gold-onthe-inside

[gold-onthe-inside]

Do you have any headcanons about Sean Hotchner, and do you have any plans to incorporate him into the Piper series? He has many similarities to Piper, so I imagine interactions between them and Hotch would be fun to read.

honestly, i think they do get along. i refuse to let sean go down a dark path just because the cm writers can't let people live happy lives. i think he's a sous chef in new york and has a girlfriend who's a bartender and he has a terrible work/life balance, and i do think he's a little cut off from aaron (that man does not know how to maintain relationships istg).

so, i think they see each other on holidays and birthdays, and sean and piper are great at annoying the shit out of aaron. he's definitely sharing childhood stories about aaron in the kitchen and they'll cook meals together. and then probably get into an argument of their own over sean getting too fancy with the food and piper taking recipe instructions as suggestions, but then the food comes out great so all's well that ends well.

[gold-onthe-inside]

"these researchers published a paper on something that literally any of us could have told you 🙄" ok well my supervisors wont let me write something in my thesis unless I can back it up with a citation so maybe it's a good thing that they're amplifying your voice to the scientific community in a way that prevents people from writing off your experiences as annecdotal evidence

[gold-onthe-inside]

I know Spencer doesn’t like the beach, but does Piper like the beach having grown up in California?

piper adores the beach. favourite family vacation. bonfire parties with her friends. but piper's such a cynical grump sometimes that getting her to admit she loves the beach is like pulling teeth. but her entire energy will change around the beach. like breathing is easier around the water.

[gold-onthe-inside]

for those who recently visited my inbox, thank you so much for the asks. I promise I will get to them soon once I'm in a writing headspace. but right now, I'm getting used to the pace of a new semester, and until that routine settles, I don't think I can write anything. peace out, rucha <3

[gold-onthe-inside]

SICK AS A DOG!

summary: spencer comes home to his girlfriend being... well, sick as a dog. pairing: spencer reid x gf!reader. tags: afab reader, no use of y/n, pre-established relationship, just a bunch of comfort and cuteness because i don't write enough fluff

You were stubborn, determined, focused. Everything you did was done until it killed you. There was nothing that knocked you off your game. It was one of the things Spencer admired about you. Nothing made you stumble or stop. Not even the hundred and two degree fever that was weighing down on you like a sack of bricks. 

He’d been away from home for a week now on a case, speaking with you in the small gaps of time he had between work and the minimal amount of sleep he was getting. The updates had been normal, talking about how your coffee tasted that morning or your loud neighbors, until that morning. As soon as he had landed, he’d received your text.

Feel like shit. Will meet you at your apartment. Quieter there.

While it seemed like a nonchalant text, he’d immediately known something was wrong. In the couple of years the both of you had been in a relationship, you’ve never admitted sickness. Even when you had a low fever, even when a cold had your voice sounding raspy and raw, you just stated that you were under the weather and moved on.

Spencer had left for his apartment straight from the airport with nothing more than a wave and a comment about needing to get home, picking up a few things from the drugstore and a Tupperware of soup along the way. It would no doubt be a struggle to get you to eat, hydrate, take painkillers or do anything, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. Slowly stepping through the doorway into his apartment, the first thing he notices is how dark it is. Usually, you found joy in turning on the multiple lamps and lowlights settled through the mess of his apartment, allowing the warm light to cascade across the phthalo walls and his mahogany and walnut furniture. While you shared his distaste for big, bright lights, you also despised how much he tended to brood in the darkness. 

His eyes scan across his apartment, taking it all in. Everything, from the makeshift office to the messy living room, seems untouched. No candle lit on any of the tables, no returned book laying on his kitchen island, not even an attempt at cleaning up. If it wasn’t for the car keys abandoned on the desk closest to the door, hidden among his things, he would think that you hadn’t arrived yet.

Setting aside his go-bag and his satchel, he empties his hands before flicking on a few of the lamps. He steps around his couch to get to the ajar door of his bedroom, opening it slowly with a soft rap of his knuckles against the doorframe and a murmur of your name.

The response you give him is a hazy groan, laying curled up on his green duvet, the blankets kicked to the end of the mattress. Once the light streaming from the living room hits you, his brow furrows. Your body is hidden in one of his hoodies, oversized on him and drowning you, the hood pulled over your head and concealing all of your features.

“You okay?” Spencer murmurs as he discards his shoes and tie onto the floor haphazardly, crawling into bed behind you. A slender hand cups your elbow before he pulls back slightly, shocked by the heat radiating through the thick fabric. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

As soon as he’s laid behind you, you turn around, legs pushing through to press your feet against his calves. Leaning your forehead against his chest, you seek out warmth even despite the fever overtaking your body. “One hundred and two degrees,” you mumble through your haze, trying to cut out any questions he may have and minimize the amount of energy you had to use.

Frowning, his hand slides beneath his hoodie, pushing it up and exposing your skin to the cold air. At your soft mewl of discontent, he shushes you gently, large hand smoothing over your stomach. “I know, honey, but this hoodie isn’t helping. Can you take it off, please? I can get you a shirt, if you want.”

“No. Can’t take it off. Can’t move.” Your tone is slurred, voice muffled by the material of his button-up, fingers curling to fist his shirt and keep him there. “Just wanna sleep.”

To your dismay, he simply shakes his head, one hand untangling yours from the material before he sits up. Another large hand slides behind your neck, fingertips pressing into the sides as he slowly lifts you to a good-enough sitting position. “Come on. Hands up, please.” 

Your movement is slow, his hands pushing up the hoodie higher and higher and coaxing your arms to straighten so he could pull it off. Despite your fever, he can feel the goosebumps sprouting on your skin, rubbing them away with his palm as his other hand tosses the hoodie away. Placing a kiss to your forehead and fighting a grimace at the heat, he slowly brings you to lay down again. “I’m gonna go get you some painkillers and some water. We need to break your fever.”

That pulls a whine from your throat, reaching out and brushing your hand along his thigh as you try to find any way to pull him back down. “Please just come back. We can worry about that later.”

Spencer’s heart thuds a bit harder against his chest at the request, never wanting to be the one saying no to you. But he knows the science, both biological and psychological, behind sickness behavior. Autonomic and behavioral changes triggered by soluble proteins produced at sites of infection. Lethargy, sleepiness, confusion. The body releases cytokines that affect moods and lead to a desire for social connection, hence the need to cling to him.

With another soft hush, he smooths down your hair and places another kiss to your hairline before stepping away from you. Moving quickly to keep himself from giving in and crawling back into bed with you, he heads back into the living room and fills a glass of water, making sure it was cold enough to feel nice but not cold enough to not drink quickly. Last but not least, he grabs a clean rag from off the counter, running it underneath cold water and ringing it out until it was just damp.

By the time he gets back to the bedroom, you’ve pulled the duvet over your legs again, letting it cool your calves as your hands tuck beneath your cheek. He stands in the doorway, watching you fondly and admiring just how small you look in the bed that his feet hang off of. For a moment, he thinks about how he’d love to do this for the rest of his life. Have his apartment be the home you crawl to when you’re not feeling your best, be the person your subconscious deems safe when it’s at its most vulnerable. 

Only once his arms ache from holding the water for too long, Spencer returns to your side, hand cupping the back of your neck to lift you up again. “Take the pills and a couple sips, sweet girl, and then you can go to bed, okay?” He murmurs as he holds out his hand, two white pills balanced in the middle of his palm.

Your nose wrinkles in distaste, eyes glancing at him pleadingly as you hope he changes his mind, only to be met with a soft yet stern gaze. Letting out a deep sigh, you pluck the painkillers from his hand and place them in your mouth before taking the glass he holds out, letting the cool water soothe your throat and the heat of your face.

After a few gulps, he plucks the glass from your hands, setting it on the side table and swapping it out for the cool rag. Leaning his back against the headboard, he pulls your head to lay on his chest, draping the towel over your forehead and ignoring the chill when one corner drapes onto his neck. Fingers work delicately to smooth loose strands of hair away from your forehead and cheeks before working through it, lips pulling down at the corners when they get stuck in a knot. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. “I know you’re probably tired from your flight.”

The sound is so soft that he barely picks it up, although he lets out a gentle hum in response. “I don’t feel as bad as you, that’s for sure,” he teases. His lips find your hairline again, breath brushing against your skin as he keeps his mouth there. “Social and emotional support is scientifically shown to be beneficial towards an individual’s health. Support encourages health behaviors, such as consuming more fruits and vegetables and the ceasing of certain sickness behaviors, like mood changes.”

That pulls a soft laugh out of you, shuddering from a chill. “I think it should be a crime for you to talk all scientifically and sexually to me when you can’t even kiss me,” you grumble playfully.

Spencer scoffs from beneath you, the arm wrapped around your shoulder tilting your chin up towards him. “To hell with that. I take my vitamins.”

And then he’s kissing you, all soft and slow, giving your foggy brain time to catch up to what was happening. You’re still uncomfortably warm in his arms, transferring your higher body heat, but there isn’t a single part of him that can find a problem with that. Not when you’re fully leaning into him, arms and legs pressed against his own, cheek tucked against his chest and lips so soft against his mouth.

The both of you part only after he’s stolen all of the breath out of your lungs, leaving you trembling from a fever and breathless from his lips. Your lips pull into a grin as you open your eyes to glance up at him. “If you get sick, I’m not taking care of you.”

“Shush,” he snips, arm moving down to pinch your hip, soothing it with a brush of his thumb. “I thought you were ready for bed, huh? Not ready to keep ogling me?” He tops off his teasing by pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “In fact, are you sure you’re even sick?” You giggle in response, lifting an arm that feels like lead to swat away his hand. “Leave me alone,” you whine dramatically before nuzzling your face into the fabric of his button-up. As soon as your nose bumps with one of the buttons, you wrinkle it, pulling back to look up at him. “Can you please go and change so we can go to bed? This cannot be comfortable.”

Spencer’s response is quick. “It’s not.” Then, he braces the back of your head with a large hand to lift you, sliding out beneath you to make a mad dash for his closet. Your head falls back onto the pillows as you let out a soft whine of displeasure, even despite being the one to tell him to get changed.

He cannot help but laugh at you as his fingers brush through his clothing options. He can feel your eyes burning through his back as he slowly slips his arms through his shirt, tossing it into the laundry basket tucked in the bottom of his closet before pulling on a larger shirt. They stay on him as he pulls off his belt and socks and tugs on some plaid pajama pants. It’s not the first time he’s undressed in front of you, however your gaze would always cover his body in goosebumps. Once he’s properly dressed and ready for bed, he crawls back in next to you, this time pulling the duvet over the both of you. With the painkillers and the lack of a hoodie wrapped around you, he can feel the change in your body heat. Still too warm, but definitely lowering. 

You let out a soft squeak in surprise as his arms wrap around you, giving you a tight squeeze as you’re brought close to his chest. Immediately, your head is snuggled into the crook beneath his chin, inhaling the spot of cologne he had spritzed there that morning. Despite the small rush of adrenaline you had had in his presence, your exhaustion and illness are quickly catching up to you, eyes heavy-lidded as you relax into him. 

“Get some rest.” Spencer murmurs as he feels the tension relax out of your body, lips brushing against your forehead. A subtle check of your temperature.

The only response you can give him is a soft hum of acknowledgement, curling your fingers into his shirt as you slowly drift into sleep.

[gold-onthe-inside]

working on some masters stuff so I will probably be taking a small hiatus until I get into the groove of the new semester

[gold-onthe-inside]

aloe barbadensis

in which you and spencer reid just want to lay around in your room after a day at the beach. the team does not respect your privacy.

fluff (suggestive content) warnings/tags: implied intimacy, someone knocks on the door as things r getting steamy, the team razzes u for getting it on hehehe a/n: @mariasont spring break event was so good I was inspired to put the whole team in one air b and b!! She is the bau vacay blueprint!! do you guys remember me...... cause I missed u...... kisses smooches ily!!!!! yayayay summery happy fluff!! I can't believe I wrote this in like two days??? I've been praying for times like this

The air smells clean and too warm, like a laundry detergent that isn’t yours, underscored by the rich, herbal scent of conditioner in still-damp hair. A ceiling fan swirls the heat and dust around the room more than diffuses it—but you don’t mind. It still feels good on your sunned skin. 

So too do the tips of Spencer’s fingers, as they drift up and down the softness of your thigh. It’s too hot for him to be pressed right against you, so he’s a little ways away—prone flat halfway down the mattress, whereas you’re sprawled out on too-firm pillows. The comforter has long been kicked to the ground. 

Carefully, you push wet hair out of Spencer’s face. It gets richer in color, when he's just out of the shower like this. More a lustrous dark bronze than his usual chestnut. Everything is more vibrant in this light, including his nose, which smolders wildfire pinkish-red. 

“You’re so burnt.” 

“Hm?” he hums, turning his face up toward you languidly, blinking against the pooling gold. You soften. It’s possible you’ve never seen him this relaxed. This healthy looking, all the perpetual winter leached from his veins—cheeks glowing, eyes shining and satisfied and low.

“I’m worried about your nose.”

Spencer pulls your hand to his lips. Doesn’t exactly kiss—just holds it there. Lets his eyes flutter closed again. Mumbles, “I’ll be okay.”

“But… skin cancer.”

“Is very treatable.”

“You’re not worried enough.”

His response comes on autopilot. Eyes still closed. Words low and honeyed, one sliding into the next, like they’d melted in his head after so many hours under the sun. 

“My body is responding to the cellular damage caused by UV rays via rapid immune response, which means increased blood flow to the dermis, which means more passive metabolic activity is required to maintain homeostasis, which means…”

It’s a cue to fill in the blank. You respond softly. 

“You’re sleepy.”

“Mhm. Very.” He kisses the back of your hand in reward. “Too sleepy to be worried.”

“But it looks like it hurts. Maybe you should put aloe on it.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. He strokes over the delicate skin of your wrist with a thumb. 

“Would it make you feel better if I put aloe on it?”

“I just don’t want you to hurt.”

“I don’t hurt, sweetness. But thank you for looking out for me.”

Your capitulation is careful and unsure. “Mhm.”

Distant crashing waves fight with the ceiling fan to fill in the silence, but only for a few seconds. You’re not relaxed. You’re emitting a frequency of your own, too low to be detected by anyone who is less attuned to you than Spencer is. You watch as he senses it, and blinks his eyes open once more. Chooses consciousness, rolling onto his side, pushing up to his elbow, and pressing a kiss to your knee before swiping it away with his thumb. 

“This is new,” he murmurs, voice sanded by a rough grit into something almost smooth. Like salted driftwood.

“What is?”

A stray hand traverses all the way up the inside of your thigh and back down, briefly distracting. 

“This freckle.”

You laugh. Eyes alight, he looks up in time to catch it.

“You’re making that up.”

Spencer tilts his head solely to give you an incredulous look. “You think I don’t know what your skin looks like? It wasn’t here this morning.”

“No, I’m not doubting your eidetic whatever, I’m just saying—I don’t believe that you paid enough attention to my knee this morning to remember that there wasn’t a freckle there, and to notice that now there is.”

“I don’t need the eidetic whatever to remember anything about you. I pay plenty of attention, and there was no freckle.”

“So you have every mark on my body catalogued?”

“All dermatological anomalies are thoroughly mapped.” He plants another kiss to the freckle. “And I am promising you with one hundred percent certainty that there wasn’t a freckle here this morning.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Spencer buries a smile against your skin. Kisses softly up your thigh and stomach—so softly you hold your breath. A breeze disturbs the drapery and you breakout in goosebumps.  

“You know, if you’re so worried about skin cancer, you should be regularly examining your body for irregular markings.”

The words buzz, tickling. Traces of SPF and coconut chapstick stain your tongue as teeth worry at your bottom lip.

“I don’t think one new alleged freckle after spending the whole day in the sun means skin cancer.”

“No. But you should probably let me check for more.” A kiss lands suspiciously close to the waistband of your shorts. “Are you opposed to a quick scan?”

You aim for dry sarcasm. Miss by a few breathless centimeters. “Not opposed. But I’m pretty sure I was thoroughly scanned in the shower by my doctor.”

“It never hurts to be vigilant. And you shouldn’t shower with your doctor. That’s egregiously inappropriate.”

You let him hook his fingers into your shorts and tug down almost past the point of indecency, painting your hips with kisses—before a knock at the door startles both of you. 

His displeasure comes as a slow breath against your skin, before he’s pulling your shorts back up into place and turning awkwardly over his shoulder to address the door. Which is locked, ideally. You can’t remember. “Yeah?”

The blatant irritation must be as obvious to whoever’s knocked as it is to you, because there’s a brief hesitation before they speak.

“Rossi made pasta. I was tasked with retrieving the two of you. If you’re not, uh, busy.”

Morgan. That burning feeling in your cheeks can’t be attributed to sun exposure as you throw your head back into the pillows and cringe. 

“We’ll be right down.”

Retreating footsteps. 

Spencer looks up at you from your hips, lips parted and pinker than ever. For a moment, there is only tense silence—then you can’t help but laugh and lace your fingers through his hair as he drops his head to rest against your stomach.

“That was…”

“It’s fine. At least it wasn’t your boss.”

“No, it was just the guy doesn’t feel a professional obligation to refrain from commenting on my personal life. Explicitly and ad nauseum.”

“We weren’t even doing anything. We were napping, until, like, one minute ago.”

Spencer sits up, half-smiling and gaze trailing after his hands as they drag down your bare thighs. “I think I blew our cover when I snapped at him.”

You reach out for Spencer, and he lowers himself carefully atop you. The light coming in from the window is hotter up here. Onyx eyes catch the fire of the setting sun and turn molten amber, throwing light back at you in dazzling, liquid prisms. 

“What if we don’t go downstairs?” you whisper, gaze flitting between either of his eyes, hard-pressed to pick just one. 

He dots a kiss to your nose. 

“I think we should probably make an appearance. Then we can retire early, no questions asked.”

“Deal.”

Mindful of his burn, you press a very careful kiss of your own to his nose. Spencer huffs, pleased and warm. Charmed by your gentle show of measured affection. His lips find yours. Just once. Just for a moment. 

And then again. 

And again.

And again.

His affections are considerably less restrained.

The two of you creep out onto the back deck twenty minutes late for dinner, in lambent and unmistakable disarray. Plates are mostly clean and eyebrows are very high, but nobody says anything as you squeeze yourselves into the remaining spots around the table. Spencer clears his throat awkwardly into a glass of lemon water. You serve yourself cold pasta and press your lips into a thin line, trying with all your might not to laugh.

“How was dinner?” Emily asks Spencer, breaking the silence. He nearly drops his glass, spluttering hopelessly as water goes down the wrong pipe.

“She was putting aloe on my nose,” he insists, wiping droplets from his chin as his entire face goes sunburn red.

Morgan claps him on the back. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

[gold-onthe-inside]

they're so cute i cant !!

🎈First Days

OKAY SO you know that one post and its the husbands first day of college and their sons first day of school? Spencers first day as a professor and babies first day of school‼️

also my patreon i post cool stuff there!

[gold-onthe-inside]

"Did you know people are masturbating to your smut fics-- 🤢" I hope they get twice as wet as I did writing it, mind your fucking business.

[gold-onthe-inside]

FOR YOUR LOVE (i’ll do whatever you want) — spencer reid

In which Spencer begs for your forgiveness.

genre smut (18+) cw dacryphilia, pathetic love and touch starved spence, worship and praise, begging, crawling, marking his back with your heels, oral (f receiving), p in v, mirror sex, some discussion/fighting, established relationship, mention of r having a mom, r wearing a dress and heels wc 4,1k a/n race against the clock to post this on the kinkfest date. literally going on vacation in a couple of hours and yes i used my precious sleeping time writing this. you cant tell me i don’t have my priorities straight /jk

Spencer: We delivered a wrong profile Spencer: I can’t make it tonight Spencer: I’m so sorry Spencer: ❤️

You didn’t have to check your purse when the notifications chimed in, already knowing the messenger and the context. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had cancelled on you: lunches, dates, holidays, vacations… To be honest, you had stopped trying. Had stopped planning anything in advance and telling yourself that spontaneous activities were more fun. But right now, sitting in a restaurant with your family as you were celebrating your mother’s birthday that you had been planning for weeks, it was a harsh reminder that this lifestyle wasn’t fun. Not at all.

The one-year mark of your relationship was coming up, and you finally felt stable enough to introduce your boyfriend to your family. It wasn’t a thing you often or easily did, the gesture meaning a big deal to you. And Spencer had known that and had promised you that he would show up at all costs. But he didn’t, leaving you embarrassed as your family laughed and joked about the actual existence of this mystery man that you had been so infatuated with.

The dinner started in longing, wishing you had Spencer’s warm hand to hold in yours underneath the table when the conversations got too loud, or wishing for one of his intricate analyses on which dessert you should choose when you got handed the menu. But every time his name got mentioned, your frustrations began to grow.

“Thanks,” you mutter to your Uber driver while handing him twenty bucks for your ride home. Wrapping your arms around yourself (while thinking of Spencer, who always takes your jacket with him or gives you his when you refuse to take one with you, like now), you walk up to your apartment. 

In your periphery, you notice a soft, dim light shining through the curtains of your living room, the sound of clicking heels against pavement halting abruptly. The latter texts you’ve received must’ve been him asking you if he could come over to your place while probably standing in front of your doorstep already. It had been raining earlier, so you can’t blame him for using the spare key you handed him after the four months you’d been dating. You gave him the excuse that you were too sleepy to open the door for him when he’d come home from a case in the middle of the night, and when he suggested that he could sleep at his place on those days, you had come up with another excuse while placing the key in his palm and closing his fingers around it. He had smiled goofily at you, had seen right through the act, obviously. But he didn’t comment on it, besides pressing a gentle kiss to your hand that was wrapped around his fist. 

You never imagined a day to come where you’d feel sad and annoyed about the prospect of him sitting on your couch, able to envision the way he’s shaking his knees as he’s trying to come up with a new way to apologize for this repeated conflict.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your mind, you unlock the door and open it with a soft creak. The hallway gives a panoramic view of the open living room, and like a deer caught in flashlights, Spencer’s head whips around to face you, those big brown bambi eyes searching for yours despite the few feet of distance. 

He catches on to your mood as you silently place your purse on the dresser. The pillows on the couch ruffle as he sits up straighter, bending his body to face you.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t show up today,” his voice cracks, and you hate the way the small sound pulls on your heartstrings. “I– I don’t know what went wrong with the profile. We established it was a white male, but then—”

“Then it turned out to be a woman, and everyone was thrown off guard,” you finish with a jab. “I know how it goes, Spencer. A simple apology isn’t going to do it anymore.” 

A sigh escapes you. “God, you don’t know how many times I had to reschedule things so that it fit into your schedule. This isn’t going to work if you can’t understand that.”

Desperation laced the soft tone of his whisper. “Then what do I do?”

You raise your hands in the air in question before they fall back on your thighs with a thud. “Well, I don’t know. Beg on your knees for forgiveness?” 

The harsh sarcasm slithered off of your tongue. It’s the classic image of mercy: hands clasped together, pleading on your knees with tear-streaked cheeks. There was no way he didn’t understand that. Still, the despair must have been bigger than his ego, because when you looked at him again, he had fallen to the ground, legs resting on the carpet.

“Spencer,” you start in a warning, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Don’t be mad at me, please?” 

Next were his hands. His long, delicate fingers made contact with the floor. And then his back: arching it like the pose came naturally to him.

“Spencer, please,” you try again, embarrassed by the way your skin heats at the act when you’re supposed to be mad at him.

With the way he’s bent down, you’re able to take a peek into his dress shirt and see the soft reddened skin of his neck and upper chest, decorated in some faded freckles you could blindly point out by now. It was only emphasized by the way his tie was sweeping over the floor with every hypnotizing sway of his hips as he crawled his way over to you.

There was no space to back away, feeling the cold wood of the dresser hit the back of your bare legs as you stumbled back. And truly, you were too curious to see how far he was planning on taking this in an attempt to win your forgiveness.

Kneeling in front of you, you could make out the faded red spots creased under his eyes, indicating that he’s probably cried before — beating himself up over not being able to make it. Those eyes were dangerous, you’ve always said it, big and glassy as they blink up at you, the green hints visible that you weren’t always able to see.

“You look so beautiful, I didn’t tell you that.”

He hadn’t. 

You’d sent him a picture of the dress you were wearing when you were getting ready, him still at Quantico. When you first started dating, you quickly learned that Spencer wasn’t a good texter — far from it — but over time, he’d learned to text you back right away. On days when he wasn’t busy then. If you didn’t get a response back in the next two minutes, it was a sign for you to cancel whatever you had planned, knowing it would take at least hours for him to get home. Today was a day like that.

Spencer let his hand trail over your calf and up to the inside of your knee, goosebumps erupting at the gentle caress of his fingers. 

He inches closer toward you, messy locks tickling as his eyes flit over your legs that are at eye-level with him. “Heels give the illusion that your legs are longer,” he explains, pressing a chaste kiss to the bare skin, testing the waters. “It all has to do with gravity,” another kiss, “you shift the center of it, which changes the body’s proportions,” kiss. 

Every word he spoke, and every moment you stayed silent in anticipation, he took as an opportunity to take it a step further. Sweet pecks turned into longer presses of his lips, wetting them with his tongue to a dark pink hue before kissing you again. Occasionally giving a lick before wrapping his mouth around the muscle, sucking a mark. 

It was a distraction. He was playing exactly into the need he knew you always had for him. It was a new tactic, and you had to give it to him; it was starting to work.

“Stop,” you announced, your voice stern as you used the tip of your shoe to press against his chest, pushing him slightly back.

His brows furrowed, mouth dropping open in dissatisfaction. “Why?”

The way he says it makes him sound like a small child, not understanding the concept of not being able to get anything they want. And whatever nurturing qualities you have in you cause you to feel guilty. The clear, watery drops forming at the corners of his eyes don’t help with that either.

You cross your arms, assembling defiance. “Seducing me is fucking low, Spencer,” you scoff. 

“I— I wasn’t—“ he panics. “I just missed you. I needed to touch you.” 

“Well, I missed you too, Spencer! You were supposed to be there,” you groan out in frustration.

“I know, and I’m so sorry! I mean it.” He quickly apologizes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, burying his face back into your thigh. 

The wet stains of his tears transferred to your inner thighs, making his lashes stick messily together when he looked up at you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you? Please?”

Reaching out, you wrap his tie around your fingers, making him groan as you tug him up on his feet.

Instinctively, he reaches out to place his big palms on either side of your waist, pulling you close.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” you tsk. “Help me up here.” You nod to the dresser you’re leaning against.

He blinks his confusion away, lowering his hands and bending through his knees to lift you up. You’re gently placed on the hardwood, dress lifted up in a bunch at your waist.

Maneuvering his body between yours, he’s ready to cup your cheek and envelop you in a kiss when you place your finger to his lips. 

“Come on, angel,” he cries as you deny him again.

“You’re such a crybaby, Spence,” you huff. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

With his impatience igniting yours, you decide to not wait any longer and spread your legs. 

Spencer’s gulp is visible, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes drift to the lace between your thighs. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Want to make it up to me?”

“Yes,” he answers breathlessly and nods. “I’ll do anything.”

“Kiss me, then,” you dare, fighting a sly smile as his pupils widen in awe.

Spencer drops himself to his knees, fitting his frame in between your legs as he spreads them open wider, the cold whoosh of wind that comes with the movement tickling your sensitive, covered folds.

He held you by your hips, scooting you forward so that his mouth was aligned with your cunt. “Smell so good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose over your inner thighs. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

With that, he used the tip of his button nose to draw a line up your folds, his tongue following behind as it lapped up a wet stripe. You shivered at the touch, abdomen flexing as the thin lacy fabric pressed against you with the power of his tongue.

“Gonna get you so wet for me, going to make you feel so good,” he breathed against you, not sure if he intended for you to hear or if it was a promise to himself. 

He repeated the motion, humming as his tongue came across your clit, feeling it swell under the tip of his tongue as he expertly flicked the little bud. 

The barrier of underwear was starting to bother him, wanting — no, needing — to hear more of the beautiful, soft moans you were trying to hold back.

Carefully, he curved his finger into the fabric, pulling it aside so that it rested in the place where your thigh met your puffy lips. Then he dove back in.

“Yeah,” you moaned, leaning your head back. You could practically feel yourself dripping at this point, though you had to concentrate on it, because the second a stream flooded out of you, Spencer was there to lap it up.

Spencer was a loud lover: moaning and humming as he nibbled on your labia and circled your needy hole, getting immense pleasure from the way you squirmed or gasped when he hit the spot, from being the one to make you feel good. 

You locked your legs around his back. With your heels still on, you dragged the sharp red points across his skin, pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, Spence, that’s it, right there—“ you whimpered, hands reaching out to lock in his hair.

His cock twitched up in his pants, rubbing against the pre-cum-stained spot that had been accumulating from the moment he went down on you. 

Nothing spurred him on more than seeing you be so eager as you finally touched him, reaching out to him willingly. 

On a mission to earn your love and release, he started sucking on your sweet spots with all his might. He hummed against the delicate pearl that was situated between his lips, keeping your hips steady, almost bruising you as he held you in place while you shook as your orgasm came down.

He continued to lick you clean while avoiding your sensitive clit. Reaching out with his thumb, he gathered the last of your wetness before pushing it back into you. 

���Fuck,” you softly cry when his thumb enters you.

He hummed in observation. “You came without me using my fingers.”

A hoarse chuckle escaped your throat. “So what? You decided to finger-fuck me now?”

“I’d rather fuck you with my cock,” he states, the dirty words a sharp contrast to the sweet, boyishness of his voice. 

Taking his words in, you decide to give him what he wants. Albeit on your terms. 

“Stand up and turn around.”

It was fun ordering him around. Especially when he actually listened because his pulsing cock drove him desperate enough.

His knees cracked a little when he stood up, holding your gaze for as long as he could before he turned around, his back facing you.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in closer until you were able to let your hands slide over his shoulders. You rested your head on them, breath fanning across his neck. “Did I hurt you with my heels?”

“N-no,” he swallowed at the proximity. “It felt good.”

You laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest, freeing a swarm of butterflies. “Of course you enjoyed it. You’re being such a good boy for me.”

The tips of your fingers moved down until they were splayed across his chest. Batting his tie away, you started opening up the buttons on his shirt — a skill you had grown quite expert in since dating Spencer Reid.

He breathed out a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly as more of his skin got exposed to the tension-filled air. 

Knowing you weren’t able to reach the lower buttons (or maybe it was an act of haste), Spencer lent you a hand in taking the shirt off.

With a soft thud, the white fabric fell to the ground, and you hummed in pride as you spotted two pairs of red lines over his back.

Using your nails, you traced the pattern that you had created. 

“Feels good, baby,” Spencer panted. His own hand has found its way to his bulge, squeezing the throbbing length in search of relief.

“Don’t know why you’re even trying,” you comment in a silken purr as you spot Spencer’s actions. “You know my hands feel better than yours.”

Despite not being able to see his face, you could tell a rouge blush had found its way to his cheeks by now. His voice sounded hopeful. “Would you touch me?”

You responded with a hum and a gentle squeeze of his slender waist. “You’ve been doing a very good job at listening. I think you deserve a reward. What do you think?”

He quickly nods. “Yeah. I’ve been good to you.”

It’s almost like he needs to remind himself, still feeling guilty of not showing up this evening when he had promised you so.

Still, he saw your words as an invitation to turn back around. He had his bottom lip trapped in between his teeth, watching you watch him.

“Looks pretty painful,” you remark as you let your fingers graze over his bulge. 

Spencer bucks his hips up into you, cursing at his bodily functions as you take your hand away. 

“Now you have to keep being patient, or I can put a stop to this right now.” 

He didn’t know when he had subconsciously handed the reins back to you, you now in power when he had believed he’d found your salvation in between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”

With a trusting nod, you moved to the button on his pants, undoing it with ease, and the zipper followed swiftly along.

You had to wrap your fingers around his shaft to pull him out, his cock having filled the fabric to the point where it was a struggle to just tug the material down his legs. 

A sound in between a gasp and a moan left your lips at the sight of him. No matter how many times you’d seen him like this, it never failed to amaze you.

“You’re so pretty, Spence.”

His eyes were focused on the way your manicured nails tapped along his length. “Thank you.”

You used your thumb to paint his tip in sticky pre-cum, prepping him for what might come, as Spencer fought the urge to hiss in delight. 

“You want more than just my hands, though.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours. He tried to read you, but it wasn’t as easy as it was on the job, distracted both by your beauty and by your warm touch as you played with him.

“If I’m allowed to,” he responded in perfect politeness. 

You didn’t smile, solely shrugged. “I’m still pretty pissed at you,” you squeezed him in your palm. “Don’t know if I’ll allow you the pleasure.”

“But you deserve the pleasure,” he quickly intervened. “I’m not doing it for me,” lie, “you deserve to feel good.”

The wheels were turning in your head, and he used the chance to convince you more, adding some oil to the rusty mechanics. “You don’t even have to look at me. I’ll— I’ll turn you around. You can just focus on you. On feeling good.”

“Alright.”

He could cry in relief, his balls straining at the prospect. If there’s one situation he’s been most grateful he’s learned negotiation for at the academy, it might be this. 

Gently, he helped you off the dresser, only to turn you around and attentively bend you over it. It was only then that he noticed the large round mirror on the wall above. He didn’t say any of it. Praying desire has clouded your mind as well.

After becoming aware of the mirror’s presence, he seemed to not be able to look away. It was a picture-perfect image, after all. Your face scrunched in pleasure as he held you by your hips and entered you in one smooth, long stroke.

Spencer sucked in a breath. “So warm, baby.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the skin to soften his whines as he started moving into you.

Your hands were gripping the sides of the dresser, nails biting into the wood as he stretched out your walls. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into your shoulder, his breath starting to heave as he picked up his pace. 

He was absolutely enamored by the way your breasts bounced, having asked you to pull the straps of your dress and bra down, your dress now bunched around your waist as Spencer used it as extra grip to slap his hips against you.

“Can you squeeze them for me, please?”

Catching his expression in the mirror, you couldn’t even try to hide your amusement at the question. Spencer held you steadily enough to let your hands roam to your tits, cupping the soft flesh before pressing them together.

An actual cry came out of his mouth, absolutely lovestruck with you as he fastened his speed. 

“Mmhm,” he moans in a muffled tone, lips pressed against your hair, unapologetically taking whiffs of the sweet scent. 

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he praises as he picks up his speed, heavy balls slapping against you as his hot body is hovering over you. 

The heat of his skin warming yours and the weight of the words he speaks engulf the entirety of your body in tingling sparks. 

“So nice, Spence,” you softly whine as he presses into you deeper, leaving a mark inside that was only for him to feel.

“I know, baby. It’s so nice for me too,” he hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against your back.

The sensations were overwhelming, Spencer having his cock nuzzled inside of you, gratefully accepting him with every flutter of your cunt. 

“So pretty. So messy, baby,” Spencer whines as he covers your shoulder in wet kisses, matching the sounds of skin against skin. 

Through the reflection in front of you, you could see his face shining in what you first thought was sweat — but upon another look, realized were tears streaming down his face.

In concern, you commented on it. “Spencer, are you crying?”

“I— I’m sorry. You just feel so good, angel. I can’t help it.” He squeaked, not stopping the steady and deep rhythm that he had created. 

You laughed, but the sound turned into a loud moan when his hand ghosted over your stomach and found its way to your clit. 

“Can I make you come?”

“Yes!” You whine, teeth sinking into your lip. “Yes, please, Spencer.”

“Oh god, baby,” Spencer groans back. Hearing you be the one to beg him drove him crazy. He positioned you on his cock with his free hand, finding a new angle that made his eyes roll back in delight. 

Sweat dripped down his face to his jaw, mixing with yours. His chest heaved against your back while he pinned you down against the dresser. His lips were on your shoulder and neck, sucking marks without any precision or care, just need. And two of his fingers moved against your clit at a speed that continued to fasten. You felt him everywhere. 

A desperate sound filled the room. “I’m gonna come, baby, I can’t hold it anymore.” Spencer panted. “You feel so good. Jesus, so fucking good, angel.”

“Mmh,” you nod. “Want to feel you come inside of me, Spence. Fill me up.”

Your request was immediately answered. With a deep groan, followed by smaller moans and cries, he spilled into you. 

He doesn’t stop like he usually would because of the sensitivity but instead prolongs the moment as long as he can — most of all, because he needs you to come too.

“Almost there,” you gasp in a breath as his fingertips are pulling you under.

Just a moment later, you’re shaking. Hands patting the dresser and reaching out to grab his arms in an effort to ground yourself as he makes you come. 

You thought you saw it wrong when you looked at him in the mirror, seeing his mouth form the O-shape you knew all too well. But then his cock twitched inside of you, never having softened, and warm drops of his seed filled you again. 

“Oh, angel,” he cried, his arms moving up to wrap around your waist. 

“I know,” you reassure him. “You did so good, Spence. Made me feel so good.”

His hips shake and twitch until he’s given you his all.

He presses another kiss to the side of your forehead. “‘M sorry for today.”

Reaching your hand behind you, you cupped the other side of his face, forcing him to look at your reflection in front of him.

“It’s okay. You made it up to me,” you gently smiled.

“Should’ve just left work,” he sniffled, his grip around you lessening.

“Hey,” your tone takes him out of his thoughts, and you place your hand atop his to strengthen his hold on you. “She’ll still be in town. Why don’t we visit tomorrow morning? It’s on the way to Quantico, so worst case scenario, you drop me off and take the subway.”

A smile creeps onto his face, accepting your touch when you intertwine your fingers with his on your stomach. “That sounds good.”

[gold-onthe-inside]

need to sit in his lap so bad

i will only tolerate manspreading when it’s him

[gold-onthe-inside]

my favourite part of this reaction is

"I didn't have the real thing. I never have." BC YOU'RE LESBIAN STOP TRYING TO DATE MEN

Reactions to CM 18.5

my birthday episode!

yayyyy teen girl dead, GREAT way to start the episode

"another one, thank yew"

Why is Ochoa JJ's therapist all of a sudden???

Also was that a dream or real

Okay so it was real but yeah her going to Ochoa instead of an actual therapist is weird

This hairstyle looks so good on JJ

If CM loves one thing other than traumatizing its characters, it's a game metaphor

"You could go to mandated therapy" YES EXACTLY

Penelope being skittish with JJ????? weird.

JENNIFER???? Tara wtf??? Since when is she JENNIFER?

This gives 16.1 flashbacks

Luke following Penelope out of the room even when they weren't standing close to each other. Crumbs!

Love the little throwback to Tyler infiltrating the network

The way I was STARINGGGG at Luke and Penelope's hands in that scene. His hand kinda twitched towards hers when the camera cut away. he wants to hold her hand!

*sigh* I just know the jemily fans are going crazy thinking that JJ won't tell Ochoa how she and Emily worked it out is bc they fucked or smth

Luke and Tara teasing Emily. I fucking love them. I love banter.

this is horrifying omg

it's a JESUIT SCHOOL???

"The behavioral analysis unit is the most emotionally constipated group of experts I have ever worked with" I'M. HOWLING.

ooh Voit is coming back to himself

"Long story" why is this deeply disturbing episode making me GIGGLE

omg voit asking to be killed???

oh my god are they gonna put tyler in a room with this man?? that won't end well

She's not a psychiatrist??? is she??? i thought she was a surgeon/doctor in the physical medical sense

oh that transition of JJ standing up to back at the police station giving the profile ATEEEEEE

oh fuck she's fidgeting with her wedding ring

JJ you should NOT be back at work

Catholic. Dead dad. We are adding to the similarities she has with Luke and I don't like that. Even if they haven't interacted in a bit I'm still worried.

Oh my god wait she was Henry's age if not a bit younger. she GETS this. she gets what JJ and her family are going through.

not a Beatles joke 🤣

AJ really is really acting her GODDAMN ASS OFF this season and I love it

Mendoza mention!!

P A R D O N ?????? He kept pushing for a threesome is CRAZY.

First ever on-screen mention of Emily potentially being with a woman and it's THIS???

OH THAT'S SO ICKY. THAT'S. SO. ICKY. Jemily fans I fear you did not win today. We've got the fetishization of your ship on screen rn.

Emily's dad is still alive? And around? I can't be the only one who didn't know that.

"I didn't have the real thing. I never have." BC YOU'RE LESBIAN STOP TRYING TO DATE MEN

Penelope flirting with both Tyler and Luke at once??? Is Tyneloluke real???

AHHH AND THE CAMERA TRANSITION AGAIN I'M GOING FERAL THIS ATE SO HARD

"get off the cross, we need the wood" actually goes SO HARD wtf

VOIT WAS THERE THE WHOLE TIME???????

Penelope and her boys!!

Also Penelope is wearing strawberries. My favorite thing. My brand. On my birthday. She did that for me.

OH NOT AN ALISON MENTION

I love Voit being disgusted by the name Sicarius

VOIT HUGGING JJ WAS SO NOT ON MY BINGO CARD

okay that was SUCH a good episode

[gold-onthe-inside]

Peek-a-boo!

dad!spencer x mom!reader | domestic fluff, a whole lotta love <3 | 600 words

a/n: consider this a reparation of sorts for Atonement

summary: a lazy sunday at the Reid household is filled with laughter when you discover just how much your daughter loves to play peek-a-boo

It's the sun that wakes you. Soft and golden, slanting through the curtains, filling your bedroom with a warmth reminiscent of a hug from someone who loves. Someone you love. Instinctively, your hands reach out to the other side of the bed, only to find a Spencer-shaped emptiness next to you. The sheets are still rumpled, still smelling faintly of him.

You hear sounds of muffled laughter from the next room. Two voices, both equally excited. Of course, he couldn't wait. You slip out of bed, careful not to creak the floorboards, and follow the sound. The nursery door is open just a crack, morning light spilling into the hallway, and you pause there.

He’s on the floor, knees bent, curls a soft mess, t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. Your daughter is in front of him, still in her little onesie, cheeks flushed with joy as Spencer covers his face with both hands and—

“Where’d Daddy go?” he says, peeking between his fingers.

She squeals and suddenly looks serious, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like she had just witnessed someone disappear into thin air, and when he drops his hands—

“Boo!”

More laughter. From her. From him.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart so full it aches. You don’t make a sound. You just watch them. Your entire world is in front of you. His in his arms, laughing with him. You watch as their eyes crinkle the same way and notice how much they look alike.

He scoops her up with a soft grunt, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of glass and starlight. She kicks her feet in excitement, still giggling, grabbing at the collar of his shirt with her tiny fists.

“Oh, you’re so strong,” he whispers dramatically, making her giggle louder. She grabs his nose with one of her hands and pulls his face down to look into his eyes. She babbles something utterly incomprehensible— a string of sounds with all the conviction of a very important sentence.

Spencer nods solemnly. “You know what? I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you make an excellent point.”

She gasps like she can’t believe she’s being taken seriously, then locks eyes with him in an intense, unblinking stare. He blinks back, just as serious.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to intimidate me?” He leans in closer. “Is this a power play?”

Her tiny brow furrows. Still staring.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “You’re trying to assert dominance.” He points at her like he’s cracked the case. “That’s exactly what this is. This is a tactical manoeuvre.”

She blinks.

“You have my respect,” he nods gravely. “But just so you know, two can play at that game.”

She responds by grabbing his nose again.

He yelps dramatically. “Okay, okay, you win!”

From the doorway, your laugh finally gives you away. He gasps dramatically, pointing to you. "Look who's here! Who is that?"

The moment she notices you, she breaks into a fit of giggles and rapidly crawls to you, wanting to be lifted up into your arms. You oblige, how could you not? You press a kiss to her cheeks with a hum as she uses both her tiny hands to clumsily try and hold your entire face.

"Morning, sunshine."

She babbles something in reply, all vowels and delight, and Spencer tilts his head.

“No good morning kiss for me?”

You grin, leaning over with your daughter still balanced on your hip. “Of course you get one,” you say. “Come here.”

And you kiss him, gentle and familiar. Warm like Sunday mornings.

a/n: propaganda i am falling for— girldad spencer <3

[gold-onthe-inside]

spoil my girl

who? penelope garcia x rich girl!reader summary: you can't help but spoil a sweet girl like penelope, and this time, she's adamant about repaying your generosity content warnings: smut, masturbation, fingering, sex toys, implied sugar relationship, no use of y/n, nsfw, 18+ only, minors dni word count: 2.1k author's note: thanks to @minswriting for giving me a great premise, and rihanna's 'loud' album for getting me through this fic, as well as this playlist by meg to help me get into the right headspace. dividers by @saradika-graphics happy pride xx

You knew you had to have her the second you laid your eyes on her; this beautiful woman with blonde curls, blue fading on the tips of her hair, adorned with a large flower clipped to the side, chunky rings adorning manicured fingers, a dark dress bespeckled with splashes of colour, hugging her curves.

The amount of things in her hand is a disaster in the making — her bright yellow thermos, her keys, her wallet and her phone, a large purse dangling from the crook of her elbow — and she isn’t looking as she tries to put her wallet back in her purse without dropping anything, and it’s as if you knew what was going to happen before it happened.

Her phone buzzed, startling her, then block heels stumbled on a chair, the thermos close to overturning when you rushed to brace her, which kept her from falling, but not from her iced frappe spilling all over her dress. “Shit!” she cried out, staring at herself, ice cold liquid and whipped cream staining her dress.

You can feel the other patrons staring at the both of you and you huffed internally — people really had nothing better to do than watch a girl’s misfortune. The woman’s close to tears as she dropped everything on the table you were standing at, grabbing at paper napkins to clean herself up. “Why don’t we head to the bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft and kind and she nodded, fighting back tears. You scooped up all your things as well as hers, guiding her to the public bathroom, leaving it on the side while the woman grabbed rolls of paper towels to clean herself up.

“God, this just had to happen the day I’m running late,” the woman muttered, wiping herself dry while you fought the urge to stare, counting bathroom tiles instead.

“Murphy’s Law, right?” you asked dryly. “Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

“You sound like one of my co-workers,” the woman huffed, glancing at you, and actually took you in — sharply dressed, simple but expensive… “I’m Penelope,” she said, watching you smile warmly.

“Well, Penelope, I hate to see a dress that vibrant ruined,” you said, your voice as soft as silk. “So, how about we get you a new dress, and I can get that dry-cleaned for you?”

“Oh.” She flushed. Adorable. “That’s nice. You’re nice, like really nice, but I’m running super late—”

“It happens,” you countered, tilting your head to look at her. “And I’m sure your boss would rather you come into work without wearing your coffee. Let them know you’re running late, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll be waiting out front.”

You deliver your promise in a way that exceeds expectations, driving her home in a sparkling Mercedes that has her internally squealing and also stressing about spoiling the seat, and a fresh frappe in her hand, cutting through lanes to avoid traffic with the radio on. Once at her apartment, you entertain all her caffeine-powered rambling with a small, amused smile as she changed behind a screen, throwing on an entirely new colour-coordinated outfit, and you take the coffee-stained dress in the paper bag she gives you.

A few days later, Penelope came back to her apartment to find her dress dry-cleaned in an outfit bag, and a card with your number on it, laid on her bed by a neighbour who kept a spare key. She sent you a text, thanking you, before settling on her bed and stalking you, her curiosity getting the better of her, and once she figures out your net worth, she slammed her laptop shut, eyes wide.

Her phone buzzed, with a text from you.

You: You’re very welcome.

Penelope swallowed, staring at the text from quite possibly the wealthiest person she knew.

Penelope: How can I make it up to you?

She tried not to think of the last bank account statement she’d been sent, watching the text bubble from you.

You: How about dinner with me? Friday, 7pm?

It hadn’t been done on purpose, and Penelope was in no way using you for your money — in fact, you had been the one to insist on the little gifts. Bracelets that reminded you of her, prescription sunglasses after a vague mention that she was missing a pair in a specific colour, getting more expensive the longer the relationship blossomed. It graduated from little trinkets and flowers to branded bags and precious jewellery, and had finally hit the peak when Penelope had a brand new Mac desktop sent to her office, with a note written in your loopy handwriting — ‘So you don’t have to crane your neck.’

Penelope tried to bring up in conversation at a dinner, but you had simply charmed her out of her discomfort, delicate hands on her hips. “Why have the money if I can’t spoil my favourite girl?” you’d asked, with that stunning smile that made her heart stutter. It always felt like Penelope was floating on cloud nine around you, especially when you brought her gorgeous lingerie in exactly her size, lacy little numbers that made her curves pop and nightrobes that made her feel like a princess in your silk sheets.

She’d never felt more taken care of, and yet all Penelope wanted to do was find a way to return the favour, no matter how many times you assured her that you weren’t doing any favours. It came to her when you were out of town on business, a networking thing for your advertising firm, on the same night she wasn’t working her cute butt off in the BAU.

That was definitely all it was, she told herself, putting on a Rihanna CD and preparing to take an everything shower with candles. Not that she missed the way you touched her like she was something fragile, or the way your eyes tracked every curve of her body as if it was her possession. But no amount of delusion could stop her imagining they way you’d unmake her, gently taking her jewellery off and placing it in the hot pink organiser you’d bought for her, or your slender hands taking the pins and clips out of her blonde curls and running through them, gently untangling knots with care. Brushing it aside to place soft kisses on plush skin, slowly unzipping the back of her dress, like it was something precious. That’s why she sends you that first video, making you almost choke on the champagne at the networking party, instantly lowering the brightness on your phone. To repay the favour.

Penelope: Miss you so much tonight <3

You closed your eyes, sighing, torn between telling her off and disappearing out the nearest exit and back to her hotel suite.

You: Are you trying to get me fired?? You: I can’t believe you wear that pretty a bra to work.

Penelope bit her lower lip, grinning as she ran her bath, one hand checking the water temperature, the other holding her phone, wearing a silk kimono.

Penelope: You know you’re the only one who gets to see it ;) You: God, I wish you were here tonight. You: The things I’d do to you in my hotel room… Penelope: Well, in your absence, I’ll just have to make do with what I have.

You groaned at the message, having to put your phone away for a moment and drain another glass of champagne. Meanwhile, Penelope was busy filming another little video of herself, involving bubbles, candles, rose petals, and a vibrator, laying back in your bathtub, the phone set up on a wall-mount.

She started by touching herself to the R&B music, closing her eyes and imagining your touch, how you’d let her rest her back against yours, and caressed her neck, down her collarbone to her heavy breasts. Her breath grew shallower as she squeezed one, fingers brushing over her nipple, the other starting to rub her thigh.

If she opened her eyes, she could see the disheveled mess she was becoming, with heaving breaths and lidded eyes, flower petals sticking to her glistening body. She desperately wanted you here, eliciting breathy gasps with your lips against her shoulder, touching her exactly the way she was, murmuring sweet endearments that she could only echo in her head.

She started running her perfectly manicured hand through her folds, enveloped in hot bubbly water, her thighs sticking out, a foot against the edge of the tub. She let out a low moan as she slid her fingers over her sensitive nub, aching for you. It was only a couple of days ago that your head was between her thighs, gripping her legs wide as your tongue swirled in that magic way that sent rivulets of cum dripping between your lips. Her fingers couldn’t do you justice, but it did the job, Penelope’s first orgasm leaving her half-sated, like warm honey-like relief releasing the coil that had been building. She took a few moments to catch her breath, drying her hands and sitting up to crop the end of the video and sending it to you.

All it took was the thumbnail of Penelope in the bath that forced you to leave the party early, faking sick to cut across a few blocks and into a hotel, and sitting at a table as you watched the whole thing. The funny thing was how your hips automatically started rutting against the chair to the video, watching your girlfriend get off.

You: Christ, you look gorgeous. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. You: I want to touch you so bad…

Just sending those two messages had taken every ounce of cognition you had left, but one look at Penelope’s beautiful curves had sent you over the edge, rocking against the plush edge of the chair.

While you were still on the way to your first orgasm, replaying Penelope’s video, your girlfriend had moved on to her toys, recording herself as she dipped her finger into her dripping hole, both from her first orgasm and the bathwater, sliding it in with a soft gasp. It was an intoxicating sight, her perfect plush lips splitting apart, where you would have slid your fingers in, or kissed her, as her finger probed at her g-spot, then curled, just about as slow as you would have gone.

The next finger slid in after that, Penelope’s free hand gripping the edge of the bathtub as her hole stretched to accommodate her fingers. She kept stroking, curling her fingers against that sweet spot, groaning and shifting her hips in water that was growing cooler by the second, incentivising her to finish quicker, crying out your name, until her hand couldn’t work without cramping.

Which meant she was twisting in the tub to reach for her toys, a beautifully long pink dildo that had served her well in the past, that she slowly slid inside her, sinking lower into the water with a groan, hitting just the right spot. The best grip she could maintain was the edge of the tub, instead of your hips, or your hands, as she moved the toy in a slow easy rhythm.

She missed you so much as she touched herself, trying to get back that initial pressure to peak. She missed the way you’d play with her hair, crooning soft things in her ear, about how pretty she was, how you could touch her all day, all while pumping a strap-on inside her, turning her into a soaked, speechless, whining, writhing mess. And so she’s muttering profanities and moaning, the bubbles starting to dissipate as she came for a second time, her toes curling, hips arching uselessly as she thrust the dildo against her g-spot, letting slip a ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ as she pulled it out.

She waited to catch her breath, sliding back in the thumb, the cool water soothing against her over-heated body, slick with water and a little sweat on her brow, before eventually drying off and draining the tub.

Penelope finally lay back in your silk sheets, wearing a feathery pink robe, and all tucked up in your champagne coloured duvet, trimming her ‘short film’ before sending it.

Penelope: Something for you to dream about <3

By the time you got the message, you’d taken a hot shower and settling into bed in your own simple cotton pyjamas.

You: Jesus Christ, woman, do not make me hop on a red-eye and come find you.

Penelope’s grinning at your text, curled up in bed like a lovesick teenager.

Penelope: Is that a promise? You: A fantasy. But you’re definitely coming more than twice when I get you alone. You: That’s a promise.

The anticipation of your return leaves a flutter in her chest, as she inhales the scent of your perfume on the pillows.

Penelope: I’m holding you to that.

And with that, she clicked her phone off, setting the bejewelled device aside (with a brand new cover paid by yours truly), turned out the light, and closed her eyes, wondering if you would dream of her like she was bound to.

comments and reblogs appreciated xx

[gold-onthe-inside]

What’s Spencer’s relationship like with Piper’s siblings? Is he also a sort of older sibling to them or just sort of part of the family?

i think they sort of treating spencer like a lost puppy that piper's adopted in the early days of their relationship (like s4 to 6) and then as he becomes more permanent, like s7 to 11, he's sort of like the person they go to when they've screwed up and don't want a whole piper lecture, like he's the one they use to soften the blow and hide behind. and then s12 onwards, he's basically the older sibling, with basically the same authority as piper and deals with the minor stuff himself to protect her peace (because all older siblings deserve someone who protects their peace for them).

[gold-onthe-inside]

https://www.tumblr.com/gold-onthe-inside/785178594375860224?source=share

My honey... I don't have enough adjectives in my vocabulary to praise you

Please feed us more

aaaaaah, thank you! and i will, i'm just waiting for inspiration to strike <33 but please send me any ideas you have

[gold-onthe-inside]

northern attitude

who? spencer reid (s3) x tough!reader summary: after your friends with benefits arrangement comes to an end, spencer's persistence gets him to the bottom of your fear to commit to him, especially when all signs point to you liking him back. content warnings: hurt/comfort, r's insecurities (not being good enough for spencer, not being a particularly romantic person), r yells at spencer word count: 1.4k a/n: sequel to orbiting around you. find more tough!reader here <3, dividers are by @saradika-graphics

It’s like withdrawal, being cut off from you, and it hurts. It hurts watching you act like nothing had changed between the two of you. His mood flits from hurt and sad to angry and frustrated. He wants to beg on his knees, wants to put his fist through a wall. It doesn’t help that he can’t sleep at night, his mind replaying that day at the high school, in the mens’ room, begging the man with a shotgun not to kill the boys who assaulted his daughter, trying to argue over the voice of the girl who egged him on.

Usually, he could turn over, use you as a distraction, hand skimming soft skin, sliding under your cami, tucking you closer as he pressed his lips to your shoulder until you stirred. Or, if you weren’t already there, he’d cross the distance between motel rooms, knocking on the door, barely waiting until the door shut to crush his lips against yours.

But he’d ruined it. He’d wanted more. Pushing your guard down with each kiss, each ramble, falling in love with your soft smile, your quiet sense of humour. Not a week went by when he wasn’t catching your wrist in his hand, his grip loose, asking the same question: “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

And every week, you’d give the same answer: “I’m no good for you.”

Unanswered questions keep him up all the time, you keep him up all the time. Every day, he dragged himself out of bed, going to work, facing you and your schooled expressions, rivalled only by Hotch. And yet, a coffee would appear on his desk, made just the way he liked it, and the ache would return. Pending case files would mysteriously disappear from his desk when he came back from the bathroom. It comes to a head when you argue Derek down from the ledge of dragging them all out clubbing to a quieter bar which he’s eternally grateful for, and it’s when it clicks for him.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured, sidling up to you, the now-empty glass of wine making him more confident. Your back’s against the wall, watching the rest of the team play pool, in your leather jacket and maroon tee, black Levi’s and sleek boots.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, caught off-guard as he leaned against the wall beside you.

“You’re afraid,” he repeated, adding, “of how much you like me. That’s why you don’t want commitment.”

You’re good at pretending, too good, but he’s gotten better at seeing the chinks in your armour now. “That’s a stretch,” you said, raising a delicate brow.

“No, the stretch is you assuming what’s good for me and making decisions for me like I’m not a grown adult,” he shot back, and judging by how your jaw twitches, it lands. You moved, draining the rest of your glass of whiskey before setting it down, fluidly grabbing your bag.

“I think that’s it for me tonight,” you announced loudly, the rest of the team murmuring ‘see you’s and ‘goodbye’s, and Spencer doesn’t bother with niceties, simply following you out.

“Stop running away from this conversation,” he demanded, walking out onto the curb.

“Oh, because you have me all figured out?” you scoffed, glancing at him before starting to walk to the nearest Metro station.

“Why is that so bad?” he asked, easily catching up with his long strides, turning on his heel to look at you as you both walk. His hair’s getting longer, a dark blue shirt contrasting pale skin, sleeves rolled up to veiny forearms, a striped tie that had been bothering her all day with how he’d done it unevenly, the end of it reaching his belt. He’s insistent, eager to please, an irresistable combination in the sheets, completely irritating outside of it. “I mean, your excuse is that the problem is with you, right? So, let’s talk about it,” he demanded, almost bumping into a lamp-post.

“I’m not doing this with you, Reid,” you told him, focused on getting to the subway entrance a couple feet away. “And especially not in public.”

“There’s no-one out here,” he contradicted, standing in front of you. “Would it kill you to be honest with me?” You let out a frustrated sigh as you find yourself blocked by his chest, his gaze laser sharp. “I deserve to be more than just a distraction, and so do you,” he continued, determined to get under your skin.

“Spencer, stop,” you snapped at him and he narrowed her eyes.

“Is that what it is?” he probed deeper. “You think you don’t deserve a relationship?”

“Jesus Christ, would you stop?” you almost shrieked, if not for the fact that you were on the street.

“No, because we’re talking about this!” he cried. “I’m done shoving this under the rug for whatever reason, and you— You will hide behind whatever excuse you can find to not confront this, which is really contradictory considering you’re the last person I’d call a coward—”

“Spencer, shut the fuck up!” you yelled at him, unrestrained anger lashing out at him, and he actually flinched. He stopped talking, watching you breathe heavily, sinking back against a wall and sliding down to a seat. He tried not to think about all the germs and bacteria that infest the street, sitting down next to you. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, your hands laced on your knees, pressing your thumbs to your forehead.

Spencer simply shook his head. “I pushed you to it.” He watched you breathe, catching your breath.

“I’m not good at being a girlfriend,” you said softly, looking at your callused hand. “I’m not… romantic, or whatever.”

“Says who?” Spencer asked, his brow furrowing, looking at you. “You make me coffee almost every day. You stole my case files so I wouldn’t work too late. And you know my favourite food, and you keep candy in a drawer for when I have sugar cravings. You listen to everything I have to say, even when you have no interest in it. That’s plenty romantic.” You met his gaze, earnest hazel eyes, turned amber by the streetlight, looking down at you fondly, and it terrified you, your eyes flitting back to your hands, lips pursed. He bumped your shoulder lightly. “What are you so scared of?” he asked you gently, watching you lean your head back, tongue darting out to wet your lips.

“Not being good enough. Or what you expect from a girlfriend,” you answered eventually.

“How can you say that without knowing what my expectations are?” he asked, his brow furrowing in concern as you looked back up at him. “I mean, I want you to be you, and I want you to be comfortable, and to be honest, if you weren’t yourself, I wouldn’t like you half as much as I do.”

You take a beat to just process what he’s said, and then shake your head with a scoff. “This is what I mean. You’re just… effortlessly sweet, Spencer. And I’m not. I can’t… It doesn’t come as easy to me.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Spencer countered, shifting to look at you better. “I mean… sure, maybe it’s hard for you to say it, but… I do think you show it. You show it every day.”

“That’s hardly enough, Spence—”

“It is for me,” he insisted, placing his hand on yours. “All I’m asking for… really… is the chance to return the favour. The only thing that has to change, if you think about it, is that we get exclusivity. That I get to call you my girlfriend.” He watched you mull over it for a moment.

“I think I’d like that,” you said eventually, your voice slightly small, and it’s the first time he’s smiled in weeks. Suddenly, he’s all energy, pulling you up by the wrist.

“Good, cause I have so many plans and places I want to take you, and they’re doing Othello this weekend at the Shakespeare Theatre Company—” You let him ramble on all the way to the subway, your brain fuzzy simply from holding his hand all the way, and he finally lets you fix his tie once you’re in the train, headed to his place.