lillaberry

[lillaberry]

𝐔𝐩 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Category: Hurt/comfort, smut 18+ MDNI Summary: After a few near death experiences during a case, Spencer muses on your mortality, and decides to take advantage of everyone’s state of unconsciousness by showing his love for you right there on the jet. Content: 3.4k words, established relationship, they're sooo in love, mentions of alcohol, talk of death, addiction and typical CM violence, s3 post addiction Spencer, reader wears a skirt and is described as shorter than Spencer, semi-public unprotected p in v (in the jet bathroom), crying during sex, creampie.  a/n: I’m back :> Spencer Reid girlies ik ur still here, please move the ouija board!!!!!! Proofread by my love @mggslover. Thanks for the request anon, I’m sorry I missed your ovulation period but I think this can be enjoyed at any point in time.

You’re not one to believe in miracles, but even this disbelief is not immune to contention. Events from the most recently wrapped case has made you rethink your stance on miracles—your plummet down an unseen ravine resulted in no broken bones (simply a split lip and a handful of nasty bruises blooming across your skin), a bullet narrowly missed your temple because of a coincidental, life altering head turn (Spencer had called for you in an attempt to stop your headfirst pursuit of the armed unsub),  and, arguably the most miraculous of all, Spencer isn’t rambling in your ear and saying I told you to be careful.

(Perhaps to most people, one of these things is not like the other, but if you’re being honest, you weigh Spencer’s concern—and Spencer’s opinions, Spencer’s love, Spencer’s everything, really—with as much value as your own life. Maybe you should talk to someone about that.)

The silence is perplexing. Your boyfriend is known for his non stop rambling. Even the incident with Tobias Hankel had done nothing to stop it, only momentarily soured his words and his tone, diluted the vivacity in his amber eyes without ever extinguishing the spark. But tonight, on the flight back to Quantico, his silence persists, mingling with the remnants of Hotch and Gideon’s whiskey as it evaporates and colors the air inside the jet with something smoky and vinous. 

He leaves for the bathroom. You follow when nine minutes pass, too much time for regular bathroom activities, especially for Spencer. With the door slightly ajar, the sounds of running water drift to your ears. Spencer’s bent over the sink when you open the door, shoulders slumped in a way that suggests defeat, hands steady under the spray.

You push the door open, uninvited.

“Baby, I know you’re a germaphobe, but isn’t this a little bit of an overkill?” you approach the way you’re used to, mild jokes unrelated to the issue. Something frilly, harmless. “You know you’ve probably used up half of this jet’s water supply, right?”

He doesn’t respond, only closes the tap. You never thought silence could feel oppressive until right now.

“Talk to me,” it’s not a plea. Not yet—you’d do that too, if that’s what it takes to break this impassive facade he’s erected between the two of you. “I already apologized earlier, Spence, you can’t keep holding me at arms length like this.” Not again. Not after everything. Not when the thing I need is to be in your arms. 

Is it unfair to expect immediate forgiveness? Is it unreasonable to expect him to assuage the weight of those near death experiences instead of ignoring you?

He angles his body to you, head cocked in a way that shows off the perfect planes of his face. The air seems to shift, as if the very oxygen you breathe is lighter, brightened by the mere fact that he’s occupying a space closer to you. It’s fine. You’ll take what you can get. Even the slightest hint of acknowledgement gives you enough to persist. 

“Are you mad?” The words slip out soft as a feather and drift the same way, aimless and unhurried, stilling in the air and fizzling out into a silence that stretches so long you’re afraid he hadn’t heard. Or worse, is still pointedly ignoring you. “Spence…”

“I'm not,” he replies finally, two simple words that ease the painful clenching in your chest. “I couldn't be, not really. Frustrated, maybe. Everything in his profile pointed to violence when provoked and you still—” he shakes his head, “But that's done now.”

“You're frustrated,” You repeat, mind already turning over and attempting to find solutions to this. Part of you knows you can't force that feeling away, can't bulldoze his very valid reaction with the sheer weight of your love and will. But you crave some form of comfort, not this stoic introspection. The words feel useless, but you say them anyway, “I'm sorry.”

He turns to look at you, face warm and vulnerable and sad. 

“Stop. You already said that,” He murmurs, “There's nothing to forgive, angel, but it's—I was terrified. You were a few meters ahead of me and then you were gone, falling, you could've broken your neck—”

“I didn't.” Your insistence feels childish, insignificant against the magnitude of his fear. His concern. His love. 

“I know,” the distance between you dissipates with one long stride. He joins you right at the threshold of the bathroom, and pulls you into him. You thank whatever gods are listening for the miracle that is being in his arms, “I know, it just seemed too close, too out of my control—” 

“Too reckless.” You finish for him.

“Don’t—I don’t want to reprimand you.”

“You should,” You mumble, words muffled by his suit as you bury your face in his chest, “Maybe you need to get it out of your system and we’ll be okay again.”

“Do you think we’re not okay?” there's a rising panic in his voice.

“Well, you have been shutting me out.”

“I’m sorry.”

You laugh. “I’m supposed to be the one apologizing.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for. I, however, wasn’t intending to shut you out, and I’m sorry that I inadvertently did.” He replies, hands slipping under your blouse, palm spread on the expanse of your back to remind himself that you’re here, you’re fine, you’re his. “I was—I thought I lost you, angel. It felt like I did, for a brief moment, and that’s the most terrifying thought to cross my mind.”

“You can’t mean that.” With the amount of horror you face on the daily, you could imagine so much worse things.

“Oh, I do.” His breath ruffles your hair, warm and shaky, “I absolutely do. I wouldn’t know what to do if you had—” he chokes, and it rumbles deep in his chest, his body rejecting even the mere idea of losing you.

You feel his lips on your temple. Firm kisses from soft lips, a contradiction just like him. His arms tighten, and your body slots into his with ease that came from practice, from learning after hundreds of trial and error. Everything about your relationship had taken work, incessant effort from two individuals intent on making their differences be a source for more empathy and love, rather than becoming a breeding ground for resentment.

“I don’t want you to think I’m being overprotective,” he continues, trying a different angle. A hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, keeps you safe and tucked in his arms, “You’re an amazing agent, but we can’t take chances like that, just going off on your own. You remember what happened when JJ and I split up.”

Your stomach churns at the reminder, that dark traumatic spot that had put a strain on certain relationships. You’d gotten resentful with JJ, an admittedly unfair projection of blame. Your mind had been consumed by anger, eager to point fingers when you found out about Spencer’s abduction, and then again at his subsequent addiction. JJ had been your unlucky target, although you’ve all resolved it now.

However, those feelings come rushing back—the fear, the inexplicable hollow in your chest when you found out. Spencer’s going through those motions right now, and guilt sinks its ugly claws in the pit of your stomach. 

“I know. God, Spencer, I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time,” you whisper into his shoulder. A vow spoken in the skies has to mean something, right? It’s resolute, sober, “I won’t run after unsubs by myself when we’re in unfamiliar terrain anymore.”

“You promise?” his breath is right at your ear, warm, tingly.

“I promise.” 

He hums, kissing your temple again, one kiss for each eye, your nose, and you giggle, looking up at him with hopeful, honeyed eyes. 

“So we’re okay?” you ask, fingers clutching the collar of his blazer.

“We weren’t fighting,” he chuckles, bending down to kiss your jaw, “I was, admittedly, having a moment, but yes, we’re okay.”

“Okay.” your brain is empty, save for the sweet familiarity of relief, “We—oh!”

Teeth find the soft skin of your neck and you have just enough wherewithal to clamp your mouth shut. On the seat just a few paces away, Emily snores loud enough to fill the jet, stirs to a more comfortable position, ultimately remains asleep, but Spencer does not give you any chance for relief. Tongue replaces teeth, drawing a sodden line down your throat, along your exposed collarbone, where his teeth once again make contact with your skin.

“Spence,” half hiss, half moan, volume low, restrained, but it does nothing to disguise the desire in your voice. Pinched and pitiful, you whisper, “Don’t.”

His stop is immediate. “Sorry.” He rests his head on your shoulder, body contorted and tucked to fit your shorter frame. He respects your wishes, but every singular cell in his body is incapable of leaving your space at this moment.  

“No, don’t apologize.” you manage a shaky laugh, running your thumb over his cheekbone, “I just don’t want to get worked up.”

“Were you?”

“What?”

“Getting worked up?” he sounds smug and you almost want to kiss it away. It’d be easy; you’d done it countless times prior (it isn’t countless—Spencer knows the exact amount of times you’ve weaponized the softness of your lips against his incessant rambling. It’s exactly two hundred and thirty nine times, eighty two of which had led to more.) “Over a few kisses?”

“Shut up.” You squirm in his arms, a complete contradiction to your denial. 

He notices, pounces on it the same way he does when you play chess and he sees a weak spot. “Don’t deny it.”

“It’s—I just don’t want to be, you know, indecent. They’re right there.” you tilt your head to the rest of the jet, the distance between you and the closest person (Emily, in this case) could be crossed by a few footsteps.

“Yeah… But they’re asleep.”

“Spence.”

His laughter is music to your ears. “Sorry,” he holds his lips to your jaw, not initiating anything further and you relish his warmth like a cat on a sunny day. 

“You’re apologizing again.” You grumble, fingers tangling into his hair. Nails drag through his scalp, second nature at this point. “We both have to work on that.”

“Mhm,” he nods in response, winding his arms tight around your waist. With your face pressed into his sweater, your senses are flooded with the earthy, warm scent of his cologne. It sends a shudder through you, unsuppressed.

He notices. Of course he does. Nothing you do escapes him. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Angel,” he murmurs, “Let me take care of you.”

You still in his arms, feeling lightheaded and unearthed. “But the team—”

“Are asleep.” he reminds you, “And we have an empty bathroom all to ourselves; I say the more you protest,” his teeth sink into your earlobe playfully, “The less time we have to take advantage of this.”

He’s right, of course he’s right. And you’re well past the point of being able to ignore the burning in your belly; your fingers are shaking from holding back. So you nod, looking up at Spencer with a small smile, and he backs the two of you into the bathroom.

The door closes with a click louder than you would have liked, but there had been no way to gauge the volume because Spencer had been the one to pin you to the door and cause the sound. His lips run over your neck again, one hand hiking up your skirt, the other fumbling with the lock on the door. The team may be asleep, but neither of you are taking any chances. 

It’s messy, graceless. You’re half convinced Spencer is too tall to be doing this in such a limited space, limbs bent awkwardly as he kisses you fervently while trying to find that scrap of fabric beneath your skirt. Your boyfriend isn’t known for his multitasking or his physical prowess, but somehow he manages to do both with enough skill to elicit soft whimpers from your mouth. 

It turns into a low, indulgent moan when you feel fingers slip past lace and run over your core.

“Shush, angel,” he chuckles, a gentle reproach, but two fingers slide into your entrance and you’re decidedly unable to shush. 

“Mhm, more,” you gasp, hips canting forward, walls squeezing his fingers desperately. Your own hands are lost in his hair, tangled deep in the strands and tugging as you whine, “Please, Spencer.”

“Baby, you have to be quiet,” He sucks at your bottom lip, and you can’t fathom why he keeps telling you to be quiet while committing acts that he knows are bound to make you mewl. His fingers curl, withdraw, before plunging back in at a better angle, knuckle deep and soaked with your arousal. Spencer anticipates your next moan and swallows it with a deep kiss, tongue pushing past your lips to explore your mouth. He groans at the taste of you, kissing to pour out his love, his relief that his time with you isn’t yet cut short.

You melt, white-hot and velvet soft, into his body as he works both fingers and tongue at opposite ends, the combination leaving you reeling. 

Spencer fingers you like he’s trying to commit the very shape of your walls to the skin of his fingers, reaching deep inside you to eliminate any edges of him and you as individual entities. 

You almost collapse from the intensity, knees buckling. You don’t even get the chance—his arm is wound tightly around your waist, his body pinning you to the door. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he says like it’s a thing of marvel, and not a normal biological reaction to the heat knotting low in your belly from his ministrations, “God, I love you so much.”

He withdraws his fingers. Your whine of protest is free to tumble from your lips now that he’s pulled away slightly. “If you love me so much, then won't stop.” you pout.

As a response, Spencer hoists you up and settles you precariously on the sink. His voice is low, ragged with desire when he replies, “Oh, I’m not stopping, angel.” 

Your panties are pulled off with deft fingers, disappearing into one of the pockets of his slacks. Under normal circumstances, you’d tease him for that and watch with pride as his cheeks bloom pink. Right now, you’re too busy trying to take those pants off, or at least enough to free him. 

“Need you,” you gasp as he’s finally exposed to your sight, a hand wrapping around his base and squeezing lightly. The familiar girth has you nearly drooling, breaths shaky as you stroke through his length once, twice, each movement pulling the prettiest, neediest whimpers from his lips. Eyes glinting with mischief peek up from long lashes, meeting his own honeyed ones. You grin, saccharine and mocking, “Shush, Spencer.”

He glares, but it’s so half hearted you can’t help but laugh. “We’re gonna get in trouble.” he murmurs, angling himself to line up the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

“If they find out,” you reply, “Besides, I almost died, remember, I think Hotch would be a bit more—agh!” the sentence dies, morphs into something more raw and unrestrained, as he stretches your slick entrance. “Oh, god.”

“I know, I know,” his thumb finds your clit, drawing soft circles onto the sensitive bud to help lessen your tension, “You have to relax, baby.”

Truthfully, the semi-public tryst has you feeling anxious, tensing more than usual as he pushes inch after slow inch. But with the stimulation to your clit, you ease up enough until he’s sheathed to the hilt. A pause. Your walls flutter and adjust as he rains kisses along your jaw and neck, patient and gentle even though you can feel every needy throb of his shaft inside you. 

“You can move.” you say, the words featherlight. You’re dizzy from the fullness, but hungry for more. For everything. 

He nods, placing both hands on your hips to anchor himself. Your softness is familiar beneath his palms, and he squeezes hard, wanting to commit every inch of you to his memory. Every inch etched into his very being, your sweet sounds and expressions tucked in his brain and the exquisite feel of you imprinted on his skin. 

His pace is slow, shallow, barely pulling out, before slamming back into you, like he’s his goal is simply to be inside you for the most possible amount of time and nothing would stop him, not even a good rhythm. Any apprehension you may have of this lacking any real pleasure for him is silenced by the look on his face—bottom lip ravaged by his own teeth as he tries to contain every potential sound, brows furrowed, eyes burning into yours with an intensity that steals your breath. 

“Feels so good,” he groans, forehead dropping to yours, his pace growing rapid, more desperate, “Can’t believe I almost lost you.” Every word is punctuated by a grind of his hips, and another whimper escapes your lips, fills the cramped space, the reality of your very close call with death dawning upon you the moment he thrusts and hits that sensitive spot deep inside your body.

You wrap your arms around his neck, urging him as close as he can get, legs haphazardly thrown around his hips and locked right above his ass. An irrational part of you is completely unwilling to let go, not after your very real escape from death. “I’m here,” you gasp, voice wavering with overwhelming emotion, “I’m here, Spencer, I’m okay.”

 He can barely move now, bound to your body like something cursed. “I love you,” one hand cups your face, thumb catching the tear that slips from your eye, “I love you so much, angel, don’t cry.”

The sincerity in his voice brings another wave of tears, and he leans in to kiss them away, lips gently running over your cheeks as he continues to roll his hips against yours. “I love you,” Spencer repeats, kissing down until he finds your lips. 

You taste your tears on him, salt on plush lips, and you push yourself further into his arms, on the precipice of something he’s all too acquainted with. He kisses you harder, leans his body over yours until your back presses up against the smooth glass behind you, and then begins to move. The sudden rapidity has you groaning, squeezing around his length as he pistons in and out with singleminded, relentless focus.

“Come on,” he groans, stifled by your lips and your teeth which are currently clamped on his bottom lip, “That’s it, you’re close, baby, I can feel you, please, please, come for me.”

“I love you,” you sob, thighs quivering around his hips. He hoists your legs up higher, finding an angle that hits you perfectly, and you’re burying your face into his shoulder with a cry, walls tightening around him as your orgasm ripples through your limbs. “I love you, Spencer—”

It’s broken by a gasp as he continues to rock into you, his lips on your temple and blowing heavy puffs of warm air against your skin. “I know, you’re all mine, you’re all mine, I love you so much.” he repeats the sentiment like prayers on rosary beads, lulling into a soft chant dedicated only for your ears. I love you. 

You feel it everywhere, his love. In the slickness of the sweat you’ve exchanged, in the ache between your thighs, the tacky warmth that fills your body and seeps out of your slit as he slowly pulls out. He takes you in, so beautiful even in ruin, and smiles. 

“You okay?” he smooths down your hair, tucks a wayward strand behind your ear, before his hands rest on your waist.

You nod, returning his soft smile with one of your own, teeth bared, lips stretched so comically wide it makes him chuckle. 

“Can’t talk?” soft, balmy lips land on your forehead, “Was it that good?”

“Don’t get smug,” you grumble, before nuzzling into his neck. 

He holds you tightly for a moment, and allows himself to relish the afterglow. “You love it,” he murmurs, “You love me.”

“That I do. Very much.”

thank you for reading!!! pls reblog or i'll cry jk

[lillaberry]

Japanese guys need to be dealt with

[lillaberry]

that man looks pathetic and yet whimsical ! im keeping him

[lillaberry]

And trust Spencer Reid knows answer to every question and marvelshiw curios children are and all their unique perspectives he hadn’t thought before

☀️

spencer would thrive with babies constant 'why' questions

pssssp also check out my patreon I take requests/suggestions there

[lillaberry]

damn i wish u guys could read this fic i haven't written and this fic i haven't finished writing and this fic i'm putting off outlining and this fic i outlined but haven't started and this fic i'll never write and this other fic i haven't written and this fic that exists only in vague impressions in my head that fall apart every time i try to commit them to the page and th

[lillaberry]

oops I accidentally separated myself emotionally from everyone to avoid feeling any bad feelings & it worked but at the expense of my sense of connectedness and belonging

[lillaberry]

Omg the baby is here😭

𝗜𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆- 𝗦.𝗥. (𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗣𝘁. 𝟳)

Pairing- Dad!Spencer x Mom!Reader

WC- 0.7k

Summary- Diana Jane arrives.

Contains- descriptions of birth, pain that comes with giving birth, contractions, etc.

A/N- as always, divider from my homie @thecutestgrotto

Night Changes Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Birthday Event

Your stomach is being torn apart. At least, that’s what it feels like when your contractions are only 3 minutes apart. You practice your breathing, in-out-out, just like your birthing coach told you to. It doesn’t help. You scream in agony, nails biting into Spencer’s forearm as he punches the speed a little harder.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, it’s a weak attempt, but it’s all he can manage as he maneuvers through rush hour traffic.

“Spencer, I think I’m dying!” You wail, hands clutching the demon in your stomach, forcing its way out. Tears stream down your face, mixing in with sweat. You can only imagine how you must smell. You’ve been pregnant for 40 weeks, you knew this was coming, it still doesn’t make it any less painful.

Everything moves so quickly once you make it to the hospital– you’re being wheeled off to a room, your OBGYN enters, you push. The baby still won’t come out.

“She’s stubborn, I’ll tell you that,” your doctor says. You manage a breathy laugh, your eyes finding the exact culprit to blame for that. Spencer smiles sheepishly. “Keep breathing, I’ll be back in 15 and we’ll try pushing again, okay?”

You nod, even though nothing is okay, you’re terrified, you’re in pain, and you want a cheeseburger so fucking badly.

Spencer’s not much better, his palms slippery from the sweat that’s accumulated over the past three hours. He was there when your water broke, you had just stood up after dinner, the splashing sound accompanied by a look of sheer panic in your eyes. He was quick on his feet, muscle memory kicking in as he grabbed the hospital bag, making quick work to the car.

He stands here now, clad in scrubs, under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, utterly terrified. He’s thought a lot about his ability to be a father, whether it should be a privilege granted to him at all. You’re too good to him, though, insistent that he’d be more than perfect. He believed her for a while, but now that it’s actually happening, he’s never been more terrified. He’s been kidnapped three times, stared down serial killers in the face, yet fatherhood is the scariest threat of all.

Another wail from his wife rips him out of his self pity as he rushes to your side. He signals the nurse to grab the doctor once more. There’s a fire in your eye that he hasn’t seen before, a fierce need to get this baby out. You sit up, legs propped up and ready to go.

It takes about 10 pushes, a lot of tears, and some loud shrieks before Diana Jane Reid wails herself into the world. Spencer is in complete and total awe. She’s tiny, sitting at about 6 pounds 6 ounces. He’s still as he watches you cradle the newborn in your arms, tears streaming down your face at her beauty. His own eyes start to gloss over when a nurse touches his arm slightly.

“Do you want a turn, Dad?” The name nearly knocks the wind out of him, and he nods his head. She hands him the baby, scooping her into his big arms.

She snuggles into him instinctively, and Spencer vows then and there that he’ll do anything within his power to protect her, keep her safe, love her. He thought he’d reached his capacity to love, that it couldn't get stronger. He was wrong, he was so, so wrong. Now, with this tiny human in his arms, he thinks he can conquer the world.

He looks at you, your eyes shining with that same, fierce love. You chuckle together, unbelieving that you’d really done this. You brought this child into the world together. You’re going to raise her together. You’re going to give her siblings together.

He places the infant in her small glass crib, his finger swooping down the slope of her nose before moving to his wife. He kisses you on the cheek, the nose, the lips. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it tight.

“Do you want that cheeseburger now?” He asks, and you guffaw a laugh.

“Yes, yes I do,” you respond, “but first, give me the baby.”

[lillaberry]

Just wait untill my 6 tumblr mutuals hear about this

[lillaberry]

Constantly struggling between ”I should be able to do things alone, be indipendent” and ”humans need to have connections to other people”

[lillaberry]

I need this

BREAKFAST IN BED ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: you’re sore. spencer’s smug. apparently, breakfast is best served between your thighs.

genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 1.7k

tags/warnings: soft dom!spencer, implied semi-rough sex from the night before, reader is sore from said sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader angel/sweet girl/good girl, spencer is a smug little shit, written with later season spencer in mind, basically porn with almost no plot, no use of y/n

a/n: based on this anon request! this was delicioussss to write. I am a munch!spencer truther to my core. enjoy!!

It’s the ache that wakes you.

Not sharply, and not all at once. Just a slow, blooming kind of soreness that curls warm around your hips and tightens when you shift — bare skin sliding against the sheets, muscles pulling in places that don’t usually pull. There’s a spot high on your thigh that throbs in time with your heartbeat, and another deeper in your core that stirs when you exhale too hard.

Last night comes back in flashes: Spencer’s mouth at your throat, your wrists pinned above your head, the sound he made when you told him not to stop. A little rougher than usual. A little more. He’d warned you, breath hot against your ear, that he wasn’t going to be gentle, and you’d nodded like someone deprived of air being offered oxygen.

You remember the way his hands shook a little when he touched you afterward, how quiet he got. The press of his lips to your knuckles in the dark, like he still couldn’t believe you gave him everything, no matter how many times you did. Like he couldn’t believe you wanted him that much.

You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.

Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.

You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.

Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.

But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.

“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”

“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.

Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”

He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, amused. “Where?”

You give him a look. “Where do you think?”

Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”

He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”

You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.

“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware of that. I want to.”

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.

He presses a kiss just below your navel.

“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”

Another kiss, lower.

“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.

There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.

You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to—”

“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”

That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.

You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.

“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”

You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.

“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.

You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.

“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”

He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.

“Spence—”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.

You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.

“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.

He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.

“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”

“I know it does, angel girl.”

It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.

You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.

He doesn’t.

Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”

“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.

“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”

You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”

He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.

Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.

He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.

“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”

You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.

He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.

“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.

He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”

You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”

“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”

He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.

“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”

Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”

Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[lillaberry]

I have the power to love and give my devotion… now this love has nowhere to go

[lillaberry]

[lillaberry]

Spencer Reid has an academic validation kink

Decipher This

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Ditzy!Reader (Forensics Mythologist, ERT)

Summary: reader is a ditzy but brilliant forensics mythologist from the Evidence Response Team and a friend of Penelope. When the BAU struggles with a cryptic case, Penelope calls her in. Despite seeming scatterbrained and rambling off topic, she quickly deciphers the symbol no one else can.

Tone: PG, humor, mild fluff

word count: 703

a/n: literally made that job title up but we’re gonna role with it. Also shout out to google cause I had no idea about the history of symbols.

The bullpen was quiet in that tense, worried way that meant everyone was stuck.

Spencer was pacing, gesturing with one hand as he rattled off theories. “The symbol is vaguely Celtic, but the lines are wrong. It has Masonic elements but not consistent enough. And the numerology in the corners doesn’t reduce to anything meaningful—”

JJ looked between the board and him. “So... you don’t know what it is?”

Spencer bristled, pushing his hair back. “Not yet.”

Penelope, perched on the corner of Hotch’s desk with her laptop, sighed dramatically. “Okay, don’t get mad... but I think I know someone who might know.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Better than Boy Genius here?”

Penelope patted his shoulder. “He’s not threatened. Are you, sugar?”

Spencer frowned but mumbled, “No.”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Do it.”

Ten minutes later there was the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway and an enthusiastic, singsong greeting before the door even opened:

“Hiiii BAU people!”

You pushed in, slightly breathless, a folder tucked under your arm, hair a bit mussed, Penelope scurrying behind you like she was corralling a puppy.

Spencer blinked.

You blinked back.

“Spencer Reid!” you announced, like you’d just won a game show. “You wrote that piece on colonial burial symbols in Forensics Quarterly! I loved it!”

He blinked harder. “You... read that?”

“Of course I did,” you chirped, dropping your folder and immediately crouching to pick up the papers you’d scattered. “Oops. Sorry. I read everything about colonial death rituals and coded symbology, it’s so—oh, wait, is that the symbol?”

You hopped back up and nearly collided with him, squinting at the board.

Hotch raised an eyebrow at Penelope.

She spread her hands in frantic jazz-hands of please trust me.

You peered closer, nose practically pressed to the picture. “Hm. Hm. Oh my gosh.”

You spun, narrowly avoiding smacking Reid in the face with your hair. “Do you have a pen? Pen? Pen? Never mind, I have a crayon.”

You produced a purple crayon from your coat pocket and began sketching on the back of one of Reid’s printouts.

Emily exchanged a look with Morgan.

Reid was speechless.

You babbled while you drew. “So the outer circle is wrong if you think it’s Celtic. It’s actually based on Rosicrucian variants. But they borrowed from alchemical cipher scripts, see? And then the inner part is Latin shorthand, just a weird one actually, wait, they used a funerary ligature system from 18th century Venice which is just so cool. I went there once, the pigeons are actually so aggressive, like I had a sandwich and they—”

“Focus!” Penelope chirped, clapping.

“Oh! Right! Sorry. Anyway.” You circled a section of the drawing. “It literally says ‘Judgment is Coming’ in an encoded form of Latin. This little line here changes the tense. Without that stroke it would have meant ‘Judged.’ Whole different vibe.”

Silence.

Spencer leaned in slowly. “Wait. How did you... you recognized it just like that?”

You beamed at him. “It’s my job, Dr. Reid. Forensics Mythologist. Symbol systems are kind of my thing. ERT keeps me busy. It’s amazing what you can learn if you hyper-fixate on crypt symbols for fifteen years! Also you wrote that really good breakdown of Puritan grave iconography, it’s super useful. Seriously. Top tier.”

Spencer actually turned pink.

Emily coughed into her hand to hide a laugh. Morgan didn’t even bother. Hotch just sighed — but in a way that sounded like relief.

Penelope grabbed your shoulders. “You. Are. An. Angel.”

“Oh!” You glanced at your watch. “Gotta go. I think I left my car door unlocked. Again. Last time a raccoon got in. Anyway, hope that helps! Bye guys!”

You waved, nearly hit the doorframe on the way out, then vanished down the hall with your crayon still in hand.

Penelope turned back to the stunned team, clapping her hands like a satisfied matchmaker.

“Well? Aren’t you glad I called her?”

Spencer was still staring at the door, a tiny smile creeping onto his face.

Morgan elbowed him. “Reid. You okay there?”

Spencer blinked, adjusting his tie.

“She, uh. She read my article.”

Morgan snorted. “Yeah. Try not to propose in front of the unsub.”

Spencer didn’t even bother denying

- Lizzy lizarddd 🦎 (I wanna change my user)

[lillaberry]

[lillaberry]

I miss my friends sm i get all teary thinking about them😭

[lillaberry]

And when a butterfly lands on the nose

a puppy when u blow on its nose:

[lillaberry]

Nobody talk to me rn this image got me feeling so emotional😭😭😭

Hemingway 🐠

Name and breeds of fish from a @gf2bellamy fic!

alt version with older Spencer on my Patreon ! :D I also uploaded more Corpse bride au!Spencer over there 💍