, and especially for the painstaking work you poured into it. 

Last Thursday alone, you spent two entire hours rearranging his deck into a visual narrative.

He had fun watching as you tensed each time his hand brushed yours or whenever he leaned a fraction too close, your shoulders tightening in a way he mentally filed under adorably flustered.

He also (less fun) watched you agonize over font choices as though the fate of the world depended on serif or sans-serif, and the way you had gotten so worked up trying to pick between two indistinguishable shades of blue. 

Eventually, he broke. Softly, half-laughing, he told you, it doesn’t matter which one, I’ll love it regardless because you picked it.

He could almost hear your internal plea for the earth to kindly intervene and swallow you whole. And as usual, Spencer pretended he saw nothing, politely glossing over the obvious.

It had, after all, become his speciality — noticing everything about you and pretending he didn’t.

His eyes focus back on you, in the present to see that there’s a napkin involved with the stranger, accompanied by a ballpoint pen scratching digits hastily onto the flimsy, coffee-stained paper, folded once before sliding across the table.

You accept it without hesitation, slipping it beneath your fingers. To any else, the exchange would seem mundane. And maybe it genuinely is mundane.

Maybe people pass you phone numbers all the time and Spencer’s just blind to it, trapped comfortably back in plausible deniability. 

And honestly, why wouldn’t this be a regular occurrence? He should’ve considered this months ago. From a purely observational standpoint, you’ve practically designed to attract attention. Intelligent. Kind. Beautiful. Very beautiful in a soft, disarming way that defies simple categorization.

He expends enormous effort pretending your very existence doesn’t accelerate his heart-rate into concerning ranges. It’s possible that other, saner men don’t waste precious energy on such fruitless, exhausting self-deception.

Spencer blinks slowly, disoriented by the sudden wave of heat climbing uninvited from beneath his collar. The fabric feels restrictive, as though actively tightening, trying to suffocate him purely out of spite.

For the life of him, he can’t remember which slide he’s on, or even if the current slide bears any relation to the words he was previously speaking. His pointer hand hovers mid-gesture, awkwardly frozen.

There’s a distracting ringing in his ears — no, he corrects himself, not ringing.

Silence.

His own silence stretching across the room as he mentally scrambles to pinpoint exactly when he stopped talking. Judging from the expectant stares, probably mid-sentence.

Your eyes find his almost instantly, brows pinched the tiniest bit, like you’re puzzled but trying not to be disrespectful about it. Spencer can feel the sweat prickling beneath his shirt.

But then you smile and give him a thumbs up.

Big and bright and encouraging like you’re trying to telepathically remind him that he’s doing great, as if this is only a mild, forgivable stumble from a nervous academic tripped up by nothing more serious than transition slide number 42.

It’s not funny. He tells himself that with conviction. But there’s some part of him that wants to laugh anyway, if only to release the pressure building inside him.

Instead, he settles for a restrained nod, stretches a smile over clenched teeth, pretends it feels natural then regains his place in the presentation.

Guilt rushes in on the tail end of his anger (anger? jealousy? — the terminology feels suspiciously accurate, but labeling it as so feels premature and vaguely terrifying). He’s uncertain what specific transgression triggered this, but his nervous system apparently feels apologies are overdue, regardless.

Possibly because his thoughts are increasingly heading into Neanderthal territory with every look the man gives you.

Thankfully around halfway, maybe just past that mark, the nameless man beside you rises. It’s discreet, he simply leans in toward you, exchanges some hushed, unintelligible words, then slips away.

The second the chair beside you empties though, that pressure in his chest loosens like a long-held muscle finally unclenched. Like oxygen flooding back into a room that had been vacuum-sealed.

Spencer rushes through his concluding remarks, murmuring a perfunctory thanks to the audience and moves swiftly off the stage.

No handshakes, no small talk, no waiting around to see if anyone has further questions. Frankly, he doesn’t have the bandwidth to pretend he cares.

His mind is fixated solely on you, his priority laser-focused on bridging the gap he’s spent the past hour actively trying not to acknowledge, intent on reaching you first before anyone else gets the chance.

You can’t help yourself from smiling the instant he comes into view, then immediately worry that it’s too much smile, a full wattage beam reserved for grander occasions than a simple post-presentation hello.

But then again, this is Spencer.

Spencer, who just minutes ago had half the room on the edge of their seats, eyes round with wonder, absorbing each detail like children watching a magic trick unfold.

You’re fairly certain he would appreciate that comparison.

“You were incredible,” you say, feeling a little winded by your own excitement. Hopefully, that accounts for the weird expression you’re pretty sure is plastered all over your face. “Seriously, you sounded so confident, and that one part, the twins with the shared delusion? You could hear everyone holding their breath.”

Spencer holds your gaze, expression carefully blank, as if he’s momentarily forgotten how to react. He finally swallows, glancing downward briefly before forcing his eyes back to yours. 

“Thanks,” he says, “to tell you the truth, it felt a bit… off.”

“Really?” you blurt out. “It was probably the slides, honestly. I knew I should’ve picked the darker blue for the headers. The light blue looked fine on my laptop, but projected up there it looked way too… fluorescent. Sorry if it threw you off, or you know, temporarily damaged your retinas.”

His lips curve into something resembling a smile, but there’s a noticeable emptiness behind it, a shadow of the quietly affection grin he saves for Garcia when she insists on inventing some silly nickname for him, or that gently softened look he gives you when you ask him to double-check emails you’re irrationally convinced you wrote incorrectly.

This one feels different. More distant, maybe.

Was that too much? Did you overshoot the tone? Did you mistake his pause for an opening and trample right through it? Did the slides really throw him off? You don’t know, but your mouth is already moving again.

“I mean, no one probably even noticed the color thing. I just… I did. Not that it mattered. The content was what people were paying attention to. Your content, not mine, obviously. Just — sorry, I —”

“The slides were perfect,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “Really, thank you for putting them together.”

Warmth blooms aggressively across your cheeks, spreading upward to your ears until you’re positive they must be visibly burning.

You nod vigorously, maybe too much so, because words seem hazardous at this point. You’re 90% sure the only sound you would make is some kind of mouse-adjacent squeak.

He nods toward the row of now-empty chairs.

“Next time, would you mind sitting a bit closer?” he asks. “If there’s a technical glitch, having you close by could save me from another awkward pause.”

“I was planning to.” You let out a laugh, ducking your head. “But someone got there first and I thought it’d be weird if I challenged them to a duel or something.”

He laughs at that and your heart reacts accordingly.

“Tell you what,” he says, “next time I’ll reserve your seat myself. No need to resort to sword fights on my behalf.”

A chair scrapes violently a few feet away, loud enough to startle you mid-nod. You flinch, pivot slightly, and your purse, which was balanced precariously on the back of your chair, swings off and to the floor. 

Lip balm tubes, scattered pens, mint wrappers, crumbled receipts, and a pitiful handful of coins erupt from the bag like tiny projectiles, landing messily at Spencer’s feet.

You’re halfway through an apology that’s shaping up to be spectacularly frantic when he crouches beside you.

“It’s fine —” he reassures, patiently herding your scattered belongings until his hand stops dead, hovering oddly over something.

A folded napkin. He picks it up gently, like he’s trying not to crumple it, and you immediately recognize it, the paper, the stupid casual tilt of the handwriting. The guy’s phone number paired with an invitation for coffee or drinks or something similarly forgettable.

Honestly, you barely registered it at the time, dismissed it entirely after a polite smile and obligatory nod. It meant nothing then. It means even less now. 

Your brain lurches, caught in a panicked tug-of-war between explaining yourself, pretending nothing happened, or diving headfirst into an apology (your well-worn, anxiety-ridden default).

Because it all suddenly feels painfully amateurish, unbelievably unprofessional, especially in the relentless spotlight of being the newest face, the eager-to-please media liaison who occasionally gets mistaken for someone’s assistant or coffee-fetcher at least twice per conference. 

You already feel like you’re playing catch-up to the rest of them, especially him.

And now, somehow, you’ve inadvertently become the girl who collects phone numbers at work functions. It’s not that you wanted it, but refusing just felt unnecessarily harsh.

And what were you supposed to say? 

Sorry, but I’m secretly nursing a hopeless infatuation for the lanky genius on the stage with an alphabet soup of degrees, beautiful hands, and a voice you would happily let narrate even your most tedious existence? 

Arguably even less professional.

You take the napkin from his hand quickly, tucking it deep into your bag like maybe that’ll erase the last thirty seconds.

“That wasn’t, um, supposed to be…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Spencer interjects, gaze lowered, “I imagine it happens often.”

You press your lips together. Nervously, you steal a glance at him, noting the clench of his jaw and the almost angry crease between his brows.

“It doesn’t, actually.”

Both of you straighten at once, shoulders grazing clumsily as he smooths down his sleeves.

You silently wish, not for the first time, you could translate his face into something tangible. Profiler by osmosis, apparently, isn’t a thing.

“Well,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over. “They’re clearly behind the curve.”

Your stomach dives into freefall, landing roughly somewhere near where your purse had just been. Still, you muster a breezy smile, hand flicking dismissively.

“Oh, um, you don’t need to say that,” you say lightly, even though your mind is already sprinting between seven — no, eight — different theories on what exactly he meant by that. “But thanks.”

“I think I kind of do. Because if anyone’s asking for your number, I think it should be at least someone who —”

“Dr. Reid?” Someone interrupts, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have a second to talk about the regression data on slide 19?”

Spencer nods, starting to turn, but not before his eyes catch yours again. Just once.

His mouth curves into the slightest of smiles, teasing in a way you’ve never seen, as though he’s entirely aware of the words left unsaid and exactly how they’re going to occupy your thoughts in the meantime.

You despise this new smile. You adore this new smile. You’re doomed, either way.

Without a second glance, you fish the napkin from your purse, walking to the nearest trash can and dropping it inside. 

You wonder if he’ll circle back. If he’ll finish the sentence.

And if he doesn’t, well, you’ll be thinking about it anyway.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[futuremrsreid]

“ugh spencer reid, i love you”

it isn’t exactly a lie, nor is it exactly the truth. spencer was an anomaly of a man, teetering between scarily smart and adorably dense that the sudden change gives you whiplash at least once a day.

it was a phrase that was somewhat casual to you now. something you’d throw to each member of the bureau like it was a casual hello or goodbye. although at some point, the bit had become less of… well just that, a bit.

it was still funny to see aaron roll his eyes and scold you for saying that for the one hundredth time, and it was still adorable to have garcia giggle and send it back your way everytime she saves your ass.

but it always seemed a bit different with spencer.

you’d said it again to him last night, although you’re not sure why considering he never says it back or even seems to acknowledge you said it at all. it was a particularly rough case for you, and he always seems to understand when you need a bit of support. you said it like it was some kind of punchline, or a thank you. maybe it was just comforting to have someone to say it too.

after a beat of silence, he coughs.

“i… uhm, love you too.”

his voice was meek and unsure if this was the right thing to say. he knew you said it often, and he knew it never really held the weight his mother always said it did, so no harm! right?

although for some reason, his uncertainty and the sort of raw embarrassment he had when he spoke made your stomach do a performance that could put simone biles to shame.

so now, here you sit at your measly desk, peering over your cup of now cold coffee trying to put together the pieces of why his answer had made the joke seem less funny.

maybe it was because he wasn’t the kind of person who said things without meaning them. he didn’t perform affection like other people. he didn’t toss out casual comfort like you did. if he told you your hair looked nice, it meant he loved you. if he brought you coffee, it meant he loved you. he never spoke the words but they were unanimously understood in his actions.

you tried to make sense of it. maybe it was because spencer didn’t love easily. not in the way the world defined it. he loved by showing up. so when he echoed your half-joke, it wasn’t funny anymore because you knew he meant it.

every syllable.

it felt like a moment you weren’t ready for but somehow had always been walking toward.

and now?

now you were stuck between pretending nothing happened and trying to understand why everything inside you felt different. like something had shifted on a molecular level. like maybe you’d been lying to yourself this whole time, calling it a joke so you wouldn’t have to admit it was real.

spencer walked past you just then, on his way to grab something from the break room. he gave you a small smile. familiar. gentle

“ need anything?” he asked.

you opened your mouth, intending to say no, but your heart betrayed you.

“yeah,” you spoke softly. “i need you to say that again sometime. like you meant it.”

he blinked.

you blinked.

silence.

“…say what again?”

and just like that, your stomach dropped.

you gave him a practiced smile, trying not to sound like you were crumbling beneath the weight of your own words.

“nothing. never mind!”

—————

he noticed you like he noticed most social ques.

quickly, but somehow always too late.

he’d had always been aware of you. never demanding attention and yet it was served to you and silver platter with a name tag engraved in gold.

you were easy to talk to. easier to trust.

so it made sense that he gravitated toward you. it was logical. predictable, even.

but then came the “i love you”

they started small. you’d toss them at him like they meant nothing. you’d always say them with a bright smile, mostly when he brought you the right files or remembered your favorite snack after a late night. at first, he thought it was just a quirk of yours. a friendly exaggeration.

but after a while, he started….

cataloging them.

it wasn’t on purpose! more like a habit he accidentally took up. he would remember every little infliction, the timing, tone, every word you spoke was like honey to his ears. it wasn’t like he was looking forward to hearing it, or like he would replay them each time in his head on slow nights when he couldn’t sleep.

so one night, he said it back.

sort of…?

“i…uhm, love you too.” he’d repeated, uncertain, testing the words in his mouth like a foreign language. you’d gone quiet just a beat too long. he could feel the silence stretching between you like a thread pulled tight.

you brushed it off. of course you did.

but something in him didn’t.

after that, he became hyperaware. he noticed how his heart sped up slightly when your name popped up on his phone. how he’d started picking up random facts or trivia just because he thought they’d make you smile and how the space beside him in the jet felt noticeably wrong when you weren’t in it.

there had to be an explanation. oxytocin. dopamine. human bonding behaviors under high stress environments. proximity induced infatuation. temporary emotional displacement.

but nothing excuses it. it shouldn’t make him want to fix his outfit in a reflective window before walking into a room because she’s in there, you should probably not look like you got dressed in the dark, spencer.

and it certainly doesn’t excuse why the thought of someone saying “i love you” to you the way he said it made his stomach twist.

the realization hit him late in the night.

he had never considered the way you said i love you that night. only the awkward stumbling of his words.

there was a gentleness. something raw in your words that made it painfully obvious to only him that it was different.

that’s why it felt different.

it was.

————

the bullpen was buzzing the way it always did on monday mornings. low voices, coffee cups clinking, the shuffle of files and footsteps and vague exhaustion.

spencer moved through it all like he usually did, head down, file in hand, a half-formed theory on the edge of his thoughts. he was halfway to his desk when he heard your laugh. not loud, not exaggerated, just natural.

he looked up before he could stop himself.

you were across the room, leaning slightly over garcias desk, telling a story with your hands like you always do. there was a small smile tugging at your lips, the kind that only came out when you weren’t thinking about it. you were wearing that sweater again. the one with sleeves you always pulled over your palms when you were focused, like you needed somewhere soft to hide your thoughts.

spencer stood still in the middle of the room.

he didn’t speak. didn’t blink. the file in his hand forgotten, the bustle of the office fading to a quiet hum beneath the sound of your voice and the way you glanced up, just for a second, like you felt his gaze.

your eyes met.

you smiled at him. soft and simple, like it cost you nothing, like how he’d imagine you smile at him waking up in the morning, two cups of coffee in hand for the both of you. and then you turned back to garcia. the moment passed.

but he was still standing there.

it felt strange, the way his chest tightened. not in a painful way. more like the air had shifted around him, and suddenly he was seeing everything too clearly.

she’s just talking to garcia.

she’s always like that. always smiling. always warm.

but no matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn’t shake the thought curling at the back of his mind

god, i think i’m in love with her.

it wasn’t a flash of lightning. it wasn’t cinematic. it was barely even a conscious thought. like it was there the entire time, just forgotten.

you weren’t doing anything extraordinary. you were just you.

and somehow, that was the part that floored him.

because now that the thought was there, now that it had a shape and a name, it refused to be unthought. every laugh, every glance, every quiet kindness you’d ever shown him suddenly reappeared in technicolor.

and he was just standing in the middle of it all like a man who had walked straight into his own feelings and hadn’t seen the sign.

[futuremrsreid]

S.R. MDNI +18

A soft whimper escapes Spencer's lips, his fingers digging into your thighs. You hush him quietly, adjusting your straddle to assure he's seated as deeply as he can be inside of you. His hips twitch ever so slightly upward, "m'sorry-" his fingers claw at your waist. You chuckle, and it's so cruel to his ears. His hips tilt upward again. You grip his chin forcing him to look up at you. The inner parts of his brows tilt up, the way only pleasure or sorrow (or both) allow them to. "Behave." It's simple, quiet as it slips firmly from your lips. You feel him twitch inside of you at the sound. He nods his head, quickly following it up with "Yes." You hold eye contact for a moment before rewarding, "Good boy. See? It's not so hard to listen to instructions, is it, pretty boy?" He twitches inside of you again and you laugh. "So easy, so responsive." You lean down, pressing an adoring kiss to his lips, one that he eagerly returns. Before you, he was never able to turn his brain off. But this, the wet warmth of you wrapped around him, the fucked-out silence in his mind, all that exists is you, you, you... and he's so grateful. He makes sure to show it to you later, long after his pleasure has ebbed into overstimulation, just to drive you closer to the edge, and deeper into the mattress.

[futuremrsreid]

We know Spencer is happiest eating cake, be it strawberry, chocolate, red velvet whatever...

What about when he's eating the reader's cake–

If you find this weird you can totally tell me to fuck off 😭

i supposeeeeeeeeeeeeee. enjoy!

cw: cunnilingus, established relationship, soft dom!Spencer, dirty talk, overstimulation, praise, bed sex, intense eye contact, aftercare

REQUESTS OPEN!

You didn’t expect him to drop to his knees.

Not when you were still catching your breath, legs tangled in sheets, your clothes half-on from a lazy makeout session that had been meant to tease, not escalate.

But Spencer had other plans.

You gasped as he kissed down your stomach, his hands already working your panties down your thighs, slow and reverent.

“Spence—wait—” you breathed.

He looked up at you, pupils blown, hair curling at the edges of his jaw. “Let me,” he said simply.

Like he needed it.

Like his entire purpose in that moment was to be between your thighs.

And when Spencer got focused, he got dangerous.

The first lick was slow. Deliberate. A long, wet stripe from your entrance up to your clit that made your hips jolt.

You whimpered. “Jesus—”

He chuckled against you, warm breath tickling sensitive skin.

“Not quite,” he murmured. “But I’ll get you there.”

Then he buried his face in you like he meant it.

Tongue working in soft, steady strokes, lips wrapping around your clit just right. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, keeping you in place when your body started to twitch and squirm.

You moaned his name, back arching. “Fuck, Spence—feels so good—”

“Yeah?” he mumbled, licking you again, this time tighter, faster. “You taste so sweet, baby. Could stay here all night.”

And you believed him.

His eyes flicked up, locking onto yours as he sucked gently, tongue flicking fast over your clit. The look on his face — fucking devastating. Hungry, desperate, like he needed you to come more than he needed to breathe.

“Let go for me,” he murmured against your cunt. “Come on, sweetheart. Be good for me.”

You shattered.

Your hips bucked and your thighs clamped around his head, but Spencer didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down — licking you through it, groaning like you were his favorite flavor, pushing two fingers inside you and curling them just right.

“Sensitive—fuck, I can’t—” you gasped, legs trembling.

“Yes you can,” he whispered, mouth slick and glistening. “Give me one more.”

You came again with a cry, full-body trembling, and only then did he pull back, face flushed and soaked, his eyes shining with something dangerously close to pride.

He kissed your inner thigh, your hip, then your lips — letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, boneless and blissed out. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “I’m thorough.”

[futuremrsreid]

PLEASE DO SUGAR DADDY SPENCER I NEEEEED ITT

For Your Pleasure,

cw: SugarDaddy!Spencer reid x reader, Age gap, dom!Spencer, power dynamics (consensual), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (in fiction), possessive!Spencer, luxurious lifestyle themes, pet names, aftercare.

a/n this ask made me do it

REQUESTS OPEN!

You always knew what kind of night it would be by the way Spencer loosened his tie.

If he yanked it off right after the car ride home—fast, frustrated, too pent up from work to breathe—you knew he’d want you on your knees before you even got out of your heels. If he left it on, fingers brushing over your shoulder as he poured wine and talked about his day, it meant slow, decadent worship.

Tonight, his fingers undid the knot leisurely as he leaned back against the plush velvet couch of his penthouse suite, eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to study.

And you knew exactly what that meant.

“Come here, baby,” he murmured, voice low and honeyed as he dropped the silk tie to the floor. “Let me look at you.”

You walked toward him in the heels he’d bought you last week—black Louboutins with red soles, the price tag still dizzying in your mind even though he’d waved it off like it was nothing. The slip dress you wore clung to your body like it was painted on, thin and silky, no bra, no panties. He’d told you not to wear them before you even left for dinner.

“Spence…” You breathed his name as he reached for you, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing. You straddled him easily, thighs settling around his lean hips, and his warm hands slid under the fabric of your dress to cup your ass.

“You were perfect tonight,” he whispered, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “So beautiful. Do you even know how proud I am to have you on my arm?”

You flushed, burying your face in his neck. He always did this—made you feel like more than some spoiled plaything. Like you mattered to him.

“I just like being yours,” you said, letting your lips brush over the edge of his jawline.

His grip on your thighs tightened.

“You are mine,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, eyes dark with possession. “All fucking mine.”

You moaned softly as he kissed you—deep and claiming, tongue licking into your mouth while one hand slid up to cup your breast through the dress. His thumb dragged over your nipple, and you gasped, arching into him.

“Take it off,” he ordered.

You slipped the dress over your head, baring yourself to him completely. His eyes roamed your body like he was memorizing it again, even though he knew every inch. Every freckle. Every soft spot that made you melt.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmured. “My sweet girl. All this skin…all for me.”

He leaned in to kiss your collarbone, trailing down to your chest, then took one nipple into his mouth while his other hand teased the opposite breast. You whimpered, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently as he sucked and nibbled.

Spencer always took his time. That was the real luxury—his focus. His attention. He treated you like a gift he was unwrapping slowly, savoring every inch.

“You taste like wine,” he said, lips dragging down your stomach. “And something sweeter.”

You tried to stay still as he lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the couch, spreading your legs wide with practiced ease.

But anticipation made you squirm.

“Stay still, sweetheart,” he warned gently, sliding his hands up your thighs. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

Then he dipped his head between your legs, and you forgot how to breathe.

Spencer had always been a genius at everything he did—but between your legs, he was something else entirely. Tongue slow, teasing, dragging up your folds until you were shaking, only to pull away just before you came. He liked watching you unravel, liked making you beg.

And you always did.

“Spencer, please,” you whined, hips bucking toward his mouth. “Please, let me come, I need—”

He pulled back, eyes smoldering, mouth slick with your arousal. “You’ll come when I say. Not a second before.”

You whimpered, your hands fisting the couch cushions.

“I want you ruined for anyone else,” he said, sliding two fingers into you with ease. “So full of me you’ll still be dripping tomorrow.”

You clenched around his fingers as he fucked you slowly, curling them just right, and when he bent back down to suck your clit at the same time, you shattered.

“Fuck—Spence, yes—” You cried out, thighs trembling around his head.

He didn’t stop until you were breathless and limp, skin flushed and glistening.

Then he stood, undid his belt with one hand, and pulled his pants down enough to free his cock—thick and hard, leaking at the tip. You licked your lips involuntarily.

“I want you to ride me, baby,” he said, voice tight with need. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, dazed and aching as he sat back down, pulling you into his lap again. He lined himself up with your entrance and let you sink down onto him inch by inch.

You both moaned—him at the tight heat of you, and you at the delicious stretch. He filled you so perfectly it hurt in the best way.

You rocked your hips slowly, bracing your hands on his chest, and his head tipped back as he groaned.

“Just like that,” he praised. “Fuck, you feel so good. Always so tight for me.”

You picked up the pace, riding him faster as his hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growled. “Take your daddy’s cock. You love it, don’t you?”

“Yes—Spencer, yes,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I love it—I love you—”

His eyes snapped open, fire blazing in them.

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” you breathed. “I love you so much.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist and stood effortlessly, carrying you to the bedroom without slipping out of you. You clung to him, dizzy and gasping, as he laid you down on the bed and started thrusting into you hard and deep.

“I love you too,” he whispered into your ear. “So fucking much.”

You came again with a sob, clenching around him, and he followed seconds later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a groan.

After, he kissed you gently, wiping your tears away with soft fingers.

“You’re everything,” he said quietly, brushing your hair from your face. “And you’ll never have to want for anything. I’ll give you everything.”

You believed him.

Because when Spencer Reid said something, he meant it.

[futuremrsreid]

can you write about gf who is really insecure about her body so she hadn’t had sex with spencer yet but she has given him bjs and stuff, but she’s still needy and horny not being touched so one day spencer unintentionally catches her touching herself and she’s terrified but he’s really sweet about it??

aw stawp ill cry yes absolutely

cw: insecure reader, mutual masturbation, accidental voyeurism, emotional smut, praise kink, first time sex, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), slow and soft, aftercare, reassurance, established relationship

REQUESTS OPEN!

You weren’t ashamed of wanting Spencer.

Just… ashamed of yourself.

Your soft stomach, your stretch marks, your chest that didn’t look like the girls he probably had posters of as a teenager. He never made you feel unwanted — not once — but sometimes you caught yourself wondering if he’d ever actually seen you, body and all. If he’d still love you when he did.

So you’d kept the lights off. Stuck to blowjobs, kisses, sleeping with a tank top on. Spencer, being the patient saint he was, never pushed. Never even hinted. He just held you close at night and whispered how much he loved you. How beautiful your mouth was. How good you made him feel.

Still, need had a way of building. And lately, when he wasn’t around, your hands wandered more often than you cared to admit. It wasn’t the same — not even close — but it was better than nothing.

You just didn’t expect him to walk in on you.

It happened on a Sunday morning.

You thought he was out getting groceries. He said he’d be a while. So you stayed in bed, warm under the blankets, one hand between your thighs, the other squeezing your pillow as you whimpered into it.

You imagined it was Spencer’s voice whispering in your ear. Spencer’s hand on your body. Spencer’s cock between your thighs instead of your fingers. It didn’t take long to get desperate — hips rocking, toes curling, your breathing ragged.

So you didn’t hear the front door open. Or his footsteps down the hall.

Didn’t hear him call your name.

Didn’t even notice the bedroom door open until you looked up, gasping — only to meet Spencer’s wide eyes across the room.

“Shit!” you yelped, yanking the covers up to your chin, eyes welling instantly. “I—I didn’t hear you—Spence, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But Spencer didn’t look grossed out. Or mad. Or even surprised.

He looked… stunned. Flushed. Breathless.

His voice cracked. “Were you… thinking about me?”

Your cheeks burned. You couldn’t even answer.

He stepped closer, slow, gentle, like you were a frightened animal. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to hide. You looked… really beautiful.”

You laughed bitterly, curling into yourself. “Don’t say that. I know what I look like.”

He frowned, heart breaking. “So do I.”

You shook your head. “You’ve never even seen all of me. Not really.”

“I’ve seen you,” he whispered. “And I want you. All of you. Always have.”

You blinked at him, vulnerable and trembling. “But I don’t look like—like what people expect. I’m not skinny. My stomach—”

“—is gorgeous,” he said firmly. “Soft and real and yours. I’ve been dying to touch you. But I didn’t want to push.”

He hesitated. “Can I touch you now?”

You swallowed hard. Nodded.

Spencer crawled onto the bed like he was approaching an altar.

He kissed your cheek first, then your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands never wandered too fast — just brushing your waist, your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

When his fingers finally slipped beneath the blanket and found you soaked, he gasped softly. “God, you’re wet.”

“Thinking about you,” you whispered, still breathless. “Thinking about your fingers.”

His eyes darkened. “I’ll give you everything you want. Just let me love you.”

You nodded again. “Please.”

He kissed down your stomach — the part you always tried to hide — and he lingered there, mouthing at the softness, whispering praise like a spell. His hands held your thighs open, spreading you gently, reverently.

“Let me eat you,” he breathed. “Let me make you feel good.”

You whimpered, already nodding, already so needy you could cry.

Spencer’s tongue was magic — soft, slow, teasing, until your hips were rocking up into his mouth and your hands were in his hair. He moaned when you came, when your thighs quivered, when you said his name like it meant salvation.

And when you looked down, teary and flushed, he looked proud. Worshipful.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, tugging him up. “Want more.”

You let him undress fully, finally taking him in — his flushed cock, his trembling hands. He was just as nervous as you. Just as soft.

He lined himself up, barely pushing in, then pausing. “Still okay?”

“Yes, Spence,” you whispered. “I want you so bad.”

He groaned when he pushed inside — slow, deep, eyes locked on yours.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You moaned, arms around him, legs around his waist.

He rocked into you gently, whispering the sweetest things — how beautiful you looked spread out for him, how good your pussy felt, how he never wanted anyone but you.

When you came again, he followed with a desperate moan, burying himself deep as he whispered your name over and over again like a prayer.

After, he held you close, stroking your arm, voice soft in your ear.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide from me. Not your body. Not your needs. I want all of you. Every inch.”

You smiled into his chest, heart full.

“I think I finally believe you.”

[futuremrsreid]

could you write a storyline where spencer goes down on the reader who has never had anyone go down on her and shes extremelely insecure of down there and hes obsessed and stuff

yall loveeeeee this man eating pussy, and ill feed it to you enjoy

cw: oral sex (f. receiving), first time oral, body insecurity, soft dom!Spencer, worship kink, praise kink, filthy talk, gentle teasing, emotional smut, established relationship

REQUESTS OPEN!

You'd let Spencer do everything but this.

Kissing, grinding, his fingers inside you while his mouth murmured in your ear — but never his mouth down there. Not once.

The idea of it made your stomach twist. You knew what girls were supposed to look like, smell like, taste like. You knew what porn showed, what jokes men made. And you weren’t that. You were soft and messy and not some neatly airbrushed fantasy.

Spencer didn’t push. Not once. But you saw the look in his eyes sometimes — the way his gaze lingered on your thighs when they trembled, how his mouth parted when he fingered you and watched you fall apart. He wanted it. Badly.

But he wanted you more.

So he waited.

Until the night you let your guard down.

It started with you straddling his lap, making out on his couch, his long fingers inside your panties, curling in just the right spot while you moaned against his mouth.

"God, you're so wet," he whispered, breath shaky. "You always get this wet for me?"

You nodded, eyes hazy, burying your face in his neck. “Feels so good, Spence.”

And that’s when he said it — soft, reverent, a little bit desperate.

“Let me taste you.”

Your body went stiff. “Spencer…”

“I mean it,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Please. I’ve wanted to for so long. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me… worship you.”

You hesitated. “I don’t—I’m not like… I don’t look like—”

He cut you off with a kiss. “Don’t say that.”

“Spence…”

“I love how you look,” he said, firmer now. “I crave you. I think about eating you out constantly. I wake up hard some mornings just remembering how you moan.”

You gasped, burying your face in his chest. “You’re just saying that.”

He gently tipped your chin up. “No. I mean it. Let me show you.”

You hesitated. Then slowly, heart racing, you nodded.

He moved you to the bed like you were made of glass.

Soft kisses. Soft hands. Stripping you slowly, carefully, until you were naked beneath him, shivering but not from cold.

He kissed your inner thighs, again and again, teasing your skin with his lips and breath and barely-there touches. You tried to close your legs instinctively, but he gently eased them apart.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful here. Especially here.”

You were trembling. “What if I don’t smell good? Or look good? What if you hate it—”

He looked up, eyes blown wide with need.

“I already know I won’t. I know your body. I’ve had your taste on my fingers. I dream about it.”

He licked his lips, then leaned down, kissing the crease where your thigh met your core.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmured. “You’re mine. And you’re perfect to me.”

Then his tongue flicked out, gently teasing your folds.

You gasped, hips jerking. “Spence—”

“Relax,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger. “I’ve got you.”

He licked you like he was starving.

Long, slow, deep strokes of his tongue, starting gentle and then building rhythm, groaning against your skin when your thighs started to shake. His hands held your hips down firmly, anchoring you in place while he tasted every inch of you — lips, folds, clit — like he was memorizing you.

You were panting now, unable to stop the cries falling from your lips.

“Oh my god, Spencer—what—what are you—”

He pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Tasting the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever had.”

Then he buried his face back in your pussy, moaning when you arched, desperate and trembling.

You tangled your fingers in his curls, too overwhelmed to think. His tongue circled your clit now, then sucked it gently into his mouth. Your body snapped.

You came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, and Spencer held you through it — never letting up, still licking, soft and slow and loving even after your body shook.

When he finally looked up, his lips and chin were slick. His eyes were blown wide with hunger and awe.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You could barely nod. “Better than okay.”

He crawled up and kissed you hard, letting you taste yourself on his mouth.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I want to do that for hours.”

You laughed, breathless, and pulled him back into your arms.

[futuremrsreid]

Love Bites - S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Spencer Reid was many things—profiler, genius, human encyclopedia—but subtle was not one of them. Especially not when it came to hiding the fresh constellation of hickeys scattered down his neck like some kind of prize.

He walked into the bullpen with a file in one hand and his satchel slung awkwardly over the other, already rambling to Morgan about geographical profiling. Which made it all the more entertaining when Derek stopped in his tracks mid-conversation, eyebrows shooting up.

“Hold up.” Morgan squinted, leaning closer, his expression a slow grin of dawning realization.

Spencer froze with his tablet in hand, blinking. "Yeah?"

“Is that—Reid. Are those hickeys?”

"I—uh," Spencer stammered, adjusting his collar like he could somehow will the bruises away. "I didn't—it's not—"

"Oh my god," Penelope gasped. “Did our baby genius finally get laid?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, to keep from laughing. Raising your eyebrows in your best imitation of wide-eyed innocence. Morgan's already circling like a shark. "Damn, kid. Didn’t know you had it in you."

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reid stammers, tugging his collar up. That only makes it worse. One purplish mark is now clearly visible beneath the edge of his shirt.

Rossi walks by, takes one look, raises an eyebrow, and says nothin—Emily snorts audibly from behind her monitor. Reid sputters. “What—look—I—this is entirely inappropriate workplace behavior!”

“Oh, so you did get laid,” Prentiss grins. You rest your chin on your palm and bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile from giving everything away.

“I’m not discussing my personal life with you,” Reid says quickly, shifting in his chair and tugging his collar up with a flushed, nervous hand.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t warned him, last night—his hands in your hair, your mouth on his neck, your breath hot and teasing: You’re going to have to explain these, you know. And he’d groaned, hands tightening on your hips, whispering, Worth it.

Guess he wasn’t so sure now.

Morgan wasn’t done. He leaned over Spencer’s desk with a shit-eating grin. “Oh, come on,” He laughs. “Don’t leave us hangin’. Who’s the lucky lady? We didn’t even know you had a lady!”

You slid your gaze toward Morgan, who was watching Reid intently—too intently. His eyes drifted from Spencer’s flushed face to you… and then back to Spencer. And then to you again.

A pause. Then Morgan’s smile stretched wider, far too knowing. “Oh. Oh. No way,” he said under his breath. “No way.”

You raised your brows, feigning innocence. “Something wrong, Agent Morgan?”

“Oh, hell no.” He laughed, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Hotch is gonna kill you, man.”

Hotch chose that exact moment to walk in, flipping through a file. “Morning,” he muttered. “Briefing in ten.” Everyone straightened. You took another sip of your coffee and shot Reid a knowing smile.

You got up and headed toward the briefing room, but not before leaning in, just enough, as you passed his chair.

Voice soft. Lips close. “Maybe next time,” you whispered,"you’ll wear a higher collar, genius."

“Reid,” comes the sudden, sharp voice from the stairs.

All heads snap toward Hotch, who descends into the bullpen like the Grim Reaper in a suit.

Reid jumps to his feet. “Yes?”

“I need that Georgia file you reviewed yesterday.”

“Uh—yes, yes, right here.” Spencer bolts to grab it from his desk, pushing his chair out with a screech.

Hotch pauses halfway down the stairs. Eyes looking over, your father’s eyes land on you. “You alright?”

You smile. Bright. Innocent. “Peachy, Dad.” He frowns slightly, then keeps walking.

Yeah, there was no way your dad wasn’t finding out.

a/n: spencieeee

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[futuremrsreid]

Sober Hearts Part 2

Pairing: (inexperienced) Spencer Reid x Female BAU! Reader

WC: 2200

Content Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI! Awkward Spencer, unprotected sex, creampies, oral sex (f! receiving), minor dirty talk, huge pining and longing, mentions of consent, girly pop on top!

Summary: You and Spencer finally talk about what happened on your birthday.

-- -- --

“I’m going to wash up, then the bathroom’s all yours.” You say as you rifle through your duffle bag to find your makeup wipes and pajamas. 

“Sounds good.” Reid hobbles a bit as he tosses his bag on the bed, his knee clearly still bothering him. 

After locking the bathroom door behind you, you strip yourself of your work clothes and start washing your face. It was fine. Normal and fine. You just had to stay the night with your coworker who you drunkenly sucked face with on your birthday. Oh and then he ran away. Nearly literally ran. Nothing awkward about that at all. Thank god there were two beds, at least. 

After cleaning up and brushing your teeth, you pull on an oversized tee shirt with some comfortable cotton boy-short panties. As you pulled on your underwear you noticed how long the hair had grown out on your legs. 

Why did you care…? 

You snapped out of the thought. 

– – – 

You exit the bathroom and stand in front of the full length mirror to comb out your hair. In the mirror’s reflection you see Reid sitting on one of the beds going over the case photos again, spread out on the comforter. He doesn’t look up, clearly avoiding conversation. 

“So about Friday-” You start. 

“Yeah so I’m really sorry about that and I want us to just uh, move on and um, forget that that happened.” Reid responds quickly, sitting up straighter on the bed. “If you want to file a complaint with HR I totally unders-” 

“What?” You laugh. “Oh my god Reid, I wouldn’t do that! We were just drunk.” You turn around and place the hairbrush down on an end table. “It’s really not a big deal. I just wanted to know if you wanted to talk about it.” 

“I shouldn’t have done that I-” He stammers. 

“Relax. You kissed me. And I kissed you back. Enthusiastically, actually. You were drunk and I was upset about my birthday. It’s fine. It was really hot at the time, actually. Probably the booze.” You smile and try to assure him there was nothing to worry about.

Reid’s face turns red.

“You’re probably right. Alcohol reduces inhibitions and rational thinking, especially when consumed in large quantities. Combined with the emotional vulnerability of being angry about everyone canceling, your critical thought was impaired.” Reid rambles. “Probably why it was so, um…hot.” 

“Yeah, probably just because we were drunk.” You respond.

“Yeah… probably.” He nods and looks at the floor. 

You sit at the edge of his bed and curl your legs up into yourself. 

“I mean… we could know for sure…” You say casually as you flip through the case photos. 

“W-what do you mean?” Reid looks up and meets your eyes. 

“We could conduct more research. We’re not drunk now. We could… conduct another study.” You say as you move the case file over to the corner of the bed and shift closer to Spencer. 

“Well, um..” Reid gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing along his pale throat. “There are actually other factors at play, so it wouldn’t be an accurate study?” He questions you nervously. “A valid experiment would require only one variable. We’re technically at work now and we aren’t in your apartment and it’s not your-” 

“Would you like to kiss me again, Spence?” You interrupt. 

“So much, yes.” He leans forward quickly and puts his palms on your cheeks. 

He dives in immediately and claims your lips with his. 

It was less gentle this time, he pressed his tongue against yours and shifted on the bed so your chests were nearly touching. You smile into his eager kiss and respond in kind. You grab his narrow shoulders and gently pull him back with you, laying with your head at the foot of the bed with Spencer hovering over you. You wrap your legs around his waist and grind your hips upward into his. He buries his face in your neck to stifle a whimper. 

You scratch his back affectionately as you lean up to kiss his neck. He nuzzles into you further. 

“Wait-” Spencer suddenly pulls back. 

“Sorry, did I do something?” You look up at him with concern. 

“The real reason I left your place on Friday…” He licks his lips nervously. “I knew your day was awful and I didn’t- I didn’t want to disappoint you more…” 

You furrow your brows in confusion. 

“What do you mean? First of all I had a great birthday-” You say with your breaths a bit ragged from kissing. “Second of all your gift was amazing so I don’t know how-” 

“Sexually. I mean sexually.” He says with a sharp inhale. “I’m not exactly very… experienced? I mean, I almost finished just from kissing you on the couch. It’s embarrassing… I freaked out so I ran.” 

“Spencer.” You push him back so that you’re both sitting up now. “I don’t give a shit about that. Would I be asking you to kiss me again, on a case and stone cold sober, if I didn’t like you?” 

“Y-you like me?” He says with wide eyes. 

“God, yes. Sometimes you’re the stupidest smart person I know.” You card your hand through his long hair and kiss his cheek gently. “If you want to stop, we can. But if you want to keep going… I am more than happy to do that too.”

“I.. I want to keep going…” He smiles a bit. “I want to make you feel good. I-I might need you to show me, though…” His fingers fiddle softly with the hem of your t-shirt. 

You grin in response and pull your shirt over your head, exposing your chest to him. 

He was awestruck. You had never seen such a twinkle in his eye the way he was looking at your naked breasts now. 

“Wow… Can I-?” He asks. 

“Yes, sugar, anything you want.” You lean back on your elbows on the bed, letting him get a full view of your nealy nude body. 

He wastes no time and latches his tongue to one of your peaked, pink nipples. You groan in tandem as he kneads your other breast with his lithe fingers. He sucks harshly and you squeak in sudden pleasure. He continues to suckle on your flesh for some time and you pet his hair soothingly, releasing involuntary gasps and pants. 

You fall back on the bed fully as Reid kisses down your stomach. Fully drunk on your body already, he nuzzles his nose into your covered mound and inhales. 

His hands shakily grip your panties and he looks up at you. 

“Can I taste you, please?” He pleads. 

You nod and Spencer clumsily peels your panties down your legs to toss them somewhere across the hotel room. He tears his button down over his head and throws it in a similar direction before laying back down. 

You spread your legs for him and he settles down on the bed between them, face mere inches from your dripping wet center. He curiously reaches two fingers up to spread your outer lips, eyes marvelling at the way your hole seeped with arousal just for him. He leans in and gently kisses your swollen clit. 

You moan loudly at the contact. 

“So that is the right spot.” He assures himself before diving back in and flicking his tongue rapidly across your sensitive bud. You grip his hair and gasp. 

“Spence!”

“You taste so sweet… mmpph..” He slurs out as he open mouth kisses your opening, trying to lap up whatever essence of yours he could. 

“Hands… Your fingers…” You say through heavy breaths. 

“Right- right-” Spencer hears your plea and brings two fingers to your entrance and pushes them in. You were so aroused that they slipped in with ease. You sigh in relief. You wanted to feel him entirely inside you, but this would do for now. He pulls them out of you to slowly push them back in again. He stares at your wetness glistening on his digits as he fingered you, mesmerized by the way your slickless clung to him. 

It was cute watching him explore your body. 

“Up…” You instruct. “Pull them up…” 

“Like this?” Spencer asks as he crooks his fingers and presses on your favorite spot. 

“YES!” You cry out. “Right there! Oh, fuck!” You feel your thighs starting to shake on either side of Reid’s head. “Don’t forget-” 

Reid leans back in and suckles your clit into his plush lips. 

“FUCK!” You exclaim, back arching off the mattress. 

His fingers and lips don’t slow as he notices your walls tightening around his fingers. 

“Oh, Spence, I’m gonna- shit-” You try to warn your lover but it seemed to only spurn him on more, nose pressing even harder into the patch of hair on your mound as he drove you towards your climax. 

The tightness in your lower belly snapped and you let the release wash over you, whining loudly towards the ceiling of your dingy hotel room. Your thighs twitch as Spencer laps up the last drops of your orgasm, overstimulating you unintentionally in the process. He pulls back and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. 

“Did you really just-” He asks, in awe. 

“Yes. Clothes off. Lay down.” You say between gasps, catching your breath. You pull his head from between your legs and hobble up onto all fours, waiting for him to oblige your request. 

Spencer rises from the bed briefly to remove what remained of his clothes and laid before you, torso leaned up against the headboard, finding it difficult to make eye contact. His cock leaked against his lower belly, thick and painfully hard with an angry red tip. 

“I-it’s fine… right? I know the average penis size in North America is-” He starts to ramble again. 

“It’s perfect, Spence.” You purr as you climb up his slim body on the bed, capturing his lips in a deep kiss again. The remnants of your orgasm still present on his tongue. You grip the base of his shaft and line the mushroom tip up with your soaked entrance.

“I-I-I don’t have a condom-”

“I’m on the pill.” You tease his tip up and down on your clit a few times before nestling his head inside your opening. “Is this still okay?” You look down at him. 

“YES-” He answers almost too eagerly. Cute. “I need to be inside you. Please.” You feel his grip on your hips tighten. 

You sink down on him and you both emit vulgar sounds. He stretched you so well… why was it always skinny nerds who were totally hung? Your hips finally met and Spencer let out a desperate whimper. 

“Oh my god…” He gasps out. 

“Feels good, sugar?” You tentatively grind your hips back and forth on his member. 

“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt in my life.” Spencer pants up at you. “I’m not gonna last… you’re too tight… too wet…” He nearly squirms under you as you speed up the pace of your hips. You giggle a bit. 

“You feel good too, baby. So big.” You start to raise your body a bit further up with every back stroke on his cock. “Stretch me out so nice.” You moan and crane your head back. 

“D-don’t talk like that… you’re gonna make me-”

“Cum? Yeah? Am I gonna make you cum?” You tease as you ride him harder. “Good. Want you to fill me up.” 

“Fuck-” Spencer grunts and starts thrusting his hips up into you, his fingers gripping hard into your flesh. “Oh- fuck-” 

You moan and lean down to kiss him. He moves one of his hands to grip the back of your head as he humped up into you desperately, pressing your harder into his lips. 

“Inside?” He leaves your lips long enough to whisper to you, his forehead meeting yours. 

“Inside, please.” You respond, too cock drunk to form any other coherent sentences. 

“I-I’m- oh god-” 

And with a final hard thrust, you feel Spencer twitch and spill inside of your gummy, wet walls. He whines and moans as he finishes spending himself within you, the soft grind of his pelvis against your both soothing and arousing. You lay down against his chest and stroke his jawbone softly as he comes down from his intense climax. He wraps his shaky arms around your back. 

“Wow… that was-” 

“Amazing?” You interject.

“To say the least, yeah.” Reid says with a breathy chuckle. He strokes his fingers along your shoulder blades. 

You smile against his sweaty skin and feel yourself starting to drift off. 

“Women should pee after sex due to the risk of UTIs and yeast infections. Sex unbalances the PH level and can cause discomfort if the… foreign substance is left inside for a period of time. We really shouldn’t fall asleep like this.”

You pick your head up. 

“You just came inside of me less than two minutes ago and now you’re doctoring me?” You say with a curious smile. 

“Just looking out.” He smirks back. 

– – – 

[futuremrsreid]

Sober Hearts Part 1

Pairing: (inexperienced) Spencer Reid x BAU! Female Reader

PART 1 OF 2 (or 3?)

WC: 3200

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, kissing, two nerds being nerds, everyone bails on y/n's birthday which is sad.

Summary: Everyone blows off your birthday. Everyone except for Spencer Reid, that is. A late night movie leads to some drunken actions. **NO smut thus chapter, that's the next one**

– – 

Your birthday was imminent. 

And you loved your birthday. 

You were an only child and an extrovert, so it was safe to say you enjoyed being the center of attention. This led to much confusion with your friends and family as to why you chose a career as an FBI profiler, but you had your interests. 

Not only was it your birthday, it was your 30th birthday. A decade. A big one. You and Penelope had planned a night out with the team in celebration at the end of the week, your birthday falling on a Friday this year. You had a bare-bones plan for the evening and Penelope was handling the rest of the details while you worked your case. 

*ring ring*

You answer. 

“Agent L/n.” You reply. 

“Okay so ladies get in free until 11 PM and as long as you superheroes catch the bastard within a few days we are in like Flynn, my sexy dirty-future-30.” 

You sigh with a smile. 

“You’re hogging up the lines to plan my birthday party, Garcia?” You reply. 

“Obvi.” You could hear her smirk through the phone. “Also I’ve given you guys everything you’ve asked for thus far so I have zero qualms about spending my time creating the greatest rager known to Quantico-kind.” Your friend replies. 

You roll your eyes. 

“Well consider me in there like swim-wear. I’ve got an un-sub to track, so you’ll have to let me get back to it if you want to actually party this weekend.” 

“Aye aye. Garcia out.” 

The line clicks off. You stow your cell in your back pocket and return to the briefing room. You had been somewhere in the potato fields of rural Idaho chasing a serial rapist and murderer for several days now and you were ready to finish the case and get home. 

“Any leads on her end?” Prentiss asks as you enter the room. 

“Unfortunately no, she was just confirming our plans for Friday.” You reply. 

“Oh, the Y/N birthday spectacular? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Morgan chuckles and sets the file down on the conference table in front of him. “I haven’t seen you shit faced in years.” 

“Language, Derek.” Rossi adds with a smile from across the table. 

“My apologies, I just know L/N is a good time at the club and we haven’t let loose in awhile.” Morgan looks up at you and winks. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m going to dance with you.” You playfully smack Derek over the head with your file. “You coming, Rossi? I’m sure those old bones could use a night out.” 

“Absolutely not. I haven’t been to a club since Sinatra was singing there, and I have no plans to go back. I’ll send your card via inter-office mail.” The older man replies. 

“Make sure you spell my name right on the check.” You say with a smirk. 

“Well I’ll be there, I’ve had a sitter lined up for weeks. I need a drink more than I need oxygen at this point.” JJ remarks from her position at the whiteboard, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. 

“Statistically, coping with workplace stress with alcohol would exacerbate any existing conditions-” Reid pipes up from his seated position at the table. 

“Yeah yeah yeah.” You wave him off. “So you’re coming, right?” You ask. 

“I’m actually giving a guest lecture on the homicidal tendencies of males experiencing abnormal maternal fetishes at the Quantico James Madison campus that night so I can’t really-” 

You stick your tongue out and blow a raspberry. 

“LAME!” You remark while making an L with your fingers on your forehead. 

“Real mature…” Reid raises his eyebrows and sighs. 

– – –

The case ends and you fly home with the team on Friday morning. You bid farewell to your colleagues and head home to take a well-deserved nap before your birthday celebrations. 

You wake up and lazily stretch your arms over your head. 

You notice your phone buzzing. 

8  missed texts. 

JJ: “Hey… the sitter cancelled at the last minute, I have to stay home with Henry. So sorry! Drinks soon!”

Boss Man: “Happy Birthday, Agent L/N.”

Undiagnosed But Pretty Sure: “Dropping your gift off later after my lecture.” 

Hottie Body Morgan: “Something came up, sweet thing, duty calls. Next time!”

Queen Pen: “Oh my god you’re going to kill me… Kevin’s dog died. He’s totally inconsolable. We need to rain check! Next weekend?” 

Italian Stallion: “Make sure you endorse the check before you deposit it. Don’t get too crazy tonight.” 

Miss Emily: “I’m wiped. Need to sleep. I’ll take you to brunch tomorrow, you better not be too hungover! Have fun tonight!”

Queen Pen: “I feel awful!” 

You were floored. 

Everyone had bailed. 

Your chest panged.

Your throat tightened. 

Of course, it was none of their fault. You were just disappointed. You had planned an outfit and everything… now it was to go to waste. You choke back the tears and hop out of bed. Nothing you could do now. You look at the clock. 8 PM. 

You throw on some black bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt and head down to the kitchen of your brownstone. You sigh as you open the fridge. A fresh box of cheap wine stared back at you. You had purchased it for any afters at your place that might have transpired after your club night out. You crack open the box and pour a heavy glass of bargain pinot grigio and bring it to your living room. 

You look at the clock again. 

8:39 PM. 

You flip on the TV and turn it to the latest episode of real housewives. With an exasperated sigh you take several large gulps of wine as you settle in on the couch.

*hmmphh*

Your dog sighed at you from his bed across the room. 

 Happy birthday to you. 

“FRONT DOOR. MOTION DETECTED.” 

Your video doorbell notified you. 

As an FBI agent, you were paranoid by nature, especially after everything that happened with Hotch. You sprung up and padded your way to the front door in bare feet. You peel back the curtains and notice a familiar figure placing a large box at your doorstep. You open the door. 

“Hey!” You call out as you see them retreat down your concrete steps.

“O-oh, hey!” Reid turns around to face you. His eyes glimmering in your porch lights. “I.. didn’t really expect you to be home. Thought you’d be out terrorizing the town with the team.” 

“No, uh.” You look down at your feet. You swallowed hard. “Everybody bailed.” You say with a sad chuckle. 

“What? Even Morgan?” Reid asks in earnest, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah, I think he found some tail. You know how he is.” You laugh. You look down at the box on your doorstep. “What’s this?” You say as you pick up the box. 

“Your birthday present, I thought I would just leave it for you to get when you came home.” 

You crack open the crudely taped top of the box. Inside the box were several individually wrapped parcels. You pick one up and take off the brown paper. You gasp. 

“Reid…” You say as you hold the drinking glass in your hand. 

“The 1970 Murano checkered glass set.. In yellow…” Reid can’t help but smile as he sees you look at the cup. “It’s the whole set. The certificate of authenticity is in the box somewhere-” He steps towards your porch. “I think it’s all there-” 

“H-how? I-I’ve been looking for this set forever…” 

“Ebay. Took me a minute, but I found a seller.” Reid steps further into your porch light. “You’ve been talking about it for years.” 

Your grin spread all the way across your face as you delicately packed the drinking glass back into the large box. 

“Holy shit, Reid. This is like… the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me…” You were giddy. 

“Well, happy birthday L/N.” He says with a shy smile. He turns to walk back home when you interject. 

“Do you- do you want to come in?” You ask, sheepishly. “It’s my birthday and I’m drinking boxed wine alone. It’s kind of pathetic, actually.” You say with a chuckle. 

Reid hesitates, scanning your face for any microexpressions to make sense of the situation. He had never been invited into your home before and it was late. 

“Well… it would be a shame if we didn’t break the new glassware in.” He smiles and heads up the steps and into your open front door. You could have sworn he was blushing. 

You motion for Reid to have a seat on the couch as you bring two of the new glasses to the kitchen and fill them up with wine. 

“Woah hey there!” You hear Reid nervously exclaim from the living room. 

“Sorry! He’s friendly, I promise!” You say without looking up, knowing your dog was giving the guest a huge sniff-over. “I know you’re not a dog guy, but he’s harmless.” You say as you bring the two cups of wine over to the sofa. 

“I never told you I didn’t like dogs.” Reid says defensively. 

“I’ve known you for 5 years… I’m a profiler… I know you don’t like dogs.” You say with a single raised eyebrow as you hand Reid his glass of wine. 

“You know, greyhounds are statistically one of the most lazy breeds of dogs even though they’re career racetrack animals.” He says as your dog calms down and returns to his bed on the floor next to the TV. 

“Don’t I know it. Banjo is a certified couch potato. Perfect for someone who isn’t home all the time. He’d spend more time eating than running if he could.” You laugh. 

“Well… happy birthday.” Reid raises a mustard-yellow checkered antique glass to yours as he sees Banjo settle into his dog bed. 

You clink your cup with his. 

“Thank you, Reid.” 

You both take a sip. 

He sputters. 

“This is terrible.” He says with a chuckle. 

“I know.” You throw your head back and laugh. “I didn’t expect to be drinking this all night.” 

“I’m sorry everybody flaked.” Reid says, taking another drink from his glass. 

“It’s fine. Shit happens.” You say without looking up from your cup. 

“Yeah, but it still sucks.” He takes another gulp of white wine. “Your place is nice.” He remarks. 

“Thanks.” you reply. “I still can’t believe you found this glass set.” 

“It wasn’t that hard, just had to talk to a bunch of internet weirdos to get it.” 

“Ah, yes, and since we specialize in weirdos I’m sure you could get a good deal.” You say with a cheeky smile. “Thank you.. Again.” 

“No problem.” Spencer answers. There’s a pause. “Hey, do you have netflix? I heard they just released the first part of Dune on there and-”

“Really?!” You sit up on the couch and grab the remote. “I’ve been dying to see it!”

“Yeah me too!” Reid can’t hide his enthusiasm as he sets his empty glass down on your coffee table. 

“Here, I’ll refill us and you get the movie going.” You say as you excitedly pass Reid the remote. You get up and fill both of your glasses to the brim with wine before returning to the couch. 

– – 

“Well he’s a complex character-”

“Oh yeah? RIP Oedipus, you would have loved Paul Atriedies.” You laugh into your umpteenth glass of wine. 

Reid can’t help but laugh with you. 

“That is so not it!” The young genius gives you push back. 

Is Reid giggling? Was he tipsy? You had never seen this before. You had never seen him so… comfortable. You also realized how close the two of you were sitting on the couch.

You had begun the movie at opposite ends of the sectional, but with frequent breaks to refill your cups and grab snacks, you and Reid had ended up hip to hip with each other on your sofa at the end of the film. His arm had even snaked its way behind your shoulder on the back of the couch, caging you in near him. 

“How did your talk go tonight?” You asked. 

“Oh, that? It was fine. The lightbulb joke flopped again.” He says with a tired grin. 

“About the existentialists?” You ask. 

“That’s the one, yes.” 

“Oh, I like that one.” You finish your cup of wine and place it onto the coffee table alongside Reid’s empty glass. “Maybe it needs an update.”

“An update? You have any ideas?” A bit of a drunken smile plays across his pale face. 

“Yeah maybe like… If I had a dollar for every existentialist moment I’ve ever had, does money even matter?” You propose. 

Reid whole-heartedly laughs, his dimples highlighted in the shadows from the low lighting of your living room. He was so handsome, so sweet…

What were you thinking?

It had to be the wine…

“I can’t believe Morgan missed out on the chance to take you out tonight.” Reid remarks, seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Well I’m sure if he had a chance to get laid he’d take that over going out with me.” You joke. “I’m basically his little sister. The whole team thinks of me like that.” 

“I don’t.” Reid responds all too quickly. 

You swallow. 

“Well yeah, we’re like the same age.” You laugh his comment off awkwardly. 

“It’s not just that, it’s-” Reid stops himself. “Nevermind.” 

“No no, say it.” You pull on his shirt sleeve playfully and lean into him. 

“Well… I just…” Reid stammers as you move closer. 

You were nearly chest to chest at this point and his hand grazed the tops of your shoulders. You move your hands to your lap. 

“You just what?”

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n… I notice it all the time…” He says nervously as he scans your features. 

Move your hands up his chest and your fingertips ghost up his sternum and you gently card them through the long hair at the base of his neck. 

“You think so?” You ask, breathlessly. 

“I-I-I do… I always have…” He stutters and places one of his nervous, shaking hands on your hip. 

“Spence…” 

“Y/n…” 

And suddenly his lips were on yours. 

You inhale quickly at the surprise of it all. Your colleague of several years was kissing you inside your house. Why did it feel so right? You cradle his head and pull him further into you as you sigh into the kiss. Inexperienced lips mouthed at yours as you pressed yourself against him. It was clear he had no idea what he was doing but it was evident that he wanted to feel you, the grip on your hip becoming impossibly tight. 

You wound your fingers into his long hair and tugged gently, deepening the kiss. You push your tongue tentatively into his mouth and he whines. Holy shit that was hot. You were about to swing your leg over his lap to straddle him when he broke the intense connection. 

“Oh my god, I am so sorry…” Spencer stood up abruptly, leaving you alone on the couch craving his touch again. 

“W-what?” You stammer in confusion. You stand up to try to follow him. 

“I-I have to go.. T-This is unprofessional…I-I didn’t mean for this to-” Reid stutters and heads towards your front door. 

You follow him. 

“Spencer wait-” You reach out but he ducks from your grasp before you can grip the hem of his sweater vest. “You shouldn’t drive home-” You make any attempt to plead with him to stay. 

“I’ll walk- sorry- L/N- I need to go…” 

And before you could process anything else, Spencer was out your front door and halfway down the block. You chew your nail as you watch him walk off from your porch, wondering if you had completely soured your friendship and working relationship with Reid. 

– – – 

“I am SO sorry I skipped out on your birthday. I feel so bad!” JJ remarked to you on Monday after the weekend had gone by. 

“It’s honestly fine, the rest of the degenerates flaked on me as well.” You say with a bit of venom in your voice in the briefing room. “Spent most of the night drinking boxed wine with the dog.”

“Yeah that’s why she looked so haggard when I took her to brunch the next day. The sulfates in that cheap shit will kill you.” Prentiss comments 

“Wait, so you’re saying every single member of the team cancelled on your birthday?” Hotch looks up from the case file and raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Yes and if you’d like to financially compensate me for my time that would be appreciated, section chief.” You say with a cheeky smile as you distribute copies of the file around the large wooden table. 

“Now hold on, something came up and-” Morgan begins. 

“Oh I’m sure something came, Derek.” You say with a fake grin. “None of you could have topped Reid’s gift anyway.” 

“Oh yeah? What did boy-wonder get you?” Morgan asked with a raised brow. 

“Murano glass. 1970.” Reid comments softly with his face buried in the file. The two of you haven’t spoken one on one since the kiss at your house on Friday. 

“The mustard checkered set? The one you’ve been nerding out over forever? How many pieces?” Prentiss asked. “You didn’t tell me this on Saturday!”

“The whole set actually. Can we review the case?” Reid leans forward in his chair, still not looking at you or anyone else. 

Emily gives you a knowing look with furrowed brows. She can tell something happened. You hated working with profilers. 

– – – 

“Okay what the hell happened Friday night?” Emily probes you from the passenger's seat of the black SUV you were driving. The team had flown out to California on a case of several missing women and you were tasked with heading out to the house of one of the victim’s families. You kept your eyes on the road, thankful that you had sunglasses on so she couldn’t completely read your expression. 

“What do you mean? I told you. Everyone cancelled and I stayed home to get drunk alone.” You say. 

“No there’s more you’re not saying. Something happened with Reid. He’s been weird all day and when  you mentioned his gift to you he got even weirder.” 

You swallow hard. 

“Reid is always weird, that’s not new. I mean, he dropped off the gift, yeah. Nothing happened, though.” You try your best not to sound defensive. 

“That’s nice, you know. That really is nice. That’s a lie, but it’s nice!” Prentiss chides you. 

“You can think what you want, nothing happened.” 

“Yeah okay.” Emily says with a dramatic eye roll. She settles back in her seat. 

A few minutes go by in silence.

Emily breaks it. 

“Don’t break his heart, okay?” 

You don’t respond.

– – – 

You couldn’t believe it. The rural desert town only had a handful of beds left and you were all forced to pair up for the nightly accommodations. 

“Youngest get last pick, and I’m taking Morgan because he seems the least likely to snore.” David Rossi grabs a room key off the front desk. 

“No argument there.” Emily remarks. “Come on JJ.” 

“WHAT!” You exclaim. “Why did you pick her so fast?!” 

“She’s got a baby at home and you talk in your sleep. We need everyone at their best tomorrow. Sorry, girl. Looks like you’re stuck with boy genius.” You immediately notice the slight upward curve of her lips as she finishes her sentence. 

The team leaves to their rooms and you snatch the last key off the counter with a sigh. You turn around to face Reid. He purses his lips into an awkward smile. 

“Shall we?” He says with a tug on the strap of his messenger bag.

-- -- --

[futuremrsreid]

Nervous

Softcore in which you’re overwhelmed by how far he would go to protect your safety.

Category: Angst Word count: 2.3k Content: minor injury, overprotective spencer, avoidant attachment reader if you squint a/n: i've always wanted to do the "man goes crazy after you're hurt" trope and this seems like the right opportunity. and just so you know i’m actually hyperventilating while typing this bc apparently the neighborhood is coming back!! with new music!! after 4 years!! can you tell i'm excited!!!!

-

“Where is she?”

Spencer demands. Something he’s been doing a lot lately — speaking with a tone that expects answers to materialize out of thin air. The authority that drips from his voice would normally send a pleasant shiver down your spine, you can even admit there’s a time and place where it would be more than welcome when far less clothing is involved. But right now? In the back of an ambulance with your head splitting in two and his words scraping against what’s left of your nerves?

Not so much.

Your skull is throbbing. The cold metal bench is digging into you uncomfortably, and the sterile scent of disinfectant claws at your throat with a vicious persistence of acid. Your stomach twists at the bitter, chemical burn. His voice only makes it worse.

“Stop shouting,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut against the stabbing pain.

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “What were you thinking?”

You peel your eyes open just enough to glare at him, wincing as your head throbs in protest. “What does it look like I was thinking? I was doing my job.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine?” He practically chokes on the word. “You call this fine?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“You almost were. Do you even realize how reckless that was?”

“Of course I realized the risk. I assessed it.”

“No, you didn’t. You slipped an entire perimeter detail and dove head-first into a hostage situation.”

“Again, I was doing my job.”

“Without notifying any of us.”

You fight the reflex to roll your eyes.

“If it matters to you that much, next time it happens I’ll check with you before I try not to die. Happy?”

Sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight, shoulders locked in a rare display of tension. Something you haven’t seen in months when he’s kept his emotions buried under layers of forced composure. But you are your own worst enemy when it comes to self-preservation, and that applies just as much to arguments as it does to danger.

His scowl deepens, and for a second you think he’s going to let you have it. You're already bracing yourself for an onslaught of logic and statistics — the odds of survival, the risks of your actions, the percentage of people who don’t make it out alive when they do exactly what you did.

That’s when he stops. Dead in his tracks.

A sudden breeze ghosts across your lower stomach, and it takes you a second to realize that your shirt must have inched up with all the shifting you can’t seem to stop doing. You barely have time to process it before you see the change in him. His face drains of color. Paler than usual. Paler than he already is.

“What did he do?”

You follow his gaze, and there it is. A galaxy of green and purple in the shape of five fingers and a large palm across your ribs like some twisted badge of honor. You hadn’t even felt it until now, but the second your eyes land on it, a dull, aching throb pulses beneath your skin.

You quickly tug your shirt over the angry bruise. “Nothing."

But he’s already moving. His knees drag against the rough asphalt as he pushes your shirt back up, fingers brushing over your skin with a touch that feels too soft for the situation.

Your bloodshot eyes waver frantically.

“Spencer,” you hiss, glancing around. “Spencer, stop, you’re making a scene.”

A quick scan of the cramped space tells you the only audience is the medics, and while they’re pretending to mind their own business, the raised eyebrows aren’t exactly subtle. One of them coughs — whether it’s to cover a laugh or clear his throat, you can’t tell. Though your face still heats at the scrutiny.

"Spencer."

"This could’ve been worse."

You shove his hand away and yank your shirt down. “But it's not. I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” he presses. “You’re clearly not fine.”

Irritation pulses behind your temples. "Then stop acting like I’m weak, I did what I had to do.”

“What you did was reckless,” he reminds you again. “You should have waited. You had backup for a reason.”

“Someone could've died if I waited.”

"You almost died."

You exhale sharply. “Well he didn’t get the chance, did he? JJ found me and shot the guy in the leg before it could get that far.”

Which, honestly, was pretty damn impressive, considering you were fighting for your life. One second you were pinned beneath a man twice your size, adrenaline roaring in your ears so loud you could barely think, and the next — bang. Clean shot to the leg.

“If it were me,” he grumbles, “I would’ve shot him in the head.”

You scoff. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he insists.

Your gaze shifts from the ground to his eyes, and that’s when you see it. The dark flecks in his brown irises seem to glow with an edge you’ve never quite caught before. Or maybe you have, but only in flashes. A flicker of something sharp in the set of his jaw when someone underestimates him. A muted warning when a suspect creeps too close. An imperceptible moment of tension when his fingers clench around your waist amidst the heat you both refuse to define.

It dawns on you that those hard lines around his eyes were always there, smoldering beneath his careful veneer of logic and reason. You just never knew you had the power to coax them onto the surface.

Spencer is protective — that much you knew. But not in a way that feels directed solely at you. Not when your relationship with him is already tangled in the space between labels that neither of you dares to clarify. He nitpicks your choices more than any friend should, yet he’s pinned you to the mattress far more often than you care to admit. Now hearing him say he’d actually break the very foundation of who he is sends your pulse into a clumsy rhythm.

His features are blurred by the disbelief flooding behind your eyes.

“You don’t mean that,” you say, hollow words sinking on your tongue.

He doesn’t even blink.

“If I ever found someone hurting you, I would put a bullet between their eyes and sleep just fine."

Your heart suddenly feels too big for the tight space in your chest. Too many emotions hit you all at once.

A little bit of fear.

A little bit of awe.

A lot of something else you don’t want to name.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll never have to. I can handle myself.”

The lines on his forehead deepens. “Just promise me you won’t do something like this again.”

You pull away and blink against the wind seeping through the open doors. It stings, his lack of faith in your judgment. The sharp bite of the cold air mirrors that prick as it slips under your collar, brushing over your blemished skin with a chill that's almost as piercing as the siren wailing incessantly in your ears.

But even that shrill cry can’t drown out the pounding in your head.

“You, of all people, know I can’t promise you that," you mutter, voice scraping the back of your throat.

His breath curls into the air as he replies, “At least tell me you’ll be more careful.”

“I was careful.”

“No, you were lucky. There’s a difference.”

Goosebumps rise on your arms that have nothing to do with the cold. He's right. Maybe it was luck. A fraction of a second, a shift in timing. A cosmic accident that decided you’d walk away instead of being zipped into a body bag. It wasn’t skill, nor caution. It was pure, dumb luck that you weren’t lying somewhere colder and permanent with the earth pressing down on you instead of the weight of his stare.

But you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

"You're being dramatic,” you try to deadpan, shooting him a weary look.

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits, and you resist the urge to bristle under the scrutiny. He’s studying you too hard. He’s looking at you like you’re some kind of equation he can’t solve, as if he stares long enough he’ll find the variable that explains why you don’t seem to value your own life the way he does.

You feel the need to defend yourself.

“I jabbed him in the throat,” you try again, gesturing loosely, “caught him off guard, and then went for his weapon. The whole thing took maybe five seconds—less, if you count how quickly he hit the ground after that first shot.”

“Five seconds could have cost you your life.”

“It didn't,” you counter quickly. Shift your eyes to your hands. Tongue your cheek. Try to justify your action. “And let’s not pretend you wouldn’t have done the same. You've jumped into danger more times than I can count.”

His entire body goes still.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t exactly have a great track record for your own safety.” Your voice isn’t sharp, but there’s an edge to it. A tired sort of bite. “Are we conveniently forgetting all the times you’ve ignored protocol?”

The silence that follows is almost unsettling. He doesn’t react at first, doesn’t even breathe as far as you can tell. You wonder if you’ve managed to break him, if the sheer hypocrisy of his argument has finally caught up to him, if the logic has knocked him right through the bulletproof vest he always insists offers enough protection when you both know better.

Maybe he’s running through every instance you could be referring to. Is he tallying up his own recklessness? Those dangerous leaps of faith he’s taken without hesitation?

The wheels in his head are turning so fast you can almost hear them grinding.

“That’s different," he finally says.

You snort softly. Double standard.

“How is it different?”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel over your face.

“Because it’s you.”

He says it so quietly you almost didn't hear him. But you did, too loud and clear with your heart in your throat, then falter.

You're the one robbed of words now, a knot of half-formed syllables stuck to your tongue. You’re so caught off guard that you barely even register the overhead sirens blaring somewhere above you. Or the distant chatter of medics. The hum of radio static, a faint, crackling drone that seems to come from miles away. Everything is drowned out by the way your pulse hammers against your skin.

You can only focus on the flashes of color streaking across his face. Red, then blue, then red again. It catches the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Traces the sharp line of his nose, slides over his parted lips. Lingers on the pale scar under his chin that you’ve seen a hundred times but never really noticed until now.

You also notice how small the space between you feels. How the air surrounding you crackles. How the oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. How the distance between you seems to fold inward with each heartbeat.

A thump of his knees against the coarse dirt.

A pulse in the brief pause that follows.

A tick of gravity pulls you toward the shadow of a man you rarely encounter.

You're not sure how to handle this version of him, stripped of his layers of detachment. The version that exists in the slithers of time before his features school into that practiced neutrality he wears so well. A rare side of him that flickers into view — ephemeral as a stray synapse sparking in that immense brainpower he usually shields. Delicate in its existence.

And what do you do with a Spencer who isn’t just the mind, but also the heart? The heart that he guards so fiercely it sometimes seems like he forgets he has one. Until he doesn’t. Until it’s right there, beating openly in front of you. Perhaps oblivious to his own knowledge.

So you do what you always do when it gets too much. You exhale, slow and shallow.

Then you look away.

“You worrying about me this much is new," you mutter, eyes glued to his crooked tie. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Then promise me you won’t make a habit of this.”

“This is not the debrief I was expecting.”

One thing that hasn’t changed is his stubbornness. “Promise me.”

You hesitate, knowing a promise like that isn’t yours to give. But he opens his mouth again, and a slow breath in the shape of your name falls from his lips. A pleading sort of whisper that travels every curve of your body, and by the time it lingers at the base of your spine, your nerves flutter.

The thrum in your veins surpasses even the rush of adrenaline you felt moments ago. This isn’t survival. Survival is instinct and reaction, it’s raw nerves driving you forward without conscious thought. This is recognition, awareness, because the way your name rolls off his tongue isn’t a simple request — it’s an opening. A sliver of space carved into the dense tangle of his armor, an admission slipping through the cracks before he can smooth them over.

And if you’re seeing a fracture in that carefully guarded part of him, maybe it’s only fair to meet him halfway.

Let whatever light he’s offering in.

Let it reach the places you pretend don’t need warmth.

You finally release a slow breath through your nose as he continues to look up at you. “I’ll try,” you comply.

His shoulders slump. Your answer isn’t enough.

But for now, it’s all you have.

"I got goosebumps all over me, when you're around it's hard for me to breathe." Nervous—The Neighbourhood

[futuremrsreid]

I saw how many works you have and actually screamed btw. I know I’ll be reading (and rereading) all of them tonight.

Can I request something like sub!spencer AND sub!reader together? Like maybe it’s their first time having sex with eachother and one of them, I don’t mind who, tries to be the dom at first but they just end up slipping into being submissive. Whiny needy sex is my soft spot‼️

this is so pathetic I love it

cw: mutual shyness, first time, sub x sub dynamic, praise kink, soft dom moments (from both), lots of asking and consent, mutual oral (m. & f. receiving), slow and tender, cuddly sex, emotional intimacy, very gentle smut

REQUESTS OPEN!

You weren’t sure how it started.

A brush of his hand on your knee during movie night. The way he looked at you when you laughed at something stupid. How close he leaned when he asked you a question, eyes searching yours like you might disappear if he blinked too fast.

You’d been dancing around each other for months — gentle touches, too-long hugs, soft confessions over wine and dim lighting — but tonight, something was different. You could feel it. The way Spencer’s eyes lingered on your mouth. How his voice kept catching, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

And when your fingers brushed his on the couch, and you didn’t pull away?

He laced them with yours.

You both just… sat there, staring at each other, hearts thudding, faces warm.

“Spence,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“…Have you ever…?” You trailed off, chewing your lip.

He flushed. “Not with someone I—care about. Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me either.”

There was a pause.

And then: “Do you want to?”

Spencer’s breath hitched. He nodded. “But I don’t really—know what to do. Or, I mean—I do, anatomically, but not like—how to… start.”

You laughed gently. “Me either.”

His smile was small, nervous, utterly precious. “Okay. Then maybe we… just figure it out? Together?”

You nodded.

He kissed you slow. Sweet.

Careful, like he was afraid to break you.

Your hands trembled as they curled into his shirt. His touched your face like you were made of glass.

By the time you reached the bed, you were both breathless, wide-eyed, and so clearly out of your depth — but so ready to fall into each other anyway.

“Can I—can I take your shirt off?” he asked, voice soft, hands hovering.

You nodded, lifting your arms. “Can I… see you too?”

He flushed. “Y-yeah.”

Layer by layer, you undressed each other like unwrapping a gift you weren’t sure you deserved. When he saw you fully naked, Spencer made a sound — soft and reverent, like awe.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re so beautiful.”

You smiled, cupping his jaw. “You are too.”

His laugh was self-conscious. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to.”

Spencer laid you down gently, trembling hands gliding over your bare thighs. His eyes flicked to your face with every movement, asking silent permission again and again. You nodded every time.

When his mouth lowered between your legs, he asked first.

“Can I taste you?”

Your breath caught. “Yes. Please.”

And God — he was so careful.

Spencer kissed your thighs first, nosed at your skin, then flattened his tongue against you with a soft hum that nearly made your back arch. He moaned when he felt how wet you already were, like he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re… fuck, you’re soaked already,” he whispered, flushed and shy. “Am I doing okay?”

You nodded frantically. “More than okay.”

He kept going — slowly, gently, just like you needed — and only stopped when your thighs were shaking around his ears and your moans turned to soft cries of his name.

After, he looked up at you, his lips wet and pink. “Did that feel good?”

You giggled and pulled him up to kiss you. “Come here and find out.”

You wanted to make him feel just as good — so you kissed your way down his stomach, hands trembling, cheeks warm.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you murmured.

“I won’t want you to,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I will.”

He gasped when you took him into your mouth — not deep, not fast, just enough to let him feel your warmth, your care. His fingers tangled in the sheets, not daring to touch you unless you asked.

You pulled off with a soft pop, kissing the inside of his thigh. “Ready for more?”

His whole body shook as he nodded.

When you finally slid onto him, inch by inch, your foreheads pressed together, mouths gasping against each other’s skin — neither of you moved at first.

Just breathing. Shaking. Getting used to the closeness.

“Okay?” you asked, brushing his hair from his face.

He nodded, eyes glossy. “I think I’ve wanted this forever.”

You rocked your hips. He moaned. His hands gripped your waist, like he didn’t know what else to do.

You moved together like a shared heartbeat — slow, nervous, reverent. Every thrust was a whispered promise. Every kiss a reassurance.

He kept mumbling praise — “So good, so warm, you feel amazing” — and when you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and tears in your eyes.

Spencer followed with a soft, broken cry, burying his face in your shoulder like the world might fall apart if he didn’t hold on to you.

After, you curled together under the blankets, legs tangled, breaths finally slowing.

“Was that… okay?” he whispered.

You laughed, snuggling into his chest. “It was perfect.”

He kissed your temple. “Let’s never be scared to ask for what we want again.”

You smiled.

“Deal.”

[futuremrsreid]

unraveled - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: holy shit— you and spencer reuniting!!! also i have 13 fics in my drafts and 2 pending requests yet to he written BARE WITH ME HERE! im tryna post every other day so i can get them out for yall. like i literally wrote this april 23rd😅😅….

You hear the key in the lock before you hear his voice. It’s late. The kind of late that hums under your skin like a second pulse, the living room dim except for the low amber glow of the lights in the kitchen. You’re curled on the edge of the couch, half-asleep and waiting—have been waiting, for three days now. Three days and two nights without his voice, without the rustle of his jacket when he gets home, without the stretch of his arms around your waist, grounding you.

The door creaks open. Then: the scrape of suitcase wheels over the entryway tile. “Spence?” you call out, already rising to your feet. He barely manages to shut the door before you’re on him.

“Hi,” he breathes, smiling like the sight of you just knocked the wind out of him. He doesn’t get another word out. Your arms are around his neck, his duffel bag thudding forgotten to the floor as you jump into him full-body, knocking his suitcase sideways. You kiss him like you need him to breathe. It’s sloppy—teeth knocking, lips dragging, your fingers buried in his waves and his hands grappling for your waist like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first. It’s all rush and noise and clumsy laughter between kisses, your coat sleeve knocking a lamp off balance and neither of you caring.

“You smell like an airport,” you murmur against his mouth.

“You taste like home,” he whispers back, voice warm and tired and a little wrecked. His coat’s barely off before you’re tugging at his shirt, buttons getting misaligned as you stumble backward together. The half-zipped suitcase tips over with a dull thud. Spencer’s foot kicks it mid-step and you both collapse sideways, toppling down into the soft sprawl of the rug.

You land on your back, giggling as he catches himself just above you. “Graceful,” you grin.

“I tripped over my dissertation,” he mumbles, glancing at the corner of the suitcase with half an academic journal sticking out. “A cruel metaphor.”

You arch up and kiss him again before he can say anything else. This time slower. Your hands curl into his shirt, finding the heat of his skin beneath, the lean stretch of him. It starts to quiet then less frantic, more weight behind every kiss. Like your bodies are finally catching up to everything your hearts already knew.

He shifts above you, one hand pressing to the floor for balance, the other trailing over your side, over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch. Your breath catches as his fingers meet bare skin. “You missed me?” you ask, teasing. His answer is a soft groan into your throat.

“You have no idea.” And when you drag your nails up his spine, tug him impossibly closer, Spencer exhales like he’s finally home.

He presses his hips into yours—slow, exploratory, like he’s reminding himself you’re real and right here. Like maybe he dreamt about this exact moment in some hotel bed and woke up empty-handed. You arch up into him again, your thighs falling open to welcome the weight of him. He’s hard already, even through the layers of travel-wrinkled pants and your sleep shorts. You shift your hips, testing the friction. His breath stutters.

“I’ve only been gone three days,” he mutters but his voice is wrecked. Like maybe it felt longer for him too. You smile up at him, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“Mm. And you haven’t kissed me like this in even longer.”

His mouth drops to yours again—no rush this time. Just a slow drag of lips, the kind of kiss that makes your chest ache. He kisses you like he’s relearning you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second. His tongue slides soft over yours, tasting, coaxing and you can feel the strain in his shoulders from holding himself back. When his hand slips under your shirt again, fingers splaying across your stomach, you gasp quietly against his mouth.

“I thought about this,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. “When I was stuck in that lecture hall listening to some guy drone on about psycholinguistics and I could barely take notes because I kept thinking about you.”

You whimper, nails digging lightly into his back. “Didn’t know you could get horny in a psycholinguistics seminar.”

He grins against your neck. “I can get horny anywhere when it’s about you.”

Then he’s pushing your shirt up to your ribs, mouth trailing heat down your collarbone. The floor’s not comfortable. Your shoulder is pressed into a rolled-up hoodie that spilled from his bag and your hip is digging into a zipper but you couldn’t care less. All you feel is the warmth of his body, the weight of his return. He sucks a mark just beneath your jaw, then kisses it softly like an apology. “God, I missed you.” He writhes.

“You’re showing it,” you murmur, shifting again beneath him, this time rolling your hips deliberately. He groans low in his throat, and you feel the way his cock twitches against you.

“I want you,” he breathes. You grin up at him, drunk on the heat. “I need you.” he corrects. His eyes flash a dark spark behind all that tenderness and you know exactly where this is going next. His hands move with a new kind of urgency now. Still careful and still Spencer but no longer holding back. He pushes your shirt up over your head in one fluid motion and tosses it blindly behind him. Your skin pebbles in the room’s soft chill and then warms instantly under his palms.

Spencer drags his fingers along the sides of your ribs, reverent. “I kept thinking,” he says, voice low, “about how long I was going to kiss you when I got home. How long I was going to touch you. I didn’t expect to be doing it on the floor, though.” You lift your hips to help him strip your shorts down.

“Guess your skills are slipping.”

His smile is crooked and flushed, waves hanging in his face as he leans down and kisses the top of your breast and lower. “No. Just re-prioritizing.”

He mouths at your nipple through your bra, tongue teasing until your breath catches and then slips one hand beneath the fabric to free you. You’re half-naked beneath him now and he’s still fully dressed, wrinkled from the flight and flushed from the effort of keeping it together. But it’s unraveling fast.

You hook a leg around his waist and pull, rolling your hips into his. The noise he makes spills straight into your mouth as he kisses you again. His hands leave your skin only long enough to yank at his belt. You hear the soft jingle, the low metallic slide of it coming undone and it shoots heat right to your core.

Spencer lowers himself between your legs fully now, weight sinking into yours like he’s been carrying exhaustion in his bones but you’re the only place he can actually rest. His hands are under your thighs, tugging you closer, grounding you to the carpet as he mouths at your jaw, your throat, your chest, every soft patch of skin like it’s what’s been keeping him sane.

You cup his face, thumbs brushing his flushed cheeks. “Missed me?” He nods, slow, eyes locked on yours. Then you kiss him and while you do, you slide your hand between you and palm him over his briefs. He’s rock hard. And sensitive. And already twitching. He breaks the kiss with a shudder.

“This—this was not how I planned to unpack.”

“Let me guess,” you smirk, stroking him slowly, “you were gonna shower first, alphabetize your toiletry bag, rehang your lanyard?”

His mouth drops open, a breathy sound escaping. “I was gonna call Hotch.”

You snort. “Tragic.” Then you reach into his waistband and wrap your hand around his cock. His whole body stutters like it’s glitching and his forehead drops to your shoulder as he lets out a quiet, strangled moan.

“Fuck baby—” You stroke him slow, twisting your wrist just the way he likes and his hips buck into your palm without meaning to. He’s panting against your skin now, every breath hotter than the last.

You whisper against his ear, “Thought you said you missed me?”

His hands grip your thighs like a lifeline. “I do. I did. I—I think I’m dreaming.” You guide his cock against the soft cotton of your panties, grinding into him with just enough pressure to make him curse.

“Not dreaming,” you murmur. “This is real. You’re home.” When he finally lines himself up, he pauses—just for a breath. Just to look at you, to brush his knuckles over your cheek and smile so soft it aches.

“You okay?” his voice is low, already breathless. You nod, heart thudding.

“Yeah. More than okay.”

And then he’s inside you. It’s slow at first. Deep. Just a long, dragging thrust that punches the breath right out of your lungs. Spencer groans above you, bracing himself on his forearm beside your head, the other hand wrapped around your thigh, holding you open for him. “God,” he whispers, burying his face into your neck. “You feel so good—so fucking warm—fuck.”

You curl your legs around his waist and pull him deeper. He thrusts again, a little rougher now, the rhythm building naturally—steady, almost sweet, like he’s savoring the stretch of you around him, the heat, the slick sounds of your bodies moving together.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging. He pants against your skin, voice breaking against your throat. “Tell me you missed this,” he groans.

“I did,” you breathe. “Spence—please—” He kisses you again, sloppy and open-mouthed, fucking you slow but hard.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters. “So perfect—fuck—I can’t believe I went three days without this.”

You whine into his mouth, arching into him, hands sliding down his back to grip him harder. “Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“I won’t,” he murmurs. It starts to blur. Not in a fast or frantic way—but in the drowning kind of way. The kind where time folds in on itself, where your body’s not just yours anymore. Where everything feels hazy except his weight, his rhythm, his skin against yours, the soft stuttering moans he can’t seem to stop making every time he sinks deeper into you. Spencer’s still got one hand under your thigh, gripping it tight to keep you tilted up for him but the other’s everywhere—tracing over your ribs, your waist, brushing the curve of your breast, gliding up your throat with featherlight fingertips like he wants to feel your heartbeat under them.

You’re gasping, panting, clinging to his shoulders. He’s starting to unfold. His hips keep a steady, ruthless grind, a little deeper every time, dragging more slick, obscene sounds from between your legs. And when you whimper his name again, soft and broken, he moans, deep in his chest. “You sound so fucking pretty,” he breathes. “Can’t get over you.”

His hand slips back down between your legs, fingers stroking slow where you’re already soaked and your whole body jumps. “Sensitive,” he murmurs, amused. “I can feel you clenching.” You whine in response, nails biting into his back. He doesn’t stop—his thrusts, his fingers, all of it keeps going, unrelenting, coaxing your body back to that edge again.

“I want your fingers,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “In my mouth.” He stills just a little, breath catching in his throat. And then he does exactly that—drags his fingers up from where they were playing you open, soaked and glistening and slides them into your mouth without hesitation. His pupils blow wide watching your lips wrap around them, your tongue flicking against the pads. Your moan vibrates around them and Spencer groans like he’s losing it.

“Fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”

You suck on them harder and that’s when he falters. His hips stutter, pace slipping for a moment as he leans over you fully, forehead pressed against yours. “I’m not gonna last like this,” he says, voice ragged. “I keep—keep thinking about how I walked in and you were just—on me. Like you couldn’t wait.”

You pull his fingers from your mouth, voice shaking. “I couldn’t. I need you so bad, Spence.” That gets him.

He lets out a noise. It’s part groan, part whimper—something strangled and desperate and leans back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and dark. “Turn over.” Your breath catches. His hands are already sliding down your hips, guiding, helping. “Turn over for me. On your hands and knees.”

You blink, dazed, lips still wet from his fingers. And then he pulls out, just enough to shift you, gentle but firm. The floor is rough under your knees but you hardly feel it. Your skin is hot, flushed, your limbs barely cooperating as you push yourself up, breath coming in ragged pants. Spencer settles behind you, kneeling between your thighs and he runs his hands over your ass, slow and reverent, thumbs digging in as he spreads you open. “God,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. “Look at you.” You glance over your shoulder just as he strokes himself once, guiding the tip of his cock right back to your entrance. “You ready?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.” He pushes in again—deeper now. The new angle splits you open in a different way, makes your mouth drop open as your elbows buckle beneath you. You whimper and Spencer groans in response, both hands gripping your hips now, holding you steady as he starts to move again.

He’s fucking into you with steady, calculated strokes, the way he groans when your thighs start to shake, everything started to spiral. Spencer’s pace is fast and unforgiving and your knees are slipping against the floor, arms trembling. You can barely hold yourself up—your forehead drops against your forearm and your mouth opens with a sharp, breathy moan when he shifts his angle, hitting deeper, rougher, wrecking you all over again.

“Fuck,” he grits out behind you, voice wrecked. “You feel so goddamn tight—taking me so well.” You keen at the praise, hips bucking back into him and that earns you a hand snaking around your waist, up the center of your chest. Spencer pulls you upright against his chest, his palm spreading around your chest, holding you there, letting you feel every ragged breath he takes against your back.

“Need you to stay still for me,” he whispers, voice low and strained. “Just—just like that.” Your head tips back to rest against his shoulder, whimpering, as his other hand settles on your hip, guiding you back into every thrust, driving into you harder now—less rhythm, more want.

“You hear what you sound like?” he murmurs into your ear. “Every time I push into you, you make these—fuck—little noises. Like I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.” He’s right. You can’t stop. You’re gasping, moaning, falling apart around him with every movement.

“You are,” you choke out, voice hoarse. “Only one who makes me—” Spencer growls, something low and animal in his chest and that’s when his hand drags higher—slides up your throat, not choking but holding. His fingers curl under your jaw, tipping your head back for him and he kisses the side of your neck messily, biting down just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“I should keep you like this,” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Pinned up, dripping all over my cock. You don’t even care, do you? Just want to be ruined.” His voice is filth. It’s desperate and intelligent and cruel in the best way.

“Do you know,” he groans, “how many fucking nerve endings are firing off inside you right now? Just from the angle alone? You’re clenching down like you want to memorize the shape of me.” You sob his name, legs trembling and his hand squeezes gently at your throat. “That’s it,” he whispers, forehead pressed to the back of your head. “That’s it, baby. Come for me. Make a mess.” And you do. Your whole body shakes, tightens and then collapses forward as white heat snaps through your spine. You come hard, whimpering and twitching around him as he groans behind you, thrusts turning erratic.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps. “Fuck.” He slams into you a few times and then he’s gone, unraveling, body shaking, his hand still between your legs, his mouth at your ear. “You feel like heaven,” he breathes.

“You’re—you’re gonna kill me.” You both stay like that, panting, melting into each other on the floor. His hands loosen, sliding to wrap around your waist as he presses soft, shaky kisses to your spine.

[futuremrsreid]

First of all I LOVE your writing you’re seriously so talented

I was wondering if you could do a fix where Post prison Spencer just wants to spoil his girlfriend? You can make it smutty or fluffy I don’t mind at all!! ❤️❤️

HELLO this is delicious, also I'm thinking about starting a sugar daddy!spencer series, lmk what you think

cw: post-prison Spencer, emotional intimacy, soft dom!Spencer, worship kink, oral sex (f receiving), gift giving, love-drunk Spencer, desperation, clinginess, praising, creampie, established relationship, smut with feelings

REQUESTS OPEN!

You open the front door, expecting silence.

Instead, you’re met with soft jazz, candlelight, and the warm scent of something baking. A table near the entryway is stacked with pale pink shopping bags — your favorite boutique, the one Spencer used to scoff at for charging $80 for a tank top.

But the sight of the logo now makes your heart ache.

He’s home.

“Spence?” you call out, dropping your keys.

He appears around the corner, barefoot in sweats and a black tee, hair still damp from a shower. His eyes soften instantly at the sight of you. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Before you can respond, he crosses the room and wraps you in his arms — tight, grounding, desperate.

Like he needs to make sure you’re real.

Like he still thinks he might wake up somewhere cold and steel-barred.

Your voice is muffled against his chest. “You didn’t have to do all this…”

“I wanted to.” He leans back to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I missed so much. Couldn’t buy you things. Couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t give you anything. Let me catch up.”

You start to protest, but he stops you with a soft, pleading kiss.

“Let me spoil you tonight.”

You try to unwrap the gifts one at a time, but he’s too excited — pulling out soft knit dresses, delicate silk bralettes, perfume he remembered you tried once in a department store a year ago.

“I know it’s materialistic,” he murmurs. “But I just—I needed you to have things. Nice things. That make you feel loved.”

“You make me feel loved,” you say softly.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth. “I need to show you.”

He kisses you again — slow, deep, hands sliding up your thighs, your waist, cradling your face like he’ll never get enough.

Later, you’re on the bed, wearing nothing but the sheer black bralette he couldn’t stop staring at in the store. His hands shake as he touches you — not from nerves, but from the sheer ache to be gentle.

He trails kisses down your stomach. “God, I missed your skin,” he whispers. “I used to dream about it. Couldn’t even jerk off in there—just had to remember. Had to picture your thighs around my head like this.”

You gasp as he spreads your legs and settles between them, reverent, hands warm on your hips.

“Let me eat you, baby,” he whispers. “Please.”

You nod, and his mouth is everywhere — tongue soft and wet, circling your clit slowly, like he has all the time in the world. He groans when you moan, hands tightening on your thighs.

“So good,” he mutters. “You taste so fucking good. Missed this pussy so much. Thought about it every night.”

You tangle your fingers in his curls and cry out when he sucks harder, flicking his tongue just right — and when you come, his grip tightens and he doesn’t stop until you’re trembling.

He kisses your thighs through the aftershocks, eyes glazed. “You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Come here. Need you.”

Spencer strips quickly, and when he’s above you, cock hard and flushed, he takes his time lining up — kissing your forehead, then your lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You waited for me. You stayed.”

“I’ll always stay,” you say. “Now fuck me, Spencer.”

His groan is broken and hoarse.

He sinks in slow — inch by inch, filling you completely. You both moan when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed together.

“God, you feel like home,” he murmurs. “Missed this so bad. I’ll never go that long without touching you again, I swear.”

He thrusts deep and steady, hips rocking, and your moans mix with his gasps — the kind of sound that only comes from months of deprivation. He mutters the filthiest things through soft kisses — how you were all he thought about, how he wanted to fuck you every day, how he’s going to spoil you forever now that he’s back.

You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist, and whisper, “Come inside me. Please. I want to feel you.”

He groans your name like a prayer and slams into you harder — just a few more deep strokes before he’s spilling into you with a choked cry, shaking above you, whispering thank you thank you thank you into your neck.

Later, he spoons you close, both of you still bare and messy and warm.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” he murmurs. “Gifts. Sex. I just… I need you to know how much I love you. How grateful I am.”

You reach back to hold his hand over your stomach. “You don’t have to prove anything. You’re already enough.”

He kisses your shoulder.

Still, when you wake the next morning, there’s a warm croissant on your nightstand. Your favorite coffee. And a tiny velvet box with a note that just says:

“More soon. Yours always. —Spencer.”

[futuremrsreid]

S.R. MDNI +18

It's a slow, delicious pull, clothed hips dragging against one another. Neither of you are in a hurry. Spencer's glasses lay discarded on the coffee table. They were fogging up too much to keep on, and it's better like this. With nothing blocking your view as you pull at his collar, dragging your hips up particularly hard, breaking from the kiss to breathe, and watching his eyebrows contort, a whimper leaving his lips, followed by a gulp, a gasp, a little cuss under his breath. He's never quite felt like this. "Please," he whispers, begs, grovels. You cup his jaw, and he raises his head, straining to reach your lips. You lean down just enough to breathe hot against his mouth, an involuntary sound slipping from the back of his throat. He pushes his hips up, pulling your thighs down to gain more friction. He doesn't know how long you've been like this, but he feels like he's going crazy. Every drag pushing him closer and closer to the edge, your name spilling from his lips as his whole body shakes, pleasure boiling hot through his body, hands grasping anywhere they can because you don't stop, and it's so, so much. Overwhelming, almost. But then you're throwing your head back, your own thighs shaking with the effort, and he feels himself twitch, thanks whatever powers that be that he has an eidetic memory, and hopes that this image of you, this feeling will live in his mind forever.

[futuremrsreid]

could i request a silly headcanon of spencer x reader that has long hair? not like rapunzel long but like it goes over down to her lower back and more? like idk i imagine him watching videos just to braid it or put it in pigtails or something love you ❤️

the moment spencer sees your long hair, he can’t stop looking at it. you catch him staring once or twice and just smile to yourself.

he starts watching hair tutorials in his free time. at first, it’s for research purposes, but then it becomes his hobby. he watches countless videos on braids, pigtails, and intricate hair designs, and he gets genuinely excited to try them on you.

one evening, he asks if you’d like him to try braiding it. you agree to let him. and let’s just say… it’s an absolute mess the first time.

he gets the braid halfway done, then gets confused and ends up making a strange, yet adorable, knot.

“uh, i’m pretty sure this is… not a braid.” “yeah, i can see that.”

the second time he tries, he takes it way more seriously, and ends up doing it perfectly. he’s so proud of himself. you’re just laughing and praising him, making his cheeks turn pinker than usual.

he gets so obsessed that he’ll start doing little experiments on your hair whenever you sit down next to him.

he loves playing with your hair while you’re reading, watching a show, or even just talking. you’ll feel his fingers gently combing through your hair and getting distracted as he figures out how to work with it.

sometimes, you’ll ask him to put it in pigtails for fun. and of course, he’ll take it way too seriously: measuring out the distance between the pigtails and ensuring they’re even.

“there. how do you like them?” “spencer, they’re adorable, i love them.”

he also likes staring at your pigtails.

“what?” “nothing… i just… i really like how it feels when you let me do this.”

after a long day, when you two finally get some quiet time together, spencer might offer to help you undo your hair. he’ll carefully undo each braid, taking his time to make sure it’s perfect, before running his fingers through your hair.

[futuremrsreid]

Okay okay so that vocal!reader request but one day reader decides to be a brat and just keeps quiet just to mess with him and Spencer narrows his eyes like "don't hide those noises from me" and reader is just clamps her mouth shut and shakes her head no like >:) nuh-uh >:) so Spencer's like "alright" and just does everything he can to get you to stop with the silent treatment - he eats you out with more intensity, he fingers you with more precision, he fucks you harder etc.

You can't tell me that the scientist in him loves the whole experimentation of sex - the whole cause and effect of it. Like your sounds alone can get him off, they're the empirical evidence of the effect (your pleasure) he causes.

a/n oh well good morning to you too. Enjoy!!

REQUESTS OPEN!

cw: Dom!Spencer, orgasm control, edging, restraint, overstimulation, smut-heavy, light bondage, bet, teasing, dirty talk, loss of control, smug Spencer.

It started with a stupid bet.

The kind that bloomed from too much comfort, too much time together, and the subtle kind of competition that always simmered beneath your banter with Spencer. It was playful—until it wasn’t.

You were curled up together on his couch, legs tangled, fingers idly brushing through his curls as he monologued about some new psychology journal. His words blurred, your attention more focused on the smirk he got whenever he thought he knew something you didn’t.

“…and most people make involuntary vocalizations during sex. Even trained meditators—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted with a small smirk, “you’re saying it’s impossible to stay silent during an orgasm?”

“Physiologically unlikely,” he corrected, smug.

You tilted your head. “So if I did, you’d be… impressed?”

He leaned in, eyes glinting. “I’d be shocked. Intrigued. And a little… challenged.”

You grinned, biting your lower lip. “Let’s make it interesting.”

His eyebrows rose.

“I bet I can stay completely silent—no moaning, no sounds, no words—while you try to make me come.”

He blinked once. “And what do I get when you fail?”

You grinned wider. “Whatever you want.”

His eyes darkened. “And when you lose, you’ll beg.”

You didn’t flinch. “Deal.”

You regretted it the moment he tied your wrists.

The soft silk of his tie wrapped snug around your wrists, tethered to the headboard. Not tight, but firm enough to send a jolt of submission through you. Spencer hadn’t stopped smiling since you issued the challenge.

“You know,” he said as he trailed his fingertips down your bare thighs, “I read somewhere that deprivation enhances arousal. Silence, restraints, denial—heightens the sensory experience.”

You arched a brow. “Quoting studies isn’t going to make me moan.”

“I’m just warming up.” He slid his hands up, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs met your hips. “We’ll see how quiet you are when you’re begging me to let you come.”

You met his gaze head-on, eyes daring. Bring it.

He started with his mouth.

Not touching you where you wanted—God, never there. Just feather-light kisses along your ribcage, your hipbones, the inside of your thighs. You squirmed, frustrated, but stayed silent. Not even a sigh.

His smirk only grew.

“You’re holding out. Cute.” His breath brushed your inner thigh. “But I haven’t even started yet.”

And then his tongue met your clit.

You bit your lip hard, eyes fluttering. Spencer was slow. Purposeful. He alternated between flicking his tongue and sucking gently, using his fingers to spread you open. Every movement was measured, calculated.

You didn’t make a sound.

He looked up, lips glistening. “Still nothing? I’ll admit—I’m impressed.”

But he didn’t stop.

He edged you twice with just his mouth. Every time you got close, every time your hips twitched and your body tensed, he pulled back with maddening precision.

By the time he sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, you were panting. Silently, but visibly shaking with need.

“You’re wet enough to soak the sheets,” he murmured, trailing a finger through your slick folds. “But still quiet. Hm.”

His cock strained against his pants.

You lifted your chin defiantly.

He brought out the vibrator next.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t rely on just himself. Spencer never walked into anything without research. You were surprised he hadn’t drawn up a goddamn chart.

The toy was small and pink—deceptively innocent.

“Let’s try this,” he murmured, clicking it on.

When it touched your clit, you twitched.

He kept the setting low at first, watching your face, eyes devouring every twitch and tremble.

“Still not enough, huh?” he murmured, turning the intensity up one notch.

Then another.

Your thighs shook. You pulled at the restraints.

Still silent.

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “You are so fucking stubborn.”

He pressed the toy harder, leaned down, and slid two fingers inside you, curling them just so—

You arched. Your lips parted—

But no sound.

He growled, low and possessive, leaning down to kiss you. “I want to wreck you. You know that, right?”

You blinked at him innocently.

He finally undressed, letting you watch as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the lean, toned body you loved so much. His cock was flushed, thick, already leaking.

He crawled over you, eyes wild now.

“No more toys. No more teasing,” he whispered. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stay silent.”

He slid in with one deep, slow thrust.

Your breath caught. Your nails dug into the sheets. But still—no sound.

Spencer braced one hand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh as he began to thrust, slow at first, then harder. Deeper.

He cursed under his breath. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You clenched around him in response.

He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “I know you want to scream. I can feel it.”

You shook your head, smirking.

Challenge accepted.

He fucked you hard. Every thrust dragged a sharp gasp from your lungs that you barely managed to stifle. His hips slapped against yours, cock hitting deep, angles that had your legs trembling.

Still no moan.

He flipped you over.

“On your knees. Now.”

With your wrists still tied, you were at his mercy. He pulled your hips up and slammed back inside, one hand gripping your hair, the other pressing between your shoulders.

This time, he didn’t hold back.

“Fucking moan for me.”

You stayed quiet.

“You’re soaked. You’re dripping down my thighs, and you’re going to pretend you’re not losing your mind?”

Still nothing.

He reached around and rubbed your clit, fast, ruthless.

You bucked against him, mouth open in a silent scream, your body spasming.

Still.

Silent.

He froze. “You just came.”

You nodded smugly.

He groaned, collapsing over you for a moment. “Jesus Christ, you’re killing me.”

He pulled out suddenly.

Before you could process it, he flipped you again, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

“I want to see your face when you break.”

You met his gaze. Sweat clung to his chest. His pupils were blown wide.

He lined up again. “One more orgasm. You moan—I win.”

You lifted your chin. “Do your worst.”

That was a mistake.

He pushed in deep and stayed there, grinding against your g-spot.

He fucked you with furious intent, no rhythm, no restraint. His hands were everywhere—your breasts, your throat, your hips—guiding you, controlling you. The silk tie bit into your wrists.

He leaned close. “Come on, baby. Let me hear you.”

You whimpered—silently.

He growled.

Then he grabbed the vibrator again.

“Let’s really see how long you last.”

You were already sensitive. But with the toy on your clit and Spencer pounding into you mercilessly, your resolve cracked.

The orgasm hit you like lightning. Your body snapped taut.

A cry almost escaped.

You clenched your teeth.

Then—Spencer leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine, and you’re going to fucking scream my name.”

And that was it.

You screamed.

“Spencer!”

The moment you did, he pulled you down onto his cock, burying himself deep, and spilled inside you with a loud, guttural moan.

You trembled, shattered.

Your body collapsed into the sheets, boneless, your voice hoarse.

He untied your wrists slowly, kissing the red marks, brushing your sweaty hair from your face.

“You lost,” he whispered, triumphant.

You smiled weakly. “Was it… obvious?”

He chuckled, cupping your face. “You screamed like I murdered you.”

You both burst into laughter.

He brought you water. Cleaned you up with a warm cloth. Kissed every part of you like an apology.

As he settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, you rested your head on his chest.

“So,” you murmured, “what do you want now that you won?”

He kissed your temple. “Another round.”

You groaned.

“Starting now.”