lokisswiftie

[lokisswiftie]

C is for Celebration

September 16, 2009

summary: You and Spencer celebrate your one year anniversary.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: smut

The smell of old books and coffee lingered in Spencer’s apartment, like it always did, but today it was mixed with something softer. Jasmine, maybe, or vanilla. It was the candle you liked to light whenever you stayed over. Spencer had already lit it before you arrived, which meant he’d remembered. Of course he had.

You stood in the doorway, holding a brown paper bag with dessert and a small wrapped box tucked inside, your smile warm and easy. Spencer stepped toward you, looking like he’d just barely stopped pacing.

“Hi,” you said, voice quiet.

“Hi,” he echoed, his smile immediate and boyish. “Happy anniversary.”

A year. One whole year since that rainy night when you'd both realized you couldn’t keep pretending your partnership was just professional. A year since whispered confessions over case files and after-hours Chinese food. A year since the best thing in your life began.

Spencer reached for the bag, but you sidestepped him and set it on the coffee table first, wrapping your arms around his waist instead. He let out a surprised breath and immediately hugged you back, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about this day all week,” he murmured.

You smiled into his neck. “Me too.”

When you pulled back, he kissed you, slow, unrushed, with the kind of gentleness that came from someone who had memorized your every reaction. His hands lingered on your waist as he led you toward the couch. A small bouquet of wildflowers sat in a mason jar on the table beside it. His gift.

“I know it’s not extravagant,” he said, catching your glance.

“It’s perfect.” You leaned down to smell them. “Did you pick these?”

He flushed, just slightly. “There’s a little park near the metro. I went early this morning.”

You grinned and kissed his cheek. “Spencer Reid, you are romantic.”

He ducked his head. “You haven’t even opened your gift yet.”

You handed him yours first, a neatly wrapped book he’d mentioned in passing months ago but hadn’t bought for himself. A rare first edition, tracked down by you and shipped from across the country. He held it like it was sacred, his eyes wide.

“I– how did you find this?”

“Librarians talk,” you said with a wink.

Spencer pulled you into a kiss again, this one firmer, his gratitude pouring out in touch more than words.

Then it was your turn. He handed you a small box, wrapped in dark green paper. Inside was a slim gold bracelet engraved on the underside in his neat handwriting:

I Love You Y/N –Spence

Your throat tightened.

“I wanted you to have something simple,” he said. “Something you could wear even at work. But… still ours.”

You didn’t speak. You just leaned forward and kissed him again, pushing him back gently until his back met the cushions and your knees straddled his lap.

He let out a breathy laugh. “So dessert later?”

“Much later,” you murmured against his jaw, already slipping your fingers under the hem of his cardigan. “Right now, I want to thank you.”

His breath hitched as you kissed along his neck, slow and deliberate. Spencer was always quick to be shy when you were the one taking control. But he melted under praise, unraveled under intention. And tonight, that’s exactly what you wanted: to take your time, to let him feel everything.

You pulled his shirt up and off, letting your hands run along the warm skin of his chest. He was still so lean, so beautiful, and yet so unaware of it.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” you whispered, brushing your thumbs across his ribs.

He blushed deep, his hands gripping your hips. “I– thank you,” he said softly, his voice already breathy.

“Lie back,” you instructed, gently pushing on his chest. He obeyed instantly, laying against the couch cushions, his curls spreading like a halo around his head.

You kissed down his chest, down his stomach, undoing his belt slowly. He watched you with parted lips, one hand already curling against the throw pillow like he needed to hold onto something.

“You’ve been so good to me, Spence,” you said as you unzipped his pants. “So patient. So giving. Let me take care of you.”

His response was a quiet, desperate sound in his throat as you slid his pants and boxers down together, revealing him, already hard, already aching.

You leaned down and kissed the inside of his thigh, then again, closer, until he gasped.

“Please,” he whispered.

You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his face. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let me hear you.”

He whimpered, his hips lifting just slightly. You kept it slow, methodical, each stroke matched with praises of how good he looked, how soft he sounded, how perfectly he reacted to every touch.

When he got close, you pulled away, shushing his soft whine with a kiss. “Not yet. I want more.”

You stripped quickly, straddling him again.

“You okay?” you asked, pausing.

He nodded quickly. “Yes. Please. I want to feel you.”

You sank down onto him slowly, and he groaned, his head tipping back.

“Fuck, you feel… God, you feel amazing.”

You rocked your hips gently with one hand resting over his heart. It was pounding. Alive and wild and so very real.

“I love you,” you said.

He opened his eyes, looking straight at you. “I love you too.”

Your pace stayed slow, deep, steady movements that let you both feel every inch. Spencer’s hands clutched your thighs, then your waist, then your hips, like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you praised, voice warm. 

His moans got louder. More desperate. You could feel how close he was and how much he was holding back.

“Come for me, Spence,” you whispered. “You’ve earned it. Be as loud as you want.”

That did it. His eyes shut, his body tensed, and he cried out as he came, burying his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around you as he filled you.

You stroked his hair and kissed his temple, letting him ride it out.

When he was quiet again, when his body relaxed beneath you, you stayed there, still joined, your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest.

“That was…” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you agreed, smiling.

After a few minutes, you cleaned up together, and he pulled you back into bed with him. You curled into his side, bracelet still warm on your wrist, and let your fingers rest over his chest where his heart was still thumping quietly.

“Happy anniversary,” he said again.

_____

next chapter: *link*

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____ BUY ME A COFFEE _____

a/n: hihihihihihihi

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

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[lokisswiftie]

The House Always Wins -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Your fork clinks against the edge of the plate as you laugh—head thrown back, relaxed, entirely at home in his living room. It’s your weekly ritual, and you love it. Dinner at Spencer’s.

Sometimes you fuck.

Sometimes you don’t.

But either way, it’s your favorite night of the week.

Tonight’s dinner was pasta—your best attempt yet—and Spencer raved about it even though you forgot the basil. You’re curled up on his couch now, both of you warm and full, legs tangled lazily. Your head rests against his chest, and his fingers are gently toying with the bracelet on your wrist—slowly rolling the beads between his fingers as he speaks.

“Poker is essentially probability,” he’s explaining, eyes fixed somewhere above your head. “There’s the mechanics of betting, of course, but the psychological aspect—bluffing, reading, reaction time—is where it really becomes a game of people more than numbers.”

You smile. “So you're telling me I’d be better at poker than you?”

He snorts. “Statistically unlikely.”

“Ah, but I’m hot. People get distracted.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not a valid statistical advantage.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t work,” you hum, shifting your body a little. He keeps playing with the bracelet like it grounds him, his touch light and casual. Comforting.

Your other hand has been slowly inching across his stomach for the past several minutes. Inch by inch, over his Henley, fingers brushing barely-there circles, until you’re right over the waistband of his sweats. Your palm gently presses lower—just slightly. Just enough to graze the unmistakable shape of his growing hard-on.

He falters mid-sentence. You look up at him, your head still on his chest, lips curled into a barely-there smirk. “Something wrong, Doctor?”

He clears his throat, eyes flicking away. “You’re… you’re distracting.”

You raise an eyebrow, continuing your slow exploration. “I thought you were immune to distraction.”

“Not from you.”

Your fingers dip below the waistband, teasing along the ridge of him through his boxers. He inhales sharply.

“You were saying?” you ask sweetly, looking up at him through your lashes.

He glares—flustered, aroused, absolutely at your mercy.

“I was saying that poker is—fuck—about control,” he breathes as you wrap your fingers around him, slowly stroking through the thin fabric.

Your hand cups him properly now, palming him through the soft fabric, and he hisses between his teeth. His cock is already half-hard—hot and thick and twitching beneath your touch. You slide your palm up the length of him, teasingly slow.

His eyes cut to yours—dark, hungry, frustrated and fond all at once. “I thought you wanted to learn poker.”

You tug at the waistband of his sweats, dragging them down just enough to free him, thick and flushed and already dripping at the tip.

“I am learning,” you say innocently, brushing your lips against his inner thigh. “I’m learning that you’re incredibly easy to distract.”

He groans softly when you wrap your hand around him—slow strokes, base to tip, slick with his own arousal. “Fuck—”

“Call,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the length of him, “or fold.”

Spencer’s head tips back against the couch cushion, his hips rocking up into your touch.

“I fold,” he breathes. “I fucking fold.”

And just like that, you take him into your mouth.

Slow at first, building your rhythm like it’s part of the game—lips slick, jaw loose, hand wrapped tight at the base to keep him right on the edge. Spencer is wrecked in minutes, fingers twisted in the blanket, whispering curses into the air like he forgot you were Hotch’s daughter and not just the girl who’s been driving him insane every night this week.

“You’re gonna—” he warns, but you don’t let up.

You hum low around him instead.

His whole body jerks, and then he’s gone—coming hard down your throat, a sharp gasp cutting through the silence. You swallow every drop, pulling back slowly with a satisfied sigh.

Spencer slumps, totally boneless, head lolling against the couch.

You crawl back up his chest, straddling his hips now, heart pounding. He reaches up, cupping your cheek like he’s forgotten every reason he ever gave himself to keep this casual.

“You win,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You smile. “That was only the first round.”

a/n: slut for Spencer Reid <3

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[lokisswiftie]

AAAAA THIS LOOKS SO AWESOME SO FAR I CANNOT WAIT TO READ!!!

Candidate number 612

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

Behavioral Analysis Unit – Quantico, Virginia

---

CONFIDENTIAL

PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT – CANDIDATE EVALUATION FOR SPECIAL AGENT / BEHAVIORAL ANALYST POSITION

Current Name: \[CLASSIFIED – Protected Alias]

Birth Name: CLASSIFIED

FBI Identification Number: #087-994-1127

Date of Birth: December 20, 1980

Place of Birth: Wiskayok, New Jersey

Current Access Level: Level 4 (restricted)

Assessment conducted by: Dr. Monica Lewes, Forensic Psychiatrist (FBI – DC Field Office)

Report submitted to: SSA Aaron Hotchner (Behavioral Analysis Unit)

---

### I. CONTEXT

The candidate was referred to the BAU following exceptional performance in advanced profiling programs at Quantico. Despite her reserved demeanor, she presents an academic and psychological background that warrants careful attention. Her original identity was legally altered with support from the Special Victim Protection Program, and her past is known only to a select few within the Bureau’s senior ranks, in accordance with current legislation regarding public trauma cases and protection of national tragedy survivors.

---

### II. PSYCHOLOGICAL AND CLINICAL HISTORY

Previous formal diagnoses:

* Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), chronic

* Moderate depressive episodes (currently in remission)

* Adjustment Disorder (adolescence)

Past medications: Sertraline, Zolpidem (intermittent); currently not under continuous prescription.

Relevant history:

* Traumatic loss of a close family member (brother, deceased at age 11)

* Survivor of a large-scale catastrophe involving extreme isolation, deprivation, death of peers, and liminal experiences (details CLASSIFIED – ref. 1996 incident, Canada)

* Documented exposure to psychosocially extreme and dehumanizing events

Despite the severity of the events experienced, the candidate exhibits advanced adaptive mechanisms. Clinical interviews report episodic dissociation, hypervigilance, and persistent guilt. Nonetheless, she also displays a notable command of cognitive coping strategies, focusing on rationalization, discipline, and environmental control.

---

### III. CURRENT BEHAVIORAL PROFILE

Observed strengths:

* High IQ, above-average logical reasoning (94th percentile)

* Selective empathy: deep sensitivity toward victims, particularly children and adolescents

* Exceptional acuity in observing micro-behaviors

* Analytical style focused on pattern deviation and psychological inconsistencies

* Solid academic background in Clinical Psychology, Criminology, and Forensic Anthropology

**Points of concern:**

* Low voluntary sociability; avoids lasting emotional bonds

* Restrained emotional responses, at times perceived as coldness

* Avoids direct confrontation but reacts intensely to injustice and cruelty toward the vulnerable

* Defensive behavior when questioned about her past (understandable given prior media exposure)

**Additional note (Dr. Lewes):**

> “The candidate exhibits an uncommon profile: a rare blend of silent ferocity and disciplined restraint. There are unspoken traumas that still shape her worldview, yet paradoxically make her a profoundly effective observer of others’ pain. Her motivation is not heroism — it is debt. She seeks to understand evil because she fears what she once glimpsed within herself.”

---

### IV. RELATIONSHIP WITH AUTHORITY AND TEAM ENVIRONMENT

The candidate shows consistent respect for hierarchy, with discretion and firmness. She maintains a neutral posture until emotional safety is established. No signs of unethical, narcissistic, or aggressive behavior are present. Previous academic reports mention friction with peers due to methodological disagreements, but no disciplinary actions have been recorded.

Behavioral recommendation:

* Initial supervision by a stable, non-invasive authority figure

* Avoid direct probing of her past without clinical basis or consent

* Ideal integration in analytical teams, not focused on public exposure

---

### V. CONCLUSION

The candidate is highly recommended for work in profiling units, with the potential to become one of the most intuitive agents of the new generation. Her past traumas do not render her unstable — on the contrary, they have made her a sharp, pragmatic observer with a firm moral compass. Her motivation is not ambition, but redemption. Her work is her way of finding meaning where there once was only survival.

---

Final Approval: ✔️ Approved for entry into the BAU under direct supervision of SSA Hotchner

Electronically signed by:

Dr. Monica Lewes

Forensic Psychologist, FBI – License #45812-DC

---

A/n:

Congratulations, you've been hired! 🎉🎊🥂

Ready to your first day?

So, hello! If you're a little lost, yes, this is a reader x criminal minds x yellowjackets fanfic

I wanted to give you a little sneak peek into the series I'm writing, and I thought the idea of writing a psychological report addressed to Hotch about the reader would be a cool way to introduce her. And it was a lot of work, but it was worth it!

I'm always open to opinions and constructive criticism, plus my asks are open! . I'll soon open a form for anyone who wants to join the taglist, but if you want to join now, just comment <3

[lokisswiftie]

As a huge fan of both cm and Yellowjackets, I would actually fucking eat this up so bad. I yearn for this in my life so badly you are a genius

please reply!

For many years, I've been writing fanfics for various fandoms, but I've never gotten around to posting them. Now, I intend to use this blog to write and actually post them lmao. And I need your 🫵 opinion on something !

My latest idea is for Spencer Reid, and mixes Yellowjackets with Criminal minds. Fem!Reader who was one of the yellowjackets to fall into the wilderness and survive for 19 months. Years after her rescue, she changes her name, changes her identity and ends up joining the FBI as a... Profile Analyst. But it seems her secrets couldn't stay buried for long...

It would be pretty angst (but with comfort) to be honest, and it wouldn't necessarily follow a chronology, it would be independent pieces taking place in the same universe.

I really love yellowjackets and criminal minds and thought, well why not? This character practically created itself (well actually I just wanted an excuse to imagine myself within THIS both universes lol this is really self incert). I really wanted to write this wonderful, deeply traumatized nerd with someone equally traumatized and slightly cannibalistic lmao. I'll post a little preview soon!

And I want to know if anyone would be interested in reading it. PLEASE reply to this post if you want to be tagged or if you are interested in my story.

Thank you so much for reading this far ❤️‍🔥

[lokisswiftie]

Came back to this and the “I got all kinds of good ideas storylines just reach out” is the funniest thing I’ve ever read

can’t stop thinking about this absolutely cursed comment on the cm instagram account

[lokisswiftie]

This is so perfect

FLATLANDS

Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!! drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!

notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa. 

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends. 

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees. 

“Hi.” 

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand. 

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects. 

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later. 

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list. 

“Do you think he’s gonna focus on me?” you ask once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door. 

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

– 

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent. 

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way. 

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin. 

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach. 

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants. 

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed. 

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes. 

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven. 

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground. 

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived. 

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer. 

He smiles, shakes his head no. 

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too. 

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born? 

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat. 

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist. 

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs. 

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot. 

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down. 

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa. 

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure. 

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you. 

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say. 

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable. 

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips. 

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?” 

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question. 

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again. 

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.  

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles. 

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him. 

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.” 

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command. 

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug. 

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air. 

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them. 

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good. 

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs. 

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm. 

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water. 

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you. 

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself. 

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” For a reason you’re too clouded to place, that makes him snap his hips against yours a little harder. 

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might. 

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in. 

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner. 

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog. 

“I would like that.”

[lokisswiftie]

So so cute

talk to me nice - s.r

♡ summary: you teach spencer how to appreciate himself pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut wc: 1.3k request here

Complimenting Spencer was as easy as breathing. There were countless aspects of him that you loved and it felt like you never ran out of things to say. And you weren't afraid of repeats. Calling him pretty boy never grew old.

But lately, you started noticing something. With every compliment you gave him, he brushed it off like it was nothing. Sometimes it seemed like he thought you were lying or worse, making fun of him. You had no way of knowing though, because every time you brought it up, he laughed it off or changed the subject.

"Hey, Spence, you look really pretty today. I love your hair at this length." Your fingers tangled in his short curly hair, tugging slightly as you leaned back against his desk.

"Um, did you want to get takeout tonight? We could get that Chinese stuff you like." You tilted your head at him.

"What are you doing, Spence?" That disappointed mom tone slipped out as it always does when you're scolding him.

"What?"

"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" His face flushed and he ducked his head to hide from you. "I'm being serious. You always do this."

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Spencer-"

"Can we just not talk about this right now?" You sighed, pushing off his desk.

"Fine. We'll talk later then." You headed back to your own desk, disappointed in yourself for giving in so easily. You watched Spencer bury himself in his work, your eyes trailing over his features. He really was the prettiest man you'd ever seen. Soft brown hair, deep hazel eyes drew you to him, make you addicted to the sight of him. Sometimes, when he was asleep in your bed, all relaxed and ethereal, you'd lay there and stare at him, taking in the sight of the angelic human being next to you.

You took it upon yourself to do better. Make him realize how perfect he really is.

"Spence, can you come in here please?" You called from the bedroom, slipping sweetness into your voice as to raise no suspicion.

"What do you need, angel?" Spencer, beautiful oblivious Spencer, stepped into the room.

"Come here." You patted the floor next to you where you sat on your knees in front of the full length mirror. He obeyed, dropping to his knees next to you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You shuffled behind him, your hands on his shoulders as you position him in the center of the mirror. You wanted to make sure he could see every part of him.

"What are we doing?" Spencer asked, laughing a little at the situation.

"You know I love your right?" Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him back into your chest in an affectionate hug. He reached up to hold your arms.

"Yeah. I love you too." He murmured, the room taking on a softer atmosphere.

"And I want you to love you as well." His smile slowly fell as he realized what this was. He averted his gaze from yours in the mirror, pressing his lips together and looking down at his lap.

"I do." He defended quietly. You released his shoulders, brushing a hand through his hair. There was already an idea in your mind of how to show him how much he means to you and how much he should mean to himself. Your hands slid down his chest to his belt, he still hadn't taken off his work pants, where you started unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping. "Wha- what are you doing?" Spencer was brought out of his mind by your hands in his pants.

"Showing you what you should be proud of." You reach down, pushing his thighs apart more and he lets out a shuddering breath. "Can you take these off for me, baby?" You ask, tugging on his pants slightly. He hurries himself out of them, tossing them aside and blushing at being so revealed in front of you. It's not like he's never been naked around you before but it was different when he was on his knees staring at himself in the mirror. You pulled his shirt over his head and soon he was bare, his back against your chest again.

Your thumb and forefinger find one of his nipples, brushing over it slightly before pinching. He jolts, letting out an involuntary whimper. Your other hand slides down to his lap, taking his hardening length in your palm.

"See how pretty you are?" You asked, stroking him up and down, beads of precum dribbling from his red tip. He moans, letting his head fall back to your shoulder. "No, baby, look." You patted his jaw a few times until he lifted his head, looking in the mirror again.

"Please." He whined, bucking his hips into your hand.

"Tell me." You purred in his ear.

"What?"

"Say 'I'm pretty'."

"Please, I don't-"

"Spencer, if you want to cum, then repeat after me."

"I- I'm pretty." You took his earlobe between your teeth, biting softly as you stimulated his nipples and his cock at the same time, brushing your thumb over the head of his length.

"Now say 'I'm a genius'."

"I'm a genius." He whimpered. You grinned, taking him in through the mirror. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead as his chest heaved.

"Tell me something else." You prompted, wanting him to come up with his own. Wanting it to be genuine.

"I don't- I don't know." His head fell back to your shoulder again and you tutted, leaning forward and sucking and biting his neck.

"Spencer." You scolded. His pulse hummed beneath your lips. He lifted his head again, feeling fuzzy with his desire to cum.

"I'm- I'm handsome."

"Good." You rewarded him, spitting into your palm and stroking him firmer and faster. He moaned brokenly, his hips jerking. "More."

"I, uh, I'm kind."

"Mhm." You hummed, kissing his neck.

"I'm... funny?"

"You don't sound so sure." You tsked your tongue.

"I- I am. I'm funny." He repeats, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"What else?"

"I... I wanna cum. Please? I need- need to cum." He whines, his whole body trembling.

"Tell me you're loved."

"I'm loved." He breathes.

"And you're enough."

"I'm... I'm enough." His eyes are welling up with tears, from sorrow or from bliss, he doesn't know. You keep kissing his neck, stroking his cock faster and bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

"Can I cum? Please, please, please-"

"Yes, baby, cum for me." The tears finally fall down his pretty, blushy cheeks as he lets go. He cums all over your hand and himself, his chest heaving as a whine leaves his throat. You reach up with your clean hand, wiping the tears from under his eyes. "You okay?" You ask gently, kissing at his damp cheeks.

"Uh huh." He hums, sluggishly. His body sags back into yours, his eyes falling closed. You wrap your arms around him again, holding him tight.

"It's true. Everything you said." You said, kissing his hair. He just hums again, on the brink of sleep, warm in your embrace. "Alright sleepy, let's get you in bed before you collapse on the floor." You chuckled, standing and helping him to his feet, his legs wobbly. You make a mental note to clean the carpet once he falls asleep, which shouldn't be long now.

Once he's under the covers, you kiss his forehead, moving to get off the bed but a hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist.

"Don't go." Spencer murmurs.

"I'll be right back, I just have to-"

"No. No, don't." He whines, tugging on your arm, his eyes still blissfully closed. You sighed, giving in and climbing under the sheets with him. You let him curl into you, his arms around your waist, his head on your chest, and you press a kiss to his head. You thought it was alright to put off cleaning the carpet for just a few more minutes.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

[lokisswiftie]

a bit of misperception ⊹ spencer reid

.ᐟ MDNI .ᐟ

ᝰ summary : your roommate spencer was someone you imagined to be innocent and rather disinterested in sex, but when you come home early from work one day you realize that you were quite mistaken.

ᝰ warnings : fem reader, and they were roommates, virgin!spencer, sub!spencer, perv!spencer (he sniffs panties idc), dom!reader, experienced reader, mix of praise and degradation, dirty talk, grinding, nipple play f receiving, edging m receiving, oral m receiving, p in v, cum on tits (omg she isn't writing a creampie for once)

now that i finished up my requests i knew a spencer fic was in order! idk how i've only done 2 reid fics but i'm excited to provide you all with another! thanks to everyone who voted on the poll to help me decide this fic's concept and enjoy ˖𓂃.

p.s: you can imagine whatever season reid you want for this, it isn't specific at all!!!!

getting home early was a rarity for you, but it was much appreciated on this friday night. bartending on the side for some extra cash was fun until the end of the week when all you wanted to do was rot away in your bed from the long work week of your full-time job. you would usually give your roommate a heads up that you would be back early, but it was likely that he was already asleep in his own room if he hadn't been called back to work yet.

spencer was an attractive guy (very attractive) who had the perfect amount of quirk and humour built into his personality. one might say you have a bit of a crush on him, but it was clear to you that he didn't care about dating or sex or anything of that sort. he wasn't necessarily an incredibly social person, and within the year you'd been living together he hadn't once went on a date let alone brought anyone home for a hookup. all this made your secret crush on him fade into the background of your roommate-friendship relationship as you figured nothing would come of it.

you enter the apartment as quietly as you can, tossing your keys into the decorative dish that laid on your entryway table, kicking your shoes off and dropping your bag beside them. you head down the hall towards your room, cocking your head to the side in confusion as you see light protruding from underneath your bedroom door. you always shut your door for privacy (and to hide the mess) but you never left your light on, not even your bedside lamp which was currently emitting the dim glow that flowed under the door.

"did i forget to turn the lamp off?" you mumble to yourself, approaching the door and stopping in your tracks when you start to hear heavy breathing.

your heart begins to race, worried that it was the worse case scenario, but when you look across the hall and see spencer's bedroom light on and door open without him inside the room, you become even more confused. you turn the doorknob and slowly usher the door open, a gasp leaving your mouth before you can stop it at the sight atop your bed.

spencer knew it was wrong. perverted, if you will. he tried to sleep, but everytime he shut his eyes all he could see was you in that low cut top when you came home from the bar last weekend, stumbling in the door and giggling every few minutes at whatever crossed your mind. you bent over to take off your heels and spencer could see your tits spilling out of the lacy push-up bra you had on and he couldn't control the hardening of his cock. he knew once he saw that he wouldn't be able to go back. that's what lead him to his current position; grinding himself against your bed as his nose is buried in a pair of your panties he fetched from your laundry hamper.

he was breathing heavier than he ever had before, completely drunk on your scent and the continuous rolling of his hips. he didn't even hear you come home let alone open your bedroom door; he was only brought back to reality when you said his name, causing him to scramble on your bed in a panic.

"it- it's not what you think, i- oh god" he rambles, gripping your neon pink thong in his left hand, holding onto it for some depraved form of stabilization.

"spencer..." you trail off, approaching him slowly as though you're trying not to scare off a timid animal.

was he sniffing your panties? had he done this before? at this point all you knew is that you were turned on, the logistics of the situation slipping your mind.

"i- i'm sorry, i know it's wrong and gross but i-" your finger pressing to his lips cut off his sentence, his eyes widening as you mount his lap, his body stiffening under you.

"i think it's kind of... hot, actually" you whisper in his ear, your lips ghosting across his cheek as you pull back to be face-to-face.

"what?" he asks breathily, his hands remaining at his sides. his heart was hammering in his chest, convinced he was dreaming.

"it's so hot, spence, sniffing my panties and getting yourself off against my bed, you're so perverted" you giggle in a slightly menacing tone, rolling your hips gently against his still prominent erection.

he moans at the feeling of your lace-clad cunt pressing against his erection from under your skirt, his eyes fluttering shut as his head falls back.

"nuh-uh, you keep your eyes on me while i'm talking to you" you grab his chin, coaxing him to look at you as you roll your hips once more, agonizingly slow.

"yes, sorry" he whimpers, fucking whimpers, his hands hovering around your hips, unsure if he should touch you.

"you can touch me" you whisper, "maybe i should take my shirt off first though? what do you think?"

he nods vigorously, watching as you slip your shirt over your head and discard it somewhere on your floor. he ogles at the sight of your breasts in that same lace bra from last weekend, his hands now gravitating to the mounds that sit right in front of him.

"take my bra off, baby" you guide his hands to your back, feeling him fumble nervously with the clasp.

"have you ever taken a girl's bra off before?" you tease as you reach your hands behind your back and aid him in removing it, throwing it in the same direction as your shirt.

"ever touched tits before?" he shakes his head as you move his hands to grab your breasts, his hands warm as he fondles them, completely enamoured.

"they're... they're so pretty" he breathes, massaging them and experimentally brushing his thumbs across your nipples.

"feels good, baby, do it again" you gasp softly, your nipples hardening under the pads of his thumbs.

he licks his lips as he continues teasing your nipples, unable to hide his desire to do more to them.

"do you want to suck them?"

"can- can i? oh please" he begs, breaking his staring contest with your chest so he can look into your eyes for approval. you nod and run your fingers through his hair, ushering him towards your nipples.

he glides his tongue over your left nipple, your back arching into the warmth of his mouth. he takes this as a sign to continue, swirling his tongue over it before wrapping his lips around it, sucking as though his life depended on it. he moans around your nipple, his arms now wrapping around your torso tightly and holding you close to his mouth as though you could fade away at any moment.

"you're doing so good, such a good boy" you praise, tugging gently at his hair as he moans louder due to your words.

"maybe you should show the other one some love too" you suggest, the 'pop' of him releasing your nipple filling your ears before the sensation of his mouth on your other nipple makes your head spin.

"that's it..." you whisper, starting to roll your hips against him again, the feeling of his hard cock just a few layers below you starting to become addictive.

you gently tug him off, a whine escaping him as you take him away from his new favourite activity.

"stop whining and stay there" you dismount his lap, sinking to your knees in front of him and reaching for the waistband of his pyjama pants.

his chest rises and falls quickly as you remove his pants and boxers, his cock jumping out and standing at attention as you discard his now removed articles of clothing. you wrap your hand around his shaft, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

"you've never had someone suck your dick, have you, spencer?" you smirk as he shakes his head, leaning in to kiss his tip.

a beautiful whimper fills your ears before you glide your tongue over his tip and allow it to swirl around the head sensually, his body trembling with pleasure at the small touches. you take the head of his cock in your mouth, sucking around it gently before slowly taking in more inch by inch.

"fuck, holy shit" he whines loudly above you, his hands gripping the duvet he's sat upon so tightly that it seems like he could rip holes in it at any second.

you hum around him, the vibrations making him buck his hips from the stimulation. your hands move to press his hips down and hold him steady as you take the last inch of him, your nose pressing against his skin. you start to bob your head up and down his length, each drag bringing his orgasm closer to the edge. he starts to squirm a bit, his thighs flexing and unflexing as you press your fingers harder into his hips.

"oh god, i'm so close, i'm gonna cum" his moan turns into a whimper as you remove your mouth from where he needed it most, wiping some spit from your lips as you observe his reaction to being so close to orgasm yet having it pulled out from under him with no mercy.

"please, please! that isn't fair!" he whimpers, a small pout taking shape on his lips out of pure desperation.

"it actually is fair, since i'm planning to ride you, but..." you throw your hands up, "if you don't want that i can leave you just like this"

"no, no! please, oh my god, please ride me" he begs and reaches his hands out to you, a chuckle escaping you.

"patience" you scold, sliding your skirt and panties down your legs and tossing them away with the rest of your removed clothing.

"back against the headboard, sweetheart" you command as he shuffles quickly to sit against the headboard, his chest still heaving from excitement, nerves, and all the other things.

you crawl to him and straddle him once more at a painfully slow pace, gliding his tip through your slit and wetness simultaneously. his jaw falls slack as he feels your wetness collect on his tip, hands grabbing at your ass and trying to pull you further into him.

"behave, spencer. i could've easily left you with just my panties and your hand, hm?" you scold him once more, though knowing you would've fucked him regardless after seeing that sight.

"i'm sorry" he whines as you begin to sink down onto him, completely focused until he was bottomed out inside of you.

"god, you feel good" you gasp, rolling your hips to get adjusted to his size and allowing him to come back down to earth.

"o-oh, i- shit" he moans, groping your ass harder and for sure leaving bruises that you'd see in the morning.

"you like being in my pussy, baby?" you begin to properly ride him now, bouncing up and down on his cock and causing wet sounds to reverberate off the walls of your bedroom.

"yes! yes, oh my god, you're so wet and- fuck, so good" he babbles as he looks into your eyes, surprisingly not breaking the eye contact as you take his virginity for all it's worth.

you pick up your pace, thighs burning but each whimper and whine and moan that leaves spencer's lips makes it easy to ignore the sensation. you hold onto his shoulders as you milk him with every movement, his cock hitting the perfect spot inside of you.

"is this what you were thinking about earlier? me using your cock and making you feel good?" you lean in, your breath tickling his lips as he just whines in response, nodding his head in tandem.

you press your lips against his, kissing him for the first time during this whole ordeal, devouring each other feverishly as you moan into each other's mouths. each smack of your ass down on his thighs along with the lewd wet sounds of your pussy makes you start to tighten around him, your orgasm creeping up rather quickly.

"fuck, i'm gonna cum around you, baby" you moan and squeeze around him as you begin to cum, rolling your hips again as you ride your orgasm out.

he gasps as he feels you cum, admiring the ecstasy plastered on your face while you coat his dick. he whimpers as he starts to feel his own orgasm approaching, shocked at the fact that he hasn't busted yet.

"i- me too, need to cum, need it" you smile and kiss along his jaw, bouncing on him again.

"where do you wanna cum? tell me quickly" you breathe, dragging your nails down his arms and causing chills to flow through his body.

"your tits, please, please! i'm almost there, oh my god"

you move immediately at his words, wrapping your hand around him and stroking quickly as you position your tits right in front of the head of his cock.

"cum for me, spencer, cum for me. cover my tits in your cum, that's it, be good for me, baby"

a loud moan erupts from him as he starts to cum, white streaks shooting out and covering your chest, some even hitting your neck. the sight of him cumming is gorgeous; his body trembling as his eyes roll back, hips bucking at each spurt coming out.

once he finishes he slumps against the headboard, a blissful smile on his face. you chuckle, pressing a kiss to his forehead before sliding off the bed, searching for the panties which you threw off just minutes ago. once you find them you drop them into his hand, curling his fingers around them and sending a wink his way.

"you can hold onto these ones"

[lokisswiftie]

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.

[lokisswiftie]

AUGH this is perfect

Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

The glass was sweating in your hand, condensation trickling down your wrist like a thin warning. “You sure you’re not too young to be drinking that?” the guy beneath you teased, his hand moving a little higher on your bare thigh.

You gave him a slow grin, the kind that got you out of parking tickets and detention slips. “I look young, sure. But I’m legal where it counts.” You wanted him to take the bait—wanted the expensive dinner, the wine list, the academic praise whispered against your neck. Mostly, you just wanted to feel something that wasn't suffocating boredom.

He was laughing at something you said when your smile dropped, your body stiffening like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. Because you had.

Your eyes met Emily Prentiss's across the bar.

"Fuck me," you whispered, smoothing down your skirt, trying not to cause a scene and God, could this get any worse?

Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, it could.

Because trailing just a few steps behind was Spencer fucking Reid. Your dad’s favorite subordinate. You saw the exact second he recognized you—his eyebrows arched, and his lips pulled into a smug, knowing half-smile. Like he was already judging you, and maybe enjoying it a little too much.

Of course he’d clocked you the second he walked in. Of course.

You blinked, too stunned to cover your reaction, and immediately scrambled off your date’s lap like you’d sat on something scalding. You turned your back to them quickly, eyes wide as you grabbed your drink and tried to disappear into the crowd.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you muttered, desperately hoping they didn’t recognize you. But you knew Spencer did. He always did.

You felt Morgan's presence next, as unmistakable as thunder. “Look who we found breaking half the laws in this bar,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest.

You turned around slowly, trying not to look as guilty as you felt. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Emily raised a brow. “You mean it’s not you sitting on some guy’s lap with a vodka cranberry and a fake ID?”

“That’s—okay, fair. But technically—”

Morgan cut in. “Technically, your dad’s gonna be here in fifteen minutes. If you wanna lie, now’s your chance. Otherwise, save it for his interrogation.”

You plastered on your sweetest smile. “Would you believe me if I said I was here studying the effects of alcohol on poor decision-making?”

Morgan didn’t even crack. “Try again.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he tilts his head in that deeply annoying, know-it-all way and says, “Well, considering the known clientele here and the likelihood of the unsub being a repeat offender who targets women between the ages of 18 and 22, I’d say your date makes for a rather… convenient alibi. Or accomplice.”

You bristle. “He’s my T.A., not a serial killer.”

“Oh,” Spencer replies, dry. “So, ethics violations. My mistake.”Morgan coughs to cover a laugh, and Emily elbows him.

You mutter under your breath, “You’re insufferable,” loud enough for Spencer to hear.

He smirks, eyes glittering as he says to no one in particular, “Just doing my job. Protect and serve, even the boss’s brat.”

You lunge forward a little, and Emily steps in between you, hands raised. “Okay, children, let’s all relax.” Then Emily leans in. “Please tell me you’re not dating that guy.”

You gave her an apologetic wince. “Worse.”

Her brows furrowed.

“He’s my TA.”

Morgan actually snorted. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Before you could explain yourself—or dig the hole deeper—everything in the bar seemed to pause.

Your stomach dropped.

You turned to see your father enter, his jaw already tight, eyes scanning, calculating—landing directly on you. Holding a drink. Underage. Standing between his agents and a terrified grad student. Oh fuck.

You raised your glass like a white flag. “Hi, Dad.”

His jaw tightens. “Outside. Now.”

Your father’s voice slices through the noise like a blade, and for a second, you wonder if the whole bar just flinched with you.

You’re already moving, muttering a quiet apology to your ex-date as you push past Morgan, Emily, and—of course—Reid, who has the audacity to look amused. His eyes meet yours for half a second before he turns back toward the officers with a casual, “West entrance should be cleared. And someone should probably tell the bartender his license is about to be investigated.”

Prick.

You step out into the night, the air cooler than it felt ten minutes ago. Or maybe it’s just your nerves setting in.

Hotch follows, the door shutting behind him with a heavy thud. You’re already bracing yourself.

“How stupid are you?” he snaps.

You roll your eyes immediately, arms crossing over your chest. “Oh, awesome. We’re starting with that.”

You know that look. That I’m-fighting-every-urge-to-ground-you-until-you’re-30 look. He stares at you, unreadable, like he’s doing the math on what disciplinary action won’t make him look insane in front of his team.

You exhale hard through your nose and shake your head. “I wasn’t even drunk, okay? I wasn’t doing anything illegal except the fake ID, and I wasn’t going to let it get out of hand. You raised me, remember?”

“You think that’s an excuse?” he fires back. “You’re in a bar linked to an active crime scene, drinking underage, with a guy who’s too old for you—”

“He’s my T.A.,” you snap, and immediately regret it.

Aaron Hotchner goes silent. His eyes narrow.

“I’m sorry—he’s your what?”

You cringe. “Look, it’s not like that, we didn’t even sleep together—”

“Oh my God.” He cuts you off, voice low and lethal. “You’re done. Hand it over.”

“What?”

“The ID.”

You scoff, annoyed. “Oh, come on, you can’t just—”

“I can. And I will. Now.”

You mutter a curse under your breath, digging through your purse and slapping the fake ID into his hand. “Here. Confiscate away, Agent Hotchner. Go ahead and pretend you weren’t 20 once.”

He doesn’t react, just stares down at the ID. Then at you. “You’ve got no idea how dangerous that place is tonight.”

“I do, actually,” you snap, tired of him treating you like you’re six. “I listen. You think I don’t know the risks just because I’m not wearing a Kevlar vest?”

He says nothing, and it only pisses you off more.

“I came because I thought I could handle it. I needed a night out. A drink. A distraction.” You pause, swallowing. “Not that you’d understand.”

His expression twitches—just a little—and then softens in a way that only makes you feel worse.

“You should’ve told me.”

You shrug. “You’re never home.”

That lands. His jaw tightens again, but not in anger. Guilt this time.

“You’re too smart for this,” he says finally, holding up the ID between two fingers. “Next time you want a distraction, don’t pick a guy who can lose his teaching job for breathing near you.”

You sigh, the fight draining from your shoulders. “Duly noted.”

There’s a long pause between you. The kind that makes your ears ring. Until—

“I’m driving you home,” he says.

You groan. “You can’t. You’re working.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you think I’m leaving you here?”

You glance behind you through the bar’s grimy windows. Spencer is still talking to officers, arms folded, side profile annoyingly pretty as he watches everything unfold like he’s a part of some indie film noir.

“I’m not staying here,” you say quietly. “I’ll walk. Or—get a ride.”

Hotch follows your gaze. His jaw clenches again. “Not from him.”

You look at your father. And you smirk.

“Why not?” you ask, voice laced with challenge. “Spencer’s safe. You trust him, don’t you?”

He looks like he wants to strangle someone. “He’s twelve years older than you.”

You shrug. “You said I was too smart for bad decisions.”

He stares at you for a beat. Then lets out a frustrated breath through his nose.

“I’m driving you. End of discussion.”

You hesitate. Then nod. “Fine.”

But not before casting one last look over your shoulder at Spencer, who’s definitely been listening the whole time, if the smug little smirk tugging at his lips is any indication.

By the time Hotch’s black SUV pulled up, Spencer had already lingered just long enough near the front of the bar, elbow resting against the brick, trying so fucking hard to act like he wasn’t eavesdropping. He was biting the inside of his cheek, practically begging you to snap.

So you did.

“You’re real quiet now, huh?” you taunted, arms crossed as you stalked past the security tape and toward him. “That mouthy little commentary act doesn’t hold up when Daddy’s around?”

He didn’t flinch, just turned his head slightly to look at you. His eyes trailed over your legs, your too-short skirt, your heels, before settling on your face.

“I’m just wondering what it must be like,” he said calmly, “to be so deeply committed to self-destruction you’d throw your academic record and your father’s reputation under the bus in the same night.”

You blinked. Slowly. “You done?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. “Not even close.”

Your heart stuttered. Your mouth was dry. But not in a bad way. A dark smirk curled at your lips. “Prove it.”

He arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Doctor Reid.” You leaned in close enough for him to smell your perfume, something expensive and stupid and way too adult for your age. “Since you’re so sure I need saving. Come save me.”

There was a beat—a sharp, split-second moment—where you both just breathed. Then Spencer muttered, “Get in the car,” and walked off.

Hotch’s SUV was dead silent.

Not a word was exchanged the entire ride, save for the sharp click of the turn signal and the faint grind of his clenched jaw. The radio was off. The A/C was on full blast. And he hadn’t looked at you once.

You didn’t dare check your phone. You could feel it buzzing in your purse—probably Emily asking if you were alive, or Garcia wanting more details about your “date”.

And Reid?

You didn’t even want to imagine what Reid would text you. Probably something insufferable like You forgot to say thank you. Or worse—Did Daddy lecture you real good?

By the time your father pulled into the driveway, he still hadn’t spoken. The car shifted into park like it hated you. You opened the door and stepped out, the porch light washing over you like a spotlight you hadn’t earned.

The second you made it to the front door, Hotch finally spoke.

“I can’t believe you.”

You paused. Back still to him. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Get in line.”

“I’m serious,” he snapped. “Do you even realize what could’ve happened tonight? That bar is under investigation. There’s a suspect on the loose, and you decided it was a good time to play grown-up.”

“I didn’t know about the case—”

“But you knew it was illegal.”

That shut you up.

He got out of the car and came around the hood, arms crossed, towering. He looked… tired. Beyond angry. Frustrated. Defeated.

You hated that it made you feel guilty.

“Do you know what it's like?” he said low. “Spending my nights cleaning up blood off sidewalks and then finding out my daughter is at the center of a fucking crime scene, wearing a skirt up to her ass and sitting on a suspect’s lap?”

You flinched. “He’s not a suspect.”

“Then why the hell was my team questioning him?”

“I don’t know, maybe because Spencer has a God complex and hates anyone who breathes near me—”

Hotch's brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

You realized—too late—you’d said too much. He narrowed his eyes. “What happened between you and Reid?” Your heart thudded.

“Nothing,” you lied, swallowing. “Just… academic differences.”

He didn’t believe you. But he didn’t push. Instead, he sighed. “Go inside. Lock the door. Don’t leave.”

“Where are you going?”

He was already getting back in the car. “Back to the scene. To actually do my job.”

And then—he was gone.

Just like always.

Fifteen minutes later, the house felt too quiet, too empty and really lonely. You tapped your nails against the kitchen counter. Once. Twice. A pause.

You should go to bed.

You shouldn’t sneak out.

You definitely shouldn’t drive across the city in your shortest skirt to knock on the door of the man who made you lose any and every sense of self respect.

You took a second to think about it before snatching your keys off the counter.

You pulled up just as he was stepping onto the sidewalk in front of his building—dark slacks, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, that lean frame backlit by the streetlight like the world’s most inconvenient wet dream.

His eyes landed on you instantly, and even from across the street, you could see his jaw tick.

You stepped out of your car, slammed the door with a smug little smile, and said, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Spencer didn’t even blink.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You shrugged, sauntering up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t really think I’d let you walk away after that, did you?”

He dropped his keys into his pocket and turned toward his building. “Go home.”

“Can’t. Already did. Got bored.”

“You are unreal.” He spun back toward you. “Do you have any idea what I’ve had to deal with tonight? What your father is going to say if he finds out you came here?”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You care more than anything. That’s why you came here. That’s why you’re standing in the middle of the damn street, in a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, looking at me, wasting my time.”

He turned back around walking up the steps of his apartment ignoring you as you followed behind him.

“Lose your T.A. privileges?” he asked dryly, eyes sweeping over you like he was cataloging your posture, your blush, your breathing. Always observing.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Lose your sense of professionalism?”

He didn’t answer—just pushed the door open a little more and stepped inside setting his keys down. “I was actually going to check on you.”

“Sure you did,” you snorted, turning your back on him and walking toward the living room. “You just wanted to gloat.”

“I mean,” Spencer’s voice dropped, footsteps following close behind, “you did fake an ID, drink underage, flirt with a walking ethics violation in the middle of an active crime scene, and nearly give Morgan an aneurysm.”

You turned around sharply. “I didn’t flirt.”

He raised a brow. “You were in his lap.”

“That’s not flirting.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Then what would you call it?”

You hated how hot he looked like that—smirking slightly, arms crossed over his chest, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. Cocky. Controlled. Just a little unhinged.

“A distraction,” you muttered, looking away.

He stepped closer. “From what?”

You let out a bitter laugh, turning your head to glare at him. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

He blinked. Once. “Say what?”

“You,” you snapped, stepping back and throwing your arms up. “You, okay? The fact that you keep looking at me like that—judging me, hovering, acting like you’re above all this when we both know you’re not.”

His brows pulled together slightly, like you’d confused him. Like he wasn’t fully aware of the effect he had on you.

You scoffed. “God, I came here hoping you’d at least—fuck, I don’t know—kiss me or yell at me or anything that would feel like something.”

“Instead,” you continued, voice rising as your body buzzed with irritation, “you’re just standing there, all holier-than-thou, pretending like you don’t want this. Like you haven’t been thinking about it just as much as I have.”

Spencer’s expression didn’t move, but something in his jaw flexed.

You kept going, unable to stop yourself. “I’m so fucking tired of chasing your attention like I’m some dumb kid with a crush. You want to play the good guy? Fine. Be the good guy. But don’t act like I’m the only one who feels it. You could’ve told me to leave. You should’ve told me to leave.”

Spencer exhaled slowly, but you saw his hands flex at his sides.

“I should’ve,” he said quietly. “But you didn’t let me.”

You took a step toward him. “Because you don’t want me to leave.”

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

That was all it took. You surged forward, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and pulling him down, mouth crashing into his like you were trying to devour the breath from his lungs. He caught you immediately—one hand gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair, kissing you back like the thing he’d been denying himself had finally broken loose. His hand shot out and gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as you grabbed a fistful of his curls and tugged.

He groaned—a low, broken sound—and your legs hitched around his hips like instinct. Spencer caught you easily, lifted you, walked you backward until you were on the couch before you could even blink. Your skirt had ridden up and he didn’t bother fixing it—just pressed his mouth to your inner thigh, lips dragging, tongue wet and dangerous.

“Off,” he ordered, tugging at the hem of your top. You obeyed, breathless, skin hot under his stare as you wriggled out of it and arched beneath him. Your bra was sheer and teasing and did nothing to hide the way your nipples pebbled under the AC—and his gaze.

You whimpered as his tongue slipped past your lips, demanding and slick and desperate in the way only Spencer could make feel precise.

“You are such a goddamn problem,” he muttered against your mouth, hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips like they were meant for his fingers. “Your dad’s going to kill me.”

“Then stop,” you whispered, already breathless.

His mouth dragged down your jaw to your throat, sucking a dark bruise just below your ear. “Tell me to.”

And then his hand was under your skirt, fingers slipping beneath the edge of your underwear. You gasped as two fingers dragged through the heat of you, slow and purposeful, and Spencer leaned in, biting softly at your neck.

He added another finger, curling them just right. You moaned, hips lifting.

“You like that?” he asked, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck—yes,” you whined, clawing at his shirt. He hauled you back onto the couch, tearing your panties off and tossing them aside without a second glance. He slid in with one long, slow thrust that had you both gasping—stretching you, filling you, as your scream ripped through the apartment, muffled only by his palm clamping over your mouth.

“Shut up,” he hissed in your ear. “You wanna wake the neighbors?”

You whimpered against his hand, eyes rolling back at the sheer stretch of him—deep and relentless, pushing into places you didn’t even know you had.

He didn’t give you time to adjust—he didn’t care. He fucked you like he was punishing himself for wanting you in the first place, each thrust brutal and sharp and perfect. Your moans ringing out in his apartment, his hand doing little to nothing to muffle the sound.

You arched up into him, your legs wrapping around his hips, desperate for friction.

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping into yours as the couch creaked under the weight of it all—your breathing, your begging, his name ripped from your throat over and over again.

You dug your nails into his back. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head, fucking into you harder as you arched.

“Still bored?” he rasped.

You couldn’t answer. Could barely see.

He grinned, sweat-damp curls falling into his face. “Answer me.”

You nodded, frantic and breathless, and then shook your head when he narrowed his eyes.

“I asked you a question,” he growled, voice low and lethal as he thrust even deeper, grinding down into you like he wanted to imprint himself there forever.

“N-no,” you choked out, writhing under him, your wrists straining in his grip. “Not bored. Not even a little.”

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered, leaning down to bite at your neck, right where your pulse fluttered.

Your moan shattered into something obscene—your back arched, hips snapping up as your orgasm ripped through you, your body trembling beneath his like it had never known anything else.

Spencer groaned low in his throat as you clenched around him, and he wasn’t far behind—thrusting once, twice more before he stilled, spilling deep inside you.

He collapsed onto you, head in the crook of your neck, breath warm and heavy against your skin.

Then Spencer pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness.

You swallowed hard. “That was—”

“Stupid,” he said quietly. “So fucking stupid.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved. Then, finally, he sighed. “Stay the night.”

Your eyes met his. “And tomorrow?” you asked.

Spencer gave you a soft, almost broken smile. “We’ll figure it out.”

Next morning: You wake tangled in sheets that smell like him. There’s a note on his pillow in Reid’s handwriting:

You’re still grounded. But I’ll come visit after class. —Dr. Reid

And beneath it… a real ID.

With your name.

And your actual birthday.

Because of course he already pulled strings.

Because Spencer Reid may judge you, tease you, fight with you—

But he’ll always save you.

Even from yourself.

a/n: well I don’t really know what happened here but it happened

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[lokisswiftie]

HOW DARE YOU LEAVE THAT IN THE TAGS… say it LOUDERRR

hey.... remember this...

two hairties for jesus era spencer! the second hairtie on his wrist is obviously designated for you, but the first isn't as significant to him.

he gets annoyed by his hair in his face, and when he's pushed to, he'll pull it out of his face, but that's not exactly how he prefers to put it to use.

he'd much rather have you do it for him, coming up behind him as he's working at his desk in the apartment. strands of hair, curling slightly in the warmth of the room, fall into his eyes, but he's too locked in to do anything about it.

it seems as though he doesn't notice you coming up behind him, but gropes blindly behind him with his non-dominant hand, giving yours a squeeze before returning it to his desk. both of you know this routine by now, but it gives you both a thrill to do it as if it's the first time.

slowly, slowly, your fingers weave into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp to hear him breath out softly. his hair smells like him, like the slightly medicinal body soap he uses, and the coconut oil you've convinced him to put in his hair.

taking your time, you scoop up the loose strands, pulling them into a knot just above the nape of his neck. you vary in what you do, but never anything that would have his hair dangling onto his neck, he gets far too distracted otherwise.

once you're satisfied with it, you tap his shoulder twice, and he lifts his hand, letting you pull the hairtie off his slender wrist. with a few deft flicks of your fingers, it's all done, and you stand back with a satisfied smile.

spencer hasn't stopped working, but you see that his pen has slowed. just before you leave the room, he reaches behind him again, his head turning with him this time. snatching up your hand, he brings your wrist to his lips, dotting a kiss to the sensitive skin with gratitude in his eyes.

[lokisswiftie]

stop this is so adorable omfg😭😭

happy pride month!! special pride drabble with ftm!Spencer who is getting testosterone for the first time! let me know if you're interested in more :)

Spencer didn't like doctors offices. Partially due to his distain for germs, but also because they made him nervous. For years he hated being faced with the check in papers, those two boxes labeled 'male' and 'female'.

Thankfully, things were different now. The clipboards traded in for sterilized tablets, the boxes including a multitude of other identities, and pronouns. He was buzzing, nervous and excited to finally take the next step in his transition. He dreamed of days where he could walk into the office with scruff along his jaw, and could even hear Morgan's teasing voice calling him pretty boy. He smiles to himself, and blinks, bringing him back to the conversation currently happening, the discussion on how the testosterone will be administered.

The word 'needle' leaves a sour taste in his mouth, a burning in his throat and an ache in the deepest part of his arm. It's then that he feels it, your hand warm, gentle on his forearm, a guiding light pulling him out of the depths of his memory. He sees Tobias in his mind. Smells the dirt of the cemetery. Forces himself to look at you, to focus. He swallows, and before he can even open his mouth, you're right there, voice as steady as ever, "Is there another way to administer the HRT that is less invasive?"

He takes a breath, chest feeling a little lighter. The doctor concurs, discussing the logistics and side effects of pills, or a cream. Spencer knows he wants the cream.

Once you leave the office, bound for the pharmacy, Spencer feels like screaming. Maybe running a lap. He's a bundle of nerves, but he's so, so excited. He knows logistically he won't feel different the second it's applied, but he also thinks that he will. He holds your hand tight and you squeeze back, just as steady.

The first application is delicate. You ask him if he wants you in the room, and he says yes. Of course he does. It's quiet, anticipatory as he removes his shirt, applies the cream in the spot the doctor told him to. He wears gloves, pressing the gel into his skin and massaging it gently. When it's on, he catches himself in the mirror, and it hits him. He feels like himself. The realization causes tears to well in his eyes, and he removes the gloves, sniffling as he blinks hard.

It's then that he catches sight of you in the background, eyes just as glassy, a warm smile on your face. He swallows, lips parting but he doesn't even need to speak. You're at his side in an instant, crushing him in a hug that draws a soft, happy cry from his lips. You're carefully avoiding the area the cream was applied to, so the angle is a little weird, but he'll take it. He loves you, and you love him, and he's so, so happy.

You murmur against his temple "Spencer, I love you." And he lets out a wet laugh, "I know!" He replies, and it makes you laugh. "I love you!" He says, wiping at his eyes as you back up to cup his cheeks, thumbs swiping over tear streaked dimples. He knows the road might be bumpy, but he's ready to walk down it, especially with you by his side.

[lokisswiftie]

As a huge Doctor who fan I yearn to talk with them about the show💔

and then i got myself thinking... do Penelope and Spencer already know that the 16th Doctor regenerated as Billie Piper?

I just really wanted to be with them watching this episode.

[lokisswiftie]

Goddamn, Baby, you drink like Hemingway -S.R

Spencer Reid x bsf coworker!reader

You slam your second shot down and wince. “God. That tastes like jet fuel.”

Spencer nudges his drink with two fingers, grimacing. “You know this place is objectively disgusting, right?”

“Which is why it’s perfect,” you grin, tossing him a look over your shoulder. “Also, you’re welcome. If it weren’t for me, you’d be at home alphabetizing your books by language root.”

He snorts. “They’re already alphabetized by language root.”

“Jesus, Spence.”

“Don’t act shocked. You know I’m like this.”

You do. You know every weird little habit, every nervous tic, every tangent he slips into when he’s rambling his way out of a trauma spiral. You know how he likes his coffee. How he prefers to be touched—sparingly, and only by people he trusts.

And you know that despite his body being planted on that cracked vinyl stool, Spencer Reid does not want to be here.

“Come on, just one more drink. You promised.”

He narrows his eyes playfully, leaning toward you. “I said I’d come. I didn’t say I’d drink enough to forget what you make me do when I come.”

You blink. He blinks. A hot flush crawls up your neck. “Okay,” you mutter, lips twitching. “I walked into that one.”

“You dove,” he deadpans, sipping his watered-down whiskey like it’s a crime scene sample.

The bar is a dive—the kind of place that serves beer in cracked mugs and smells like spilled tequila and missed rent payments—but it’s cheap, and anonymous, and just a few blocks from Quantico. After the week you’ve had—case in rural Pennsylvania, two hostages dead, one minor kidnapped and rescued by the skin of your team’s teeth—you needed a reset. And Spence, bless his cardigan-wrapped soul, needed it even more.

“I think you’d be better off alphabetizing drinks by how much they destroy your liver,” he says dryly.

You lean in with a lazy smile, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin in your palm. “That’s funny coming from the guy who just sipped a watered-down Old Fashioned like it was poison.”

He looks down at his glass. “It is poison. Chemically.”

“You’re no fun.”

He looks back up at you, eyes warm, unreadable. “I think I’m having fun.”

“Yeah?” you murmur. “You only say that when I make you.”

“That’s not true.” His voice is quieter now, head tilting slightly toward yours. “Sometimes I like it.”

Your stomach does a lazy, drunken somersault. “Yeah, but you’re cute when you’re like this,” you say, poking his cheek. “All logical and judgmental. Like a drunk little owl.”

He blinks. “Owls aren’t judgmental.”

“They are. They have very judgey faces. You do the same thing when I suggest karaoke.”

Spencer tilts his head. “That’s because last time you sang Beyoncé’s ‘Partition’ in front of two Quantico instructors and a guy who once testified in a Senate subcommittee on organized crime.”

“Yeah and I killed it.”

“You also fell off the stage.”

“Dramatic exit.” You down the rest of your drink and motion for another. Spencer watches you, biting back a smile.

“You know,” he starts, tone going into that signature Reid fact-voice, “alcohol affects women differently than men. Lower water content in the body means higher blood alcohol concentration. Technically speaking, you’re probably at .12 right now.”

You stare at him. “Technically speaking, you’re hot when you talk statistics.”

He sputters. “That wasn’t—that wasn’t meant to be sexy.”

“It’s sexy because it’s not meant to be. You’re, like, drunk and still trying to teach me things. It’s adorable. Like if Bill Nye and a golden retriever had a baby.”

“That’s horrifying. That’s genetically improbable.”

“And yet—” you pause, sliding off your stool to press a palm to his chest, “here you are. My own drunk, genetically improbable nerd.”

Spencer’s breath catches, and you swear his pupils dilate a little. He grabs your wrist lightly, eyes locked on yours.

He steadies you with one hand at your waist, the other gripping his drink with the intense focus of a man pretending not to panic.

“Did you know,” he says, like a last-ditch effort to distract himself, “that Hemingway once said you should write drunk and edit sober?”

“God, I love when you spit literature at me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re quoting Hemingway and grabbing my waist, Spence.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were best friends. You’d been there for each other through the worst of it—loss, fear, heartbreak, cases that left you both shaking. He held your hand after your first shooting. You bandaged his wrist after a suspect almost broke it. You crashed on his bed more times than you could count. You knew his favorite tea, he knew your bad dreams.

By the time you make it back to his apartment—stumbling back, actually, with you laughing into his chest as he fumbles with the key—your cheeks are flushed and your stomach aches from the buzz and the banter.

“Okay,” you say as the door shuts behind you. “Rate the night.”

Spencer kicks his shoes off. “Four out of ten.”

You shove his arm, fake-offended. “Four?!”

“Sticky floor. Terrible lighting. Music was objectively bad.”

“You are so annoying.”

“You did fall off your bar stool.”

“Okay, technically, I slid off it,” you correct, poking his chest.

He catches your finger. Holds it. Doesn’t let go. “Also,” he says, voice quieter now, “you told the bartender I cried during a Pixar movie.”

“You did!”

“I was seven.”

You’re both laughing now—until you realize he hasn’t let go of your hand. And that you’re still pressed against him, in his entryway, breathless, a little drunk, and way too aware of the heat between you.

Your smile falters just enough for him to notice.

His brows draw together. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

You look up at him, flushed and buzzing and full of so many buried things. You didn’t sleep with your best friend. But god, he looked at you like he wanted to. And tonight, you couldn’t stop yourself from admitting the things you’d shoved down for too long.

“Spence,” you laughed, standing in his living room, clutching his hand to your chest, swaying. “I think I’ve been in love with you since that case in Boston. The one where we almost got shot in the stairwell and you said I was your favorite person.”

His head shot up from staring at his feet. “That was three years ago.”

“Exactly.”

“I—You’re drunk.”

“You are too,” you counter. “But that’s not why I’m saying it.”

Spencer’s gaze drops to your lips. And for once, he doesn’t try to hide it. You reach up. Touch his cheek. Let your fingers linger. “I think about you a lot, Spence.”

His voice is hoarse. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know.”

“And if we do this—”

“We are doing this,” you whisper, stepping closer. “Unless you want me to stop.”

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispers into your neck, even as he’s guiding himself into you, slow and reverent.

“You won’t,” you breathe, cupping his face. “It’s us, Spence.” you close the space between you, your lips moving slow against his soft ones.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around him as he walks you backward, blindly, into the bedroom.

You’re both giggling and breathless between kisses, bumping elbows and fumbling with buttons.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, pulling his shirt over his head. “This is the least coordinated I’ve ever seen you.”

“I’m nervous,” he huffs, tugging your dress down your thighs.

You arch a brow. “Spence. You’ve disarmed bombs while quoting Latin. You’re not nervous.”

“I’ve also never had my best friend naked in my bed before,” he says pointedly, hands spreading across your thighs. “So yeah. I am.”

Spencer’s hand slides between your thighs, and you gasp when his fingers find you wet.

“Oh,” he breathes. “God, I didn’t think—”

“You make me this way,” you pant, biting your lip. “I get handsy when I’m drunk, yeah. But you? You make me needy.”

His whole body shudders. “Jesus.”

“I’ve thought about this,” you whisper. “So many nights. What you’d be like. If you’d talk dirty or be all clinical about it. If you’d—”

“I’d what?” he interrupts, pushing two fingers into you with a sharp breath.

Your back arches. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” he urges, kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “Tell me what you thought.”

You reach between you and stroke him through his boxers. He gasps, grabbing the edge of the dresser for balance.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Okay, I’m not gonna last if you keep—”

You smirk, dropping to your knees in front of him. “That’s okay. I’ve got all night.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, head falling back.

Spencer’s normally so in control—you’ve seen him talk down terrorists and survive torture—but right now, he’s all hands and lips and want. He strips you down carefully but quickly, like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, lips brushing the swell of your breasts. “So perfect. I don’t deserve this.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pulling him back up to kiss you. “You deserve everything.”

And when he pushes into you—slow, inch by inch, eyes locked to yours like he’s memorizing your face—it’s like something clicks. Like your body was made to fit his. Like this was always supposed to happen.

Spencer stills, buried deep inside you, eyes blown wide and reverent, like he's trying not to fall apart.

Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking the sharp bones of his cheeks. “You okay?” you whisper, heart racing under your ribs.

He nods, once, shakily. “You feel like... everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You kiss him then—deep and unhurried, full of every soft, aching thing you've never had the courage to say. His hips start to move, gentle at first, like he’s learning you all over again. Like he wants to remember every breath you take, every sound you make just for him.

"Faster," you murmur against his mouth. "Don't be careful."

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, gasping as he thrusts harder, deeper. “God, Spence—feels so good.”

His lips trail down your throat as he sets a rhythm, murmuring against your skin like he’s still trying to process that this is real. "I used to dream about this. About you." A sharp thrust. “Thought I was going crazy.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his back. “You’re not. We’re here. I’m yours.”

He groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “Say that again.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, trembling as he rolls his hips just right. “Only yours.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, hips stuttering. “I’m not gonna last—shit—I want to make you come first—”

“You already are,” you gasp. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You clench around him and he shudders, lips parted, totally gone for you. You rake your nails down his spine and his control finally snaps. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate now, chasing the edge.

“I can feel you,” he groans. “So tight, so warm—god, I love you—”

You crash over the edge with his name on your lips, back arching as pleasure wracks through you like lightning. He follows with a low moan, spilling into you with a trembling cry, burying himself to the hilt.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You just lie there tangled in each other, breath syncing, fingers stroking sweat-damp skin.

Eventually, Spencer shifts, brushing your hair from your face. “Was that… okay?”

You huff a laugh, chest still heaving. “Okay? Spence. That was the best sex of my entire life.”

His mouth twitches. “Even better than the bartender you flirted with in Atlanta?”

You smack his chest. “Shut up. I was trying to get us free drinks.”

“Well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’ll get the next round. No flirting required.”

You curl into him, cheek on his chest. The silence between you now isn’t awkward—it’s safe. Warm. Full.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant it. I love you.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling the sheets over your naked bodies.

“I love you too,” he whispers. “Always have.”

a/n: im graduating so soon im so sad i literally cant

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[lokisswiftie]

EJAJAHAHA THE END EHAAHAH. This was so good.

𝐆𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: teasing spencer leads him to attempt guessing the color of your underwear. and he (almost) gets it right.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, bar, teasing, lots of underwear talk — do i even need to say more?? oh and reader’s wearing a dress. and *surprise* underwear

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.1k (+ a little treat/surprise at the end!)

𝐚/𝐧: forehead kisses for the anons who inspired this idea LOVE U

“Hiding by yourself at the bar at your best friend’s birthday party? You should be ashamed, Spencer Reid.”

The man didn’t turn his head toward you right away, and he didn’t seem particularly surprised that you were calling him out. Well, he was indeed sitting at the bar without any of your other friends nearby, slightly hunched, with an expression that suggested he wasn’t in the mood to party—but hadn’t wanted to disappoint Penelope, so he’d shown up.

 He had to know that his gloominess would soon draw you in.You took the most pleasure in teasing him when he was like this, which is why, the moment you caught his silhouette out of the corner of your eye, your legs practically carried you toward it on their own.

At the sight of you, he didn’t suddenly pull his shoulders back to look better, nor did he tilt his chin up with fake confidence. He only gave the slightest shrug—but you saw his gaze sweep deliberately over your body and outfit as you took a seat beside him, turning to face him directly.

Then his slow eye movement suddenly shot in another direction—he nodded toward something.

“As you can see, my best friend has more interesting things to do than play hide-and-seek with me,” he snorted, aiming the sarcastic edge at you and your earlier words rather than at Garcia.

You glanced in the direction he’d indicated, and your eyebrows twitched with interest at the sight of Penelope flirting with some man who was hunched forward to talk to her, trying to make up for the noticeable height difference.

“Our girl is busy hunting. Be patient with her,” you said in a scolding tone.

He caught your gaze, sending you a silent I’m being very patient—without even the faintest hint of a smile.But you weren’t interested in his moodiness just yet, and you ignored him for a moment, observing your friend’s seduction tactics—or rather, the man she was working them on.

“What do you think, profiler? Could there be something there?”

Spencer snorted.

“Exactly. Profiler. It’s usually part of my job to assess different things than whether my friend and some random guy are a match. Like, say…serial offenders.”

You grimaced at his condescending tone. Only then did the corner of his mouth twitch slightly, as if some internal smugness had just bubbled up.

“Imagine he is one of them,” you suggested.

“Then I wouldn’t be sitting here doing nothing. And I definitely wouldn’t be letting her talk to him,” he replied flatly.

You rolled your eyes with an exaggerated boring. Your irritation—entirely his fault—seemed to work like fuel for him. He fully turned to face you now, looking noticeably more energized.

“No, I don’t think anything could come of it,” he added. “Mostly because the guy’s married.”

Your skeptical look.

“Where does that certainty come from?”

“Profiler’s instinct. But seriously,” Spencer paused, resting one elbow on the counter and leaning slightly toward you to point something out with a tilt of his head. Before you followed his gaze, you took a moment to wonder whether he was wearing a different cologne than usual, or if you had simply forgotten what his regular one smelled like. Either way, it was pleasant. His eyes rested on your face for a second, as if to check whether he had your attention. He did.  “Look. Every now and then he moves his hand like he wants to reach for his wedding ring. A typical married man reflex. But he stops himself so he won’t give it away. Just like now.”

The guy indeed made a slight motion with his hand, which he then let fall along his side. With Reid’s comment so close to your ear, it felt like you were watching a National Geographic documentary — except the narrator had a sexier voice.

“Also, see that lighter skin on his finger?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I see it,” you admitted after a moment. “He tanned around the ring.”

He nodded approvingly.

“You’re learning fast.”

You didn’t let him mock you.

“Can I call myself a profiler now?” you asked.

You could see her barely holding back a scoff.

“To get that far, you’d have to draw a few more conclusions. What you just said—anyone who had a Sherlock Holmes phase as a kid could’ve picked up on it. Or just someone a bit more observant. A real profiler would’ve added something else.”

You stared at him for a moment before rolling your eyes toward the ceiling in mock surrender.

“Fine. Go ahead, show off, profiler.”

You knew he was waiting for that. He didn’t even acknowledge your sarcastic tone—he jumped straight into his explanation.

“Look at his posture. He’s trying way too hard to seem relaxed. Classic behavior for someone who hasn’t flirted in a long time. Which means this is probably his first slip—or attempt, anyway. He had a fight with his wife, it’s recent. He stormed out of the house angry, ended up here, tried to blow off steam. But the more he talks to Penelope, the more his confidence shrinks. Guilt’s creeping in. He didn’t cheat, but he’s guilty of the thought, and that’s enough to wreck his game. He’s getting quieter. Penelope’s picking up on it. Any second now she’ll decide she’s not into this conversation and walk away…”

Reid clapped his hands, triumphant.

Right on cue, Penelope turned and walked away from the guy.

You hadn’t planned to react, but your lips parted and an incredulous snort escaped before you could stop it. You turned to Spencer with open disbelief.

“No way,” you shook your head. You didn’t care how much it was feeding his ego. You shook your head again, more firmly. “No way. I hate you guys. And by you guys, I mean the entire BAU. You look at some random dude and see all that? Is it like that with everyone? You look at me and what—can you guess the color of my underwear or something?”

He listened to your rant with a deceptively neutral expression. Deceptive, because he was trying to look stoic, like your words and the reaction they provoked weren’t flattering him—when in fact, they totally were. Deceptive, because they added just enough fuel to his confidence that, for a second, it took over, slipped past his usual restraint and came out in the form of a smug:

“I could try.”

You tilted your head to the side. Your gaze held no hesitation, no uncertainty, and definitely no shyness—oh no, absolutely not. Your gaze said you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into? Because in no possible universe could you imagine the Spencer Reid you knew speculating about your underwear. Taking it off? Sure. But talking about it with you?

His expression tightened just slightly, like he already regretted his decision. And honestly? He probably did. But he didn’t backpedal with a hasty swallow and awkward excuse. Neither did you. You simply crossed one leg over the other and fixed him with an expectant look. There was already a smug, taunting smile settling comfortably on your lips.

He met your eyes and held them for a beat before taking in a slow breath. That familiar expression began to slide into place—the one that meant full focus, analytical gears turning.

“Well…where to begin,” he mused out loud, his eyes scanning you as if the color of your underwear might be conveniently written across your forehead. Spoiler. It wasn’t. “You’re dressed in black.”

A beat of silence. Your scoff.

“Congrats on the observation.”

“Which means you didn’t have to worry about any color showing through,” he cut in, completely ignoring your jab. Not in a saving face kind of way—he genuinely seemed not to hear it, totally immersed in the challenge he’d foolishly given himself. “So you didn’t have to limit yourself to neutral tones, like beige, which you might pick if you were wearing something light. So I’m assuming you took advantage of that and went with something dark.”

His gaze finally rose from your dress, locking with yours again.

“Hot and cold?” he asked.

“Am I allowed to give you hints?”

He sighed.

You had to admit—it was a good starting point. And maybe it was that tiny bit of appreciation that made you roll your eyes a moment later and mutter, “Burning.”

His grateful nod. The slight twitch of his mouth. He cleared his throat again, forcing himself to continue.

“You could still be wearing beige or white, though. But your outfit today is unusually simple, even boring, for you—”

“Thank you,” you cut in sharply, with a hiss at the end.

“...and you like to stand out, even if it’s just for yourself, so I think it’s not too crazy to assume you went with something bolder. That’s also why I’m ruling out black. Oh, and definitely nothing lacy.”

That last part made you frown. It was said with such certainty you didn’t understand where it came from.

“Profiler instinct again, or do you actually have reasoning to back that up?” you asked.

If everything he’d said up until now was laced with playful speculation, this part landed with surprising confidence. He even shrugged, like it was obvious.

“A bold color and lace is more of a...statement. Usually chosen by women who want to feel a boost of confidence. Which you don’t need. But more importantly, I just don’t think you’d wear something like that just to spend the evening at a bar with someone like me. And someone who’s now using profiling techniques to guess the color of your underwear for… reasons nobody can quite explain.”

The period at the end of his sentence was sharp, but short. He didn’t let you respond, immediately pushing forward.

“And it’s not red.”

That one made you forget everything he’d said before. You hadn’t expected him to rule out red so early. After all, it was—

“It’s your favorite color,” Spencer continued. “You agreed to this whole thing because you knew I knew that, and you were hoping I’d guess it and be wrong. If you were wearing red, you wouldn’t have brought this up at all.”

You were starting to struggle to keep up with his logic. Spencer, on the other hand, was beginning to sound more and more like a brilliant scientist obsessing over his favorite phenomenon. You stayed silent now, genuinely curious what he’d say next.

 He wasn’t wrong. You weren’t wearing red underwear.

“So now I’m hesitating between two colors. Pink, dark pink, and navy blue. Both seem to fit, but I don’t know which one more, so I start considering the symbolism of the colors. Well, pink would be more sensual, even a little cheeky, worn under black clothing. But navy, on the other hand, symbolizes a certain seriousness, stability. Sophistication, even. In the end, I deeply doubt you were sitting by your underwear drawer wondering what your bra color symbolized,” a snort slipped out, but his cheeks began to turn a barely noticeable shade of red.

Well, one of you had to be wearing it that day. For the balance of the universe.

Spencer took another, though not his last, deep breath that evening with you. He took a moment before continuing.

You couldn’t say you weren’t waiting for it, not taking your eyes off him for a second.

“But in the end, I’m going with navy. Reasons are quite simple. First, profiler’s instinct. Second…in my…humble…opinion..you’d look better in blue. 

He finally forced the words out, and you just kept looking at him. In his humble opinion.

Time passed, and he still didn’t get confirmation. All the more, you somehow couldn’t bring yourself to give it to him. Eventually, stiffly and still without a word, you nodded. Once.

“You’re almost right, Doctor Reid.”

He frowned.

“Almost?”

You grabbed the hem of your dress on the side that matched the pair, lifting it just briefly to the right height. Just for his eyes. Your underwear was, in fact, navy.

But also the kind he’d almost ruled out right at the start—lace.

heyy fic’s over tysm for reading but there’s a tiny surprise/crack bit down below if u wanna check it out

:))) 

Penelope massaged her aching temples. Her head was literally splitting, not just from lack of sleep and the alcohol from the night before—in short, her birthday night out with friends. The pain was made worse by the countless screens surrounding her and what was on them. Case files, faces of murderers, often graphic photos.

Ugh. She needed to look at pictures of tiny fluffy kittens.

She scrolled through those little creatures for about five minutes, after which she felt slightly better. She didn’t have anything urgent to do anyway, so she opened Reddit. Just a place where people sometimes asked weird, often hilarious questions.

One of them immediately caught her attention. She clicked.

coworker guessed the color of my underwear and im going ABSOLUTELY FERAL?? 💀💀💀

okay so i’m female and there’s this guy i fw pretty well but he usually pisses me off but yesterday we were at this bar and i was kinda teasing him and told him to guess the color of my underwear and he analyzed me like fucking einstein and GUESSED???? and the worst part is it turned me on??? like somehow it was the most county thing i’ve ever seen and i’ve seen a lot + he literally had his shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck what is WRONG with me

Penelope burst out laughing and her fingers almost instinctively reached for the keyboard.

gurl you just like him! <3

[lokisswiftie]

IMAGINE spencer reid with a person who finally chooses him first. spencer didn't exactly grow up in a loving and warm environment with friends, tbf so he would most definitely warm up quickly to a person who treats him as a first choice. that one episode where the bau had to double up rooms and morgan was like, "i am NOT sharing with reid" and spencer is just sitting there like oh okay.

i imagine it to be a bit like those episodes in modern family where phil is unfortunately always like, "I GOT GLORIA" but in this criminal minds instance, it would be reader being like, "I CALL SPENCER!" then you would justify it by saying he is clean and neat. or if you imagine reader to be a flirting bombshell then she would just outright reveal her romantic intentions with her body language.

[lokisswiftie]

Me and him could have the best shared playlist you ever did see

Artists I think Spencer Reid would listen to

- James Taylor (his mom had all the records and he listened to them too)

- Fleetwood Mac (I know he listened to Silver Springs over and over while he was going through it)

- Billy Joel (no explanation, it just makes sense)

- The Cure (boys don’t cry, yeah he would cry to that alone)

- Hozier (the do I wanna know? cover is so him and Maeve, I’m going to cry 😭)

Lmk what you think and also give me requests pls. I’m new lol