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mitobozo · 23 days ago

Note

So cutesy, I need him so bad guys

hi loveee i have a new request for uuuu

another rlly simple and cute one where spencer just loves head scratches (no this is totally not based on me……) and he somehow exposes that to the whole team and it’s just some rlly cute thing (bonus points if they’re on the jet and at the end after all the teasing he just lays his head on reader’s lap and gets head scratches)

you can decide whether it’s pre or secret relationship :D

danke schön

- 🐚

headscratches — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of a case, just a tiny bit ( very tiny bit ) of angst, secret relationship a/n: hiiiiii 🐚 ! i totally get u i love head scratches too - thank you for ur request i hope you like this <3<3<3

Your exhausted feet carried you up the steps of the BAU jet, every muscle in your body aching from the long case. It had been a grueling few days—little sleep, too much stress, and way too many hours spent chasing down leads. But at least it was over now. The case was closed, and you could finally breathe.

Thankfully, your wonderful boyfriend had taken it upon himself to carry your bag, saving you from having to drag it up the stairs yourself. You barely managed to collapse into one of the plush seats by the window before Spencer stowed your things away and settled in beside you.

“Thank you,” you murmured, turning your head to look at him.

Spencer gave you a small, knowing smile, his eyes softening as he nodded. “Of course.”

The two of you were alone on the jet, at least for now. The rest of the team was still wrapping things up , which meant you had a few rare, stolen moments of privacy. It was a relief—not just because you could finally let your guard down, but because no one on the team knew about your relationship.

Keeping things under wraps was tricky, especially when you worked together every day, but moments like this made it worth it.

As the jet’s engines hummed to life beneath you, Spencer leaned into you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. He always did that when you were alone, like some part of him just naturally gravitated toward you when there was no one around to notice.

Without thinking, you turned to your side reaching up and gently brushing a few strands of hair from his face.

His hair was always a little unruly after a long case, messy curls falling into his eyes, and you had developed a habit of fixing it for him.

He let out a quiet breath at your touch, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he relaxed against you.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice softer now, laced with quiet concern.

Spencer gave a small nod, offering you a gentle smile. “I’m okay,” he murmured. Then, tilting his head slightly, he asked, “Are you?”

You nodded, and before you could say anything else, his hand found your knee, his touch light and reassuring as his fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The familiar voices of your team filled the jet, breaking the quiet, and as soon as Spencer registered their presence, his hand slipped away.

Like it had never been there at all.

Spencer immediately reached for his satchel, pulling out a book as if he had been reading the entire time. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to be lost in thought.

It wasn’t long before Emily and Derek flopped into the seats across from you.

“I can’t wait to get home to Sergio,” Emily sighed, stretching out in her seat.

Derek chuckled. “That cat’s got you wrapped around his little paw.”

You turned toward her, curiosity piqued. “How is he?”

Emily waved a hand. “Same as always. Demanding, dramatic, and somehow convinced he’s royalty.” She rolled her eyes fondly before adding, “Lately, he’s been obsessed with head scratches. I swear, if I even walk past the couch, he flops over immediately demanding them."

You laughed. “Sounds about right for a cat.”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t get it. What’s so great about them? He acts like it’s the greatest thing in the world.”

Before you could reply, Spencer, who had been silent up until now, lowered his book to his lap and spoke without hesitation.

“Head scratches are scientifically proven to reduce stress and increase oxytocin levels,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The repetitive motion stimulates nerve endings in the scalp, which can trigger a relaxation response. It’s also associated with bonding, which is why many social animals, including humans, find it soothing. It's quite comforting.”

It took a second for the weight of his words to register.

Then, as if on cue, all three of you turned to look at him.

Spencer blinked, his lips parting slightly as he realized his mistake. His book was still open in his lap, but he suddenly seemed much more interested in the stitching of the pages than the words on them.

Derek’s grin spread slow and wide. “Wait a minute…”

Emily gasped. “Oh my god.”

You barely held back a smile, eyes locked on Spencer as the tips of his ears turned a shade of pink. He opened his mouth, probably to backpedal, but it was already too late.

Derek leaned forward, resting his arms on the table infront of him as he grinned. “Are you telling me you like head scratches, pretty boy?”

Spencer quickly looked down, flipping a page in his book despite very clearly not reading it. “I was simply stating a scientific fact.”

Emily wasn’t letting it go. “Oh no, no, no. That was way too specific.”

Derek laughed loudly, leaning forward with a wicked grin as he reached out and ruffled Spencer’s curls.

Spencer immediately jerked back, his entire body tensing as he shot Derek a horrified glare. He hastily smoothed down his hair, his blush deepening.

Derek, of course, looked way too pleased with himself. “Oh, come on, I had to test the theory,” he teased, shaking his head. “And judging by that reaction, I’d say someone is pretty damn picky about where his head scratches come from.”

Emily laughed, clearly entertained by the discovery. “Seems like he doesn’t like it when you do it,” she pointed out, eyes flicking between the two of them with amusement.

Derek leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Yeah, I noticed. Interesting.”

Spencer huffed, flipping a page in his book with a little too much force. “It’s not that interesting,” he muttered, keeping his gaze stubbornly locked on the text.

You smiled to yourself at Spencer’s embarrassed form, watching the way he kept his head down, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the book in his lap. You knew better, of course.

You knew Spencer liked head scratches—most of your evenings together looked exactly like that. Him stretched across the couch, head resting in your lap, curls slipping through your fingers as he read.

Emily, still watching you, narrowed her eyes slightly before shifting her gaze to Derek. The two of them exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations that meant absolutely nothing good.

“Spencer Reid,” Emily drawled, her grin widening, “do you only like head scratches coming from certain people?”

Spencer slowly looked up from his book, suspicion evident in the way he narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Derek smirked. “You heard Prentiss.” He leaned forward. “Do you only like head scratches when they’re from her?”

You turned toward them, blinking. Wait, what?

It was a known fact that the two of you were close. If someone was looking for Spencer, they usually found him with you. If you were missing from the bullpen, Spencer always knew exactly where you were. And everyone on the team knew he wasn’t a particularly touchy person—except with you.

What they didn’t know was why.

What they didn’t know was that this wasn’t just friendship.

That the late-night conversations, the lingering looks, the small, stolen touches all meant something more.

That you weren’t just his best friend.

You were his.

And now, you were all sitting on the jet, the team watching way too closely, Spencer’s ears burning bright red as Derek and Emily smirked.

Spencer cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “That’s—” He hesitated, eyes flickering to you for just a second before looking back at his book. “That’s not relevant.”

Emily gasped.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, turning to Derek, “that was not a denial.”

Derek grinned. “Nope, not at all.”

Spencer groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is ridiculous.”

You pressed your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh.

Emily tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So, hypothetically, if someone else did it…”

Spencer shot her a sharp glare. “Hypothetically, they wouldn’t.”

Derek laughed, pointing at him. “Oh yeah. That’s so an exclusive privilege.” He turned to you, grinning. “Man, you must be special.”

You shrugged, playing it cool despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “I guess I just have the magic touch.”

Spencer exhaled sharply, closing his book with a thud. He turned to you, eyes soft but exasperated. “Are you enjoying this?”

"Maybe." You shrugged your shoulders as you gave him a teasing smile.

Spencer shook his head, feigning disappointment—but you knew better. He was never disappointed in you.

You smiled softly, and out of habit, reached up to brush his hair out of his face. His eyes flickered shut for a moment, just barely, before reopening with a look that was almost a warning.

A silent, don’t push your luck.

But you were in the mood to tease.

To your luck, Derek was already slipping his headphones on, and Emily had her eyes closed, arms crossed as she settled into her seat. The hum of the jet filled the space, covering the small shuffle of movement as you let your fingers slip back into Spencer’s curls.

His breath hitched, and you felt him tense—just for a second—before melting like he always did.

You bit back a grin as your nails gently scratched against his scalp, moving in slow, soothing circles.

Spencer exhaled, the tension in his shoulders draining as his eyes fluttered shut again. His grip on his book loosened slightly.

You loved how easy it was, how little effort it took to make him relax.

His head dipped slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch, and you took the opportunity to gently guide him down. Your hand pressed lightly to the back of his head, tilting him so that his cheek brushed against your shoulder.

For a moment, he resisted—a small, fleeting moment of hesitation—before giving in entirely.

You kept scratching lightly, feeling the way his body settled beside you, warm and familiar. Your fingers threaded through his curls, slow and deliberate, as he let out the softest sigh.

You smiled, pressing your cheek lightly against the top of his head.

Spencer Reid, the most brilliant mind you had ever known, was undone by something as simple as your fingers in his hair.

And you loved it.

Your eyes drifted shut, fingers still moving in slow, rhythmic motions through Spencer’s hair. His soft curls tickled your cheek as you rested your head against his.

What you didn’t notice?

The way Derek and Emily were now watching the two of you like hawks.

Derek, one side of the headphone pushed back , slowly raised an eyebrow as he exchanged a look with Emily. She barely suppressed a grin, tilting her head slightly, as if to say, Are you seeing this?

Oh, he was definitely seeing this.

They had their theories, of course. The team had always suspected there was more to you and Spencer than just friendship. It was the little things—the way he only let you touch him so easily, the way you always knew how to get him out of his head when no one else could, the way he looked at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky.

And now?

Now, with Spencer completely nestled against you, his head tucked against your shoulder, your fingers threading through his curls that could only come from familiarity?

Yeah. Their theories had just been confirmed.

Derek smirked, leaning closer to Emily. “Told you.”

Emily scoffed, but the amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. “You didn’t tell me anything, Morgan. We both knew.”

Derek chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Man, they really thought they were being sneaky.”

Emily grinned. “Should we say something?”

Derek considered it for a moment, watching as your fingers absentmindedly combed through Spencer’s hair, his entire body visibly at ease.

He let out a small laugh. “No. Let them have their moment.”

For now, at least.

Because later?

Oh, they were absolutely going to tease the hell out of you both.

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x you

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mitobozo · 25 days ago

Text

Secret relationship Spencer x BAU Reader how I adore you, I love it here. I love Tumblr writers

Discretion

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader words: 2.0k summary: You and spencer are confident you are being discreet about your relationship (you are not) warnings: very raunchy making out in the elevator but otherwise it's fluffy like a freshly shampooed cow a/n: is three sugars too much for coffee? i have no idea how much is too much when i write spencer's coffee order. let's just say 3 is too much because this man drinks his coffee SWEET

To say that Penelope Garcia was a naturally curious woman would be underselling it by a criminal degree. And when it came to her friends— her team, her family— that curiosity was lovingly relentless.

Which is how (Y/n) found herself cornered in the tech room at exactly 8:32 a.m. by both Garcia and Emily, coffee in hand, nowhere to run.

“Okay,” Emily said, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. “We’ve been patient.”

Garcia chimed in, “Painfully patient.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” (Y/n) said, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t heard them.

“Oh, please,” Emily scoffed. “You’ve mentioned your boyfriend a grand total of two times.”

“Three,” Garcia corrected. “But one of those was just ‘my boyfriend likes mango,’ which doesn’t even count.”

“I’m a private person.”

“You work with federal agents,” Emily deadpanned. “We find things for a living.”

(Y/n) sighed. “Fine. He’s... sweet. Thoughtful. Overly romantic, if I’m honest. In the best possible way.”

“Oh?” Garcia leaned in. “Like how?”

(Y/n) paused too long.

Garcia gasped. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not!”

“You are,” Emily grinned. “Spill.”

“Okay, once,” (Y/n) said reluctantly, “he emailed me a PDF file titled ‘just because.’ It had scanned pages from an annotated copy of my favourite book, with his notes in the margins. Like, handwritten. From when he first read it.”

“That’s actually disgustingly romantic,” Emily muttered.

Garcia blinked. “Who emails their girlfriend a PDF?”

(Y/n) smiled in sweet recollection of that memory, how it was so unapologetically him— precise, nerdy, and quietly sentimental. He hadn’t even said anything when he sent it, just a subject line that read “Thought of you while reading.” And the book? It was something she mentioned offhandedly during a debrief three months prior. Of course he remembered. He always did.

Meanwhile, across the bullpen, Derek Morgan nudged Spencer Reid with the edge of a manila folder.

“You’ve been annoyingly chipper lately,” Morgan said.

“I’m always chipper.”

“No, you’re twitchy and anxious. This”— he gestured vaguely at Reid’s face— “is new. You’ve been smiling like someone who’s gettin’ some.”

Spencer flushed but didn’t deny it. Just shrugged, soft and smug.

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “Pretty Boy has a secret.”

——————————————————————————————————

It was early— too early, by most of their standards. The bullpen still had that quiet, sleep-hazed hush to it, the kind that only ever lasted until the second pot of coffee kicked in.

Spencer was already at his desk, half-slouched over a file, tapping a pen against the paper in a steady rhythm. His brow was furrowed, curls slightly unkempt, cardigan sleeves already shoved up to his elbows like he hadn’t even noticed the chill in the air.

(Y/n) walked in, hair still damp from her shower, nursing her own cup of caffeine like it was oxygen. Without a word, she stopped beside him, set a second cup of coffee on his desk— black, three sugars, extra hot. Just how he liked it.

Spencer looked up, blinking. And then smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the absentminded “thanks” he gave to Morgan when he handed him a report. This one was soft. Familiar. The kind of smile that landed a little too slow and lingered a little too long.

She smiled back— tiny, sleepy, warm— and kept walking.

From his desk, Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“You two telepathic now?” he called.

(Y/n) didn’t miss a beat. “He just looks like a three-sugar morning.”

Spencer flushed lightly. Tried very hard to look engrossed in his file.

Morgan tilted his head, amused, but said nothing else.

For now.

——————————————————————————————————

The post-briefing hallway was always a mess— agents filtering out in loose, staggered clusters, already juggling phone calls and folders and to-go cups. (Y/n) and Spencer walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, debrief sheets tucked under their arms.

It was nothing new. They always walked like that. But someone turned the corner too fast— an intern, maybe— nearly colliding with (Y/n) in the narrow hallway.

Spencer’s arm was around her waist before she even had time to react, catching her with practiced ease.

“Careful,” he murmured, the word quiet and close, his eyes flicking over her quickly. Not panicked. Just... thorough. Like he had to be sure she was still in one piece.

She nodded, barely flustered. “I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move right away.

His hand stayed at the small of her back— gentle, warm, grounding— for just one second too long.

They started walking again like nothing had happened.

Except Emily had seen the whole thing.

She stopped mid-step, one brow raised, lips pursing in suspicion. Watched them disappear around the corner with narrowed eyes.

Then shook her head once and muttered under her breath, “Nah. No way.”

And kept walking.

——————————————————————————————————

It was supposed to be a routine systems check.

Garcia was combing through the security logs for the east wing elevators— standard operating procedure after a glitch flagged a potential breach. Ninety-nine percent of the time, this kind of thing amounted to someone forgetting their badge or JJ carrying Henry in through the staff entrance.

She wasn’t even paying that much attention. Fingers flying on autopilot, her mind already halfway on her lunch order, until the timestamp 22:41 popped up.

She blinked. Squinted. Paused. Rewound.

Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. She rewound again. Yes. Still there. Not a hallucination. Not her mind playing tricks.

Definitely Spencer Reid.

And— holy shit— definitely (Y/n).

In an elevator.

Making out.

Not cute-office-romance making out.

No, this was pressed-up-against-the-wall, hands-everywhere, breathless and starved and feverish kind of making out. Spencer's hand was on her waist, then in her hair, then gripping her thigh as he practically lifted her off the ground. And (Y/n)? Her mouth was at his jaw, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt like she was trying to burn the feel of it into her palms.

Garcia made a high-pitched, involuntary squeak.

Then slammed her hand on the desk phone.

“Derek Morgan. Tech room. Now.”

Morgan arrived first. Followed by Emily, who walked in brow furrowed. “You paged me? What’s the—?”

She cut herself off.

“... Is that the elevator?”

“It is,” Garcia nodded solemnly.

Emily leaned forward. “Wait— is that (Y/n)?”

“Is this— ?” Morgan started, but the words died in his throat as he looked closer.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that— ?”

“Oh, it is.”

A long beat of stunned silence.

Then, slowly, “Spencer?” Morgan said, voice incredulous.

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia said, grinning wickedly as she hovered over her keyboard.

Morgan and Emily were already leaning in close, popcorn-level invested.

She hit play again.

The footage resumed.

At first, it was just (Y/n) and Spencer standing in the elevator, talking— innocent enough. Until Spencer said something— inaudible, but clearly effective— and (Y/n) rolled her eyes, stepped forward, grabbed him by the tie, and yanked him down into a kiss.

Morgan let out a low whistle.

But that wasn’t the part Garcia was talking about.

At around the 45-second mark, Spencer’s hands slid down (Y/n)’s back and landed firmly on her hips, then lower.

“Oh my God,” Emily said, eyes wide.

Then (Y/n)’s back hit the elevator wall, and Spencer didn’t even hesitate— one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding beneath her blazer, under her shirt, palm flat against her bare waist.

He kissed her like they were the only people in the world. Like it was muscle memory. Urgent. Confident. Completely un-Spencer.

And then she moaned. Audibly. In the security camera footage.

“Oh my God,” Garcia repeated, one octave higher.

Morgan just stared, stunned silent for once in his life.

Spencer pulled back for a breath in the footage, then leaned in again— kissing her jaw, her neck, his hand definitely not on her waist anymore.

Emily had to fan herself with a stray file.

“Spencer Reid,” she said, breathless. “Has game.”

“Game?” Morgan echoed. “That man is playing a whole ass league.”

“WAIT. OH MY GOD. SPENCER IS PDF GUY?!”

Morgan looked between them. “Wait. Who the hell is PDF guy?”

“Long story,” Emily muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. “Holy shit.”

They all watched in silence as the footage looped again.

Spencer leaned in, said something at her ear. Whatever it was, it made (Y/n) flush, then pull him in again, mouths meeting like it physically hurt to be apart. His hands— decidedly not where they should be— disappeared beneath the hem of her shirt just as the doors started to open.

Then they broke apart like nothing happened, like they weren’t seconds away from defiling federal property, both adjusting their clothes with the sort of casual precision that only came from lots of practice.

The video ended. Nobody said anything for a full five seconds.

Then Garcia breathed, “Our little genius is secretly a menace.”

Emily nodded. “Remind me to never underestimate Spencer Reid ever again.”

Morgan just whistled. “Damn. Pretty Boy really is full of surprises.”

——————————————————————————————————

It started innocently enough.

Spencer and (Y/n) were at their desks, quietly reviewing case files. Garcia strolled in, followed by Emily and Morgan, all three of them wearing suspiciously gleeful expressions. Spencer looked up first, sensing the shift in energy like a deer catching the scent of danger.

“Morning,” he said slowly.

Garcia beamed. “Oh honey. Don’t be coy.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Coy about what?”

“Oh, just your scandalous elevator escapades.”

Spencer blinked. “I— what?”

Garcia spun her laptop around with a dramatic flourish. “Roll tape.”

On-screen, the infamous elevator footage began to play. There they were— Spencer and (Y/n)— barely waiting for the doors to shut before she grabbed him by the tie and pulled him into a kiss that could not, under any circumstances, be labelled work appropriate.

(Y/n)’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in horror. “Where did you— how did you—”

“I run the surveillance system, Doctor Love,” Garcia said, smug. “A glitch flagged the camera, and lo and behold, I find this cinematic masterpiece.”

Morgan leaned in, whistling low. “Spencer Reid, you sly bastard.”

Emily made an impressed sound. “Honestly? Respect.”

Spencer looked like he was about to pass out. “Please don’t show anyone else—”

Right on cue, JJ walked in holding a folder. “Show anyone else what—?”

Garcia spun the laptop before anyone could stop her.

JJ saw exactly three seconds of the video before she yelped and turned away. “NO! MY EYES! What the hell?!”

(Y/n) groaned, slumping forward into her desk. “This is great. This is all so great.”

Spencer reached over and shut the laptop with a decisive click. “Okay. We’re done. The video is gone now. That’s the end.”

Emily elbowed Garcia. “I’m not deleting that.”

Morgan grinned. “Pretty Boy’s been hiding a whole new playbook.”

Before either Spencer or (Y/n) could respond, Rossi strolled into the bullpen, sipping his coffee. He stopped briefly, looked around at the wide eyes and pink faces, clocked the shut laptop, and said calmly—

“Took you all long enough. Some profilers you are.”

Spencer looked up, shell-shocked. “Wh— You knew?”

Rossi shrugged. “There was palpable tension. I could taste it in the air.”

JJ, still blinking the trauma from her eyes, turned to Hotch as he passed by with a file in hand. “Hotch, did you know?”

Without missing a beat, Hotch said, “They filled out the disclosure forms nine months ago.”

"Nine months? You guys lied to us for NINE MONTHS?" Garcia was startled to say the least.

Hotch looks up briefly, expression unreadable, and mutters, “Next time, if you’re going to be subtle, try harder.”

(Y/n) made a noise that could only be described as a whimper and slowly began sinking into her chair like she hoped the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Spencer leaned over, voice low and a little sheepish.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I’d do it all over again.”

(Y/n) looked at him, still half-hidden behind her hands.

“…Even the elevator?”

He gave a faint, conspiratorial smile. “Especially the elevator.”

#spencer reid #i fuck up this trope #i need this nerd #UGH I'M SO GAY SOMEONE END ME

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mitobozo · 25 days ago

Text

Real, I love glasses Spence. AND LIKE IMAGINE SEEING THIS ABSOLUTE SLUT. IN SLEEP WEAR? ALL HOMEY? GOD. Yall Im such a slut for this man its insane.

through the lens - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: reader gets turned on my spence’s glasses ugh so real so me. anyways, request pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

It had been an easy day. The kind that snuck up on you, slipping by like water through your fingers. No cases, little but of paperwork and no strings tugging at your minds. Just the two of you, a shared day off with no real plans. No agenda but each other. You spent most of the afternoon in that lazy, effortless way that couples do when they know each other too well to pretend.

Grocery shopping turned into pushing the cart into Spencer’s legs just to see him scowl at you. Cooking dinner became you making fun of how seriously he measured out the ingredients, right down to the gram until he finally handed you the measuring cup with an exasperated “Fine. You do it then.” You didn’t even really eat at the table. Just perched on the couch, thighs brushing, sharing a plate, stealing bites straight from his fork. Talking about nothing. Laughing at bad movies you only half-watched. It was easy.

And Spencer— God, Spence was wearing his glasses all day, the ones he usually reserved for late nights and fine print and it did things to you. They sat low on his nose when he was focusing, occasionally pushing them back up with his knuckle when he thought you weren’t looking. His hair was a mess by dinner, and he didn’t even bother fixing it. Like he knew you liked it that way. By the time night finally crept up, the world outside your apartment windows going dark— you were too full of him to even notice the time. The kitchen was half-cleaned, the TV was still on, casting flickering light over the room but neither of you had really been paying attention for hours.

You ended up in bed earlier than usual, mostly because Spencer was fighting yawns behind his book and you weren’t too far behind him. He pulled the covers back without a word, slid under them with that soft grunt he always made after a long day. Glasses still perched on his nose, hair wild, book in hand, a whole universe away and you couldn’t stop looking at him.

You tried to read too, for about five minutes. Maybe ten. But your eyes kept drifting. Every time he turned the page or shifted to get more comfortable— the way the loose T-shirt he wore clung to his chest in the most distracting ways, the way his boxers rode low on his hips. It was like something inside you wound tighter. Hotter. You squirmed under the covers, stretching your legs out like you were getting comfortable. But all it did was press your body closer to his. He didn’t even seem to notice or maybe he did but he was so deep into whatever old philosophy book he was devouring that he didn’t care.

You bit your lip, debating. Say something. Your toes nudged his ankle under the covers. Soft. Playful. Testing. He didn’t look up but his mouth twitched.

“You know,” you said, voice light, “there should be a law against you wearing those glasses in bed.” That got his attention. His head tilted slightly, eyes flicking over the top of the frames to glance at you. His mouth twitched again, the beginning of a smile he tried and failed to suppress.

“Oh?” he said, turning a page without looking away from you. “And why is that?”

“Because,” you said, inching a little closer under the covers, “you’re making it very, very hard for me to behave.”

He snorted a breath of a laugh and shook his head, dropping his eyes back to his book like he was immune. But you caught it— the way he shifted slightly under the sheets, the subtle way his free hand tightened around the edge of the comforter. He wasn’t immune to you or your words. Not even close. You dragged your nails lightly over his thigh under the covers, just barely there. Casual. Innocent. He twitched.

“Spencer,” you said, voice lilting now, teasing, “you look so good. It’s criminal, really.”

“Mm,” he hummed, low and distracted like he was pretending to read still. But you could see the tips of his ears going pink. You sat up a little, leaning over him until your hair brushed his shoulder. Your hand slid over his thigh again, deliberate this time and you felt him stiffen.

“What’s the book about?” you asked sweetly.

He swallowed. Hard. “Uh… Descartes. Mind-body dualism. Basically—” His voice cracked a little and he had to clear his throat. “Basically, whether the mind and the body are separate entities.”

You smiled wickedly against his neck, your lips barely brushing him. “I don’t think there’s much separation happening right now, Doctor Reid.”

The hand holding his book trembled slightly. He flipped a page he definitely hadn’t finished reading. “You,” he said, voice a little rougher now, “are distracting.”

You giggled softly and pressed a kiss to his neck. Then another. Then another, trailing slow and lazy up to his jawline. Spencer’s breathing hitched. His head finally tipped back against the headboard. His book slipped closed in his lap, forgotten. His chest rose and fell under his T-shirt, a little faster now. You kissed the hinge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “You’re so hot like this,” you murmured. “God, Spence. You have no idea.”

His hand found your waist under the covers, tentative, squeezing lightly like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to pull you closer. You moved for him anyway, swinging one leg over his lap so you were straddling him under the thin covers— the book now discarded somewhere onto the mattress. His hands slid up your sides. Reverent, shaking a little. His fingertips curling into the soft fabric of your sleep shirt.

“You’re… insatiable,” he breathed, eyes dark behind the lenses. Voice still soft, but strained now.

“You’re asking for trouble,” you said sweetly, grinding down the tiniest bit against him just to feel him twitch beneath you. He groaned so soft you barely caught it and his head thunked back against the headboard again. You dragged your fingers through his hair, glasses slipping slightly down his nose until you could see his eyes over the tops. His pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted in the prettiest little desperate expression.

“You gonna stop me?” you teased, tracing the line of his throat with your mouth. His hands gripped your hips tight but he didn’t push you away. Didn’t even try.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

The tension wrapped around you both thick and heavy, almost humming under your skin. He wanted you. You wanted him. It was late. You were tired. You should have been sleeping. But instead you were already soaked against him, the heat of him under you, the feel of his body surrendering to you without a single word. You smiled against his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your mouth.

You dragged your fingers lazily over his ribs, feeling him twitch under your touch. He shifted beneath you, glasses catching the lamplight, his thighs tensing when your palm smoothed over his stomach. He wasn’t trying to hide how hard he was anymore— hadn’t been for a while now. His cock was straining against his boxers, pressed up against your inner thigh where you sat straddling him.

“You still wanna read?” you murmured, trailing your nails lightly down his side.

He shook his head, a soft and breathy laugh escaping him. “I can’t focus when you’re—” He cut himself off with a low groan as you shifted your hips just enough to make him feel the slickness of your panties against him. “When you’re like this.”

“Like what?” you whispered, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, nudging his glasses slightly.

He caught your face in his hands, tilting his head back against the pillow to look up at you—eyes glassy, lips flushed, his body practically vibrating under you. “Like you’re trying to kill me.”

You smiled and kissed him properly this time, swallowing the little whimper he let out. His hands wandered, hesitant at first, then firmer when he realized you weren’t going to pull away. They smoothed down your back, found the edge of your shirt and pushed it up so his fingers could skim your bare skin. You pulled away just long enough to peel the shirt off and toss it somewhere behind you. He watched you, wide-eyed and reverent, glasses still slipping down his nose as if he couldn’t bear to waste a second looking anywhere else.

“Touch me,” he whispered, so soft you barely caught it.

You obliged, reaching down to hook your fingers under the waistband of his boxers. He lifted his hips for you without thinking, helping you push them down just enough to free his cock. He was already leaking, the tip flushed dark and wet and twitching when the cooler air hit him. His stomach jumped under your hand when you brushed your knuckles along his length.

“God,” he groaned, hips stuttering upward.

You bit your lip, savoring how desperate he sounded. He wasn’t shy with you like he used to be. Not anymore. Not when you could see the way his body shivered under your hands, not when you could hear how wrecked his voice already was. You shifted your weight, nudging your panties aside and sinking down slowly, both of you gasping at the first contact.

“Fuck baby,” Spencer choked, hands scrambling to grip your hips. Like he was trying to steady you, trying to steady himself. You paused once he was fully seated inside you. Breathing heavily against his mouth, feeling him pulse deep inside. His fingers flexed on your hips, a little shaky.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “Feels so good—”

You smiled, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I know,” you said, just as breathless. “You feel so good too, Spence. Never gonna get over how big you are.” You rocked your hips slowly, savoring the drag of him inside you. He moaned, hands tightening their grip but not guiding you— letting you set the pace, trusting you completely.

It was slow. Every movement sent shudders through both of you. His glasses slid down again, hanging precariously at the tip of his nose and you kissed him messy, open-mouthed and feeling his breath hitch against your tongue. His hands were everywhere. Your thighs, your waist, your back— touching like he couldn’t decide where he needed you most. His hips rolled up into you in time with your movements, desperate for more friction but unwilling to push you faster.

“You ride me so good,” he mumbled against your mouth, voice wrecked and eyes dazed behind his glasses. “Takin’ me so good.” You whined softly at the praise, your own thighs starting to tremble from the effort. He felt so deep, like he was everywhere at once and filling you up so perfectly it made your head spin.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” you teased, reaching up to nudge his glasses back up his nose before they could fall completely off.

He nodded frantically, eyes shining. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice cracking on the words. “Please don’t stop.”

You weren’t planning to. You rocked harder and faster, your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage. Spencer’s mouth dropped open in a silent moan, his whole body tensing underneath you. His hands slid down to cup your ass, squeezing gently, encouraging you without demanding.

“That’s it,” he whispered, mouth slack.

His moan broke into a gasp and he let his head fall back against the headboard again. He didn’t care. His only focus was you— your body moving on top of him, the wet slide of you around him, the soft and filthy sounds filling the room. The tension was building between you, thick and heady. Every thrust, every grind of your hips drew another desperate groan from Spencer’s lips. He clung to you like he might fall apart if he let go.

“God, I love you,” he gasped suddenly, so raw it made your heart stutter. “Love your pussy— love everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered back, kissing him fiercely. You were swallowing the needy sounds he made when you tightened your walls around him.

Your movements grew sloppier and needier, both of you chasing the high without rushing toward it. You wanted to make this last. You needed to make it last because the way he was looking at you, the way he was touching you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, was better than anything you could imagine.

“You feel so good,” he kept whispering, over and over like a prayer. “You’re perfect. You’re perfect.”

You were close, both of you trembling with the effort to keep going, the bed creaking quietly under you, sweat slicking your bodies together. The sounds filling the room had turned wet, desperate, the slap of skin, the slip of your panties barely clinging to your thigh now, the way Spencer’s hands gripped so tight at your hips like he could keep you from flying apart if he just held on. His glasses had slipped almost all the way off and the way his mouth hung open— the way he kept blinking up at her, glazed and glassy— it just made everything somehow worse. More overwhelming. More real. You could feel it building inside you, slow and unbearable like something coiling deep in your gut. Every roll of your hips was dragging you closer to the edge. And he was right there with you. You could feel it in the way his thighs kept tensing under you, the way his breath kept catching at the top of every thrust. The way his cock would pulse with every movement.

“God—” Spencer’s voice broke, raw and wrecked and his head tilted back into the pillow, glasses nearly falling off completely now. His fingers flexed, digging into your skin, like he was grounding himself. “You— you‘re so good—”

You whimpered, tightening around him without meaning to and he made a sound that went straight through you, like it physically shook the air between you. His hands slid up, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin fabric of your (his) shirt, not even trying to get you undressed anymore— just touching, just feeling you.

“Spence,” you whispered, voice cracking from how close you were and how stretched out the tension had become. Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling his heart hammering against your palms.

“I’m close,” he gasped, voice thready, falling apart. “I’m so close.” It wasn’t begging. It was need. It was helpless, helpless need— something you understood down to your bones. Because you needed it too. Needed him. Your movements sped up without even thinking, chasing it now. Chasing the way he felt under you, inside you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. The wet slap of your bodies was obscene now, his cock slipping so deep, so perfect, hitting every right spot inside you.

He made a choked noise, hips jerking up into you. All out of rhythm now, completely and you knew, knew he was right there falling with you. And when it hit you, it was blinding. Your whole body locked up, clenching so tightly around him that Spencer moaned out in a voice breaking desperate sound as he finally let go too. His hands flew to your hips again, pulling you down hard to bury himself as deep as he could go while he spilled inside you, gasping your name into your shoulder. It was messy. It was beautiful. It was everything.

You slumped against him after, both of you panting, sweating, trembling. His arms wrapped around you immediately, like his body just knew to hold you close. His heart was still pounding against your ear where you lay against his chest, both of you sticky and hot and wrecked. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, your pulses trying to find each other again. Spencer shifted slightly under you, brushing your hair back from your face with a shaking hand. His glasses had finally fallen askew and you reached up, laughing a little breathlessly as you gently pulled them off his face, setting them aside on the nightstand.

“You okay?” you whispered against his skin, still trying to find your own voice again.

He nodded immediately, almost frantic with it. Pulling you even tighter against him. “Better than okay,” he rasped. “That was…”

“I know,” you said, kissing the side of his throat, tasting the saltiness of his skin. “I know.”

He cradled your face in his hands after that, tilting your head back just enough to kiss you all slow, deep and grateful. His lips were still trembling a little against yours and you could feel the way he tried to pour every unspoken thing into the kiss: the trust, the love, the complete surrender of it all. When you finally pulled back, you caught the faintest trace of a sleepy smile on his lips.

“Come on,” you whispered, nudging him gently. “Let’s get cleaned up, Spence.”

He groaned softly but let you lead him, let you coax him into the bathroom. You took care of each other. Wiping him down carefully with a warm cloth, he’s kissing your forehead and flushing shyly at your touch. He kept mumbling little apologies for the mess and you for how desperate you’d been and he just shushed you, kissing every inch of you he could reach. Back in bed, you curled into each other again. This time skin to skin, warm and clean under the sheets. Spencer’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you against him like he was afraid you might slip away in the night.

“You’re not getting away from me,” he mumbled into your hair, voice already thick with sleep.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you murmured back, smiling against his chest.

He was asleep within minutes, breathing slow and steady, his glasses still sitting safely on the nightstand where you’d left them. The last little reminder of the night you’d both fallen apart and found each other all over again.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #i love glasses #i need him to bad #why am i literally in heat #lord save me #i need a nerdy brunette

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mitobozo · 25 days ago

Text

I need people to understand. I like them smart. Because nothing is hotter than making them stupid. Im. I'm going feral.

˚ · . 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐘

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: earlyseason(s)!spencer reid x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer loves you no matter what you earn. It’s just a benefit, really, that you’re exceptionally wealthier than he is and you love to spoil him. — masterlist.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship —bratty!sub!spencer, soft!dom reader, mommy kink, handjobs, dumbification, oral sex [f recieving], safewords [red, green], aftercare

Spencer Reid isn’t exactly one for materialism.

Sure, contemporary society suffers from a consumer culture, and owning expensive items makes people feel good. And, yes, Spencer is a person, so by affiliation, him owning expensive should makes him feel good.

Sure, having a nice, expensive outfit makes Spencer feel good. More than good, actually — feeling luxurious makes him feel attractive, alluring, and he admits that he would love to own more pairs of Dior shoes than he already does.

Despite this, Spencer’s paycheck isn’t exactly hefty enough to buy everything that he wants to buy. He can’t afford all of Dior neckties and Rolex watches that he wants on his own accord. He can’t even look at them without grimacing at the price, which is a little disappointing because he loves the way they look and feel.

Luckily for him, however, that’s where you come in.

Spencer isn’t exactly sure what you do for work. He doesn’t even want to know. He knows it’s not porn, and that makes him satisfied enough, because he isn’t too sure how he’d handle other men looking at you and touching you.

What you do for work is satisfactory. You keep it a secret, you keep it hush — though you have assured him it’s not anything illegal. It gives him a peace of mind, allows him to stay silent when you walk in with a hefty amount of cash after a long day.

Spencer stays silent because he loves you and he loves being spoilt. He stays silent because the second your eyes fall on him, you drop the overwhelming stack of hundred dollar bills on the counter, scattering it all over the place, just to pepper him in kisses.

It’s his favourite part of the day. Especially when he’s been away for so long on a case and he’s been waiting for you on your couch, stirring and needy for your touch.

Spencer can’t count the days one hand the last time he saw you. By proxy, that means it’s been too long. He shuffles on your couch, uncomfortable as he cranes his neck towards your apartment’s door, his eyes flickering down to the Rolex on his wrist that you’d gifted him only two weeks ago, before he left for the case.

You’re late.

Usually, you’re home at six o’clock on the dot. You’re punctual — it’s something he adores about you. Your obsession with sticking to routine allows him a comfort he didn’t know he needed, which is why his face is flushed red in confusion as he realises you’re a half hour late.

He suddenly feels so small sitting on your couch. You’re never late, and he wonders if he’s intruded — what if you had plans, and that’s why you’re not home yet?

He gets so wrapped up in his own mind that he doesn’t hear the door open, nor the clicking of your heels as you walk in.

A sight for sore eyes. Doctor Spencer Reid, your Spencer, is sat on your five thousand dollar leather couch, his knees drawn up to his chest in thinking. A cashmere purple scarf wraps around his neck like a snake, and you smile as you notice his fingers subconsciously rolling against the fabric.

Your heart flutters as you watch him. He smells like Creed Himalaya, the scent of the expensive cologne flooding your senses as you slowly saunter towards him. He’s wearing his glasses, for once — the frames being Cartier, a gift you had brought him three months ago when he’d dropped his contact lenses and lost them somewhere in your bedroom. There’s a few rings that you’ve brought him plastered on his fingers, and he toys with them nervously, his chest rising and falling.

“Spencer,” you call, and his head finally raises, his honey eyes dilating the second his pupils find your face, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he breathes, and his fingers abandon his rings, opting to reach out for you instead. “Are you okay?”

His voice is timid and small, so lovingly sensitive. His fingertips brush your waist, his hands toying with the fabric of your workshirt lightly.

“I’m perfect.” You reach down, your fingertips brushing beneath his chin. Spencer’s big eyes instantly flicker up to yours, a glint in them that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “Especially now I’ve seen you, handsome.”

His cheeks tinge pink, and you can’t bite back the smile which tugs at your lips. Always so nervy, his eyes dart away, a small ‘thank you’ brushing past his lips.

Brown curls brushing over your clothed stomach, Spencer nuzzles his forehead into your navel. His breath comes softly, his lashes tickling you as he closes his eyes, his big hands enveloping your waist.

“You haven’t greeted me properly yet,” you say finally, your hands trailing through his curls. “Two weeks without seeing me, and you’ve forgotten your place?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and he stands from his position on the couch.

As he does, your head has to tilt upwards to follow him. He’s much taller than you are, and your hands gently brush over his Ralph Lauren cardigan. It’s fraying at the hems, and you pout slightly.

“I’m going to need to buy you another one of these soon,” you murmur, your face warm as Spencer’s hands softly press against your cheek, his head dipping to pull you into a gentle kiss.

Lips soft against yours, Spencer’s careful to worship you. To kiss you intently, as an apology for not greeting you as you’ve asked him to before. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, and he drowns in the scent of your Miss Dior perfume, the subtle taste of your cherry lipstick dancing along his tastebuds.

When he finally pulls away, his cheeks are flushed. His lips are a little swollen and puffy, and he smiles apologetically as your hands run over the worn fabric of his cardigan. “I’m sorry. I just pull at the threads when I’m nervous. You know, one in three people actually have an anxiety disorder, and out of all of those people, sixty-three percent are female?”

“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly, your fingers darting over the frayed woven. You watch his eyes follow your movements, and you wonder if he thinks you’re upset with him. “I’m not mad at you, Spencer.”

“I know. It’s just —” he swallows, and his Adams’ Apple bobs nervously, “—it’s upset me. This cardigan was a gift that you got me when we first started dating.”

His lips jut into a pout.

“I’ll buy you another one,” you state simply, and you run your hands along his scarf.

He smiles. “I know you will.”

You beam back at him, and you softly slip his scarf off of his neck.

His neck is plain, rid of the bruises that you sent him away with two weeks ago. It’s a reminder that it’s been half a month without his touch, and your body thrums with excitement as you gently glide your thumb over his throat.

“Was work okay?”

“Work was work,” he responds quickly, his hands coming up to cup your wrists. Spencer’s eyes bore into yours, brimming with love and adoration. “You?”

You grin. “We don’t talk about my work,” you reply, your eyes flickering down to his pillowy lips. “Now, give me another kiss, Spencer.”

He obliges. Of course, he obliges. Spencer will do anything you ask of him. It’s his biggest weakness, and arguably his biggest flaw — you could tell him to ‘jump’, and he’d respond ‘how high?’.

This time, Spencer studies your face before he indulges you. It’s disobedient, it’s bratty, but he has to see you. His lips teasingly brush over yours as he memorises the way your nose crinkles slightly and your brows knit together, the way your lashes fan faintly across your cheekbones as your eyes flutter shut in anticipation.

“Tease,” you grumble as his lips brush softly against yours, hardly encasing you into a kiss.

“I’m not a tease.”

“Maybe brat is more of an appropriate word,” you quip back, and at this, Spencer finally presses his lips against yours in an adequate manner.

Your thumb glides over his button-up shirt, your mouth moulding perfectly against his. His tongue runs over your bottom lip, and you listen to his whimper when you reject him.

“You are most certainly being a brat right now,” you comment, your eyes piercing as you pull away from his lips.

Spencer pouts. He is being a brat, but that’s his role. “I’ve missed you,” he responds, ignoring your comment as he attempts to pull you back in, his hands delicate against your face.

It’s not exactly that he’s missed you. Sure, he most certainly has — but there’s a weird twinge of jealousy which pulses through him. For the life of him, he can’t figure out why you’re home late; and he wants your attention, and he’s too shy to ask.

He’s acting out. He knows it, and you know it.

“So that makes it okay for you to tease me? To forget your place?” Your voice is soft, but the underlying meaning behind it is not, and you resist his feeble attempt at drawing another kiss out of you.

He thrums with excitement at your pointed tone, his eyes scanning your face.

“I’m not being a tease,” Spencer says quietly, innocently, making sure to put on the most vulnerable expression he can muster, “and I’m most certainly not being a brat.”

Your eyes flick over his face. You hate how his big, rounded chocolate eyes make you melt. The way they glisten with apology, the way they never falter as they bore into your own.

“Stop lying to me.” You softly place his scarf on your coffee table, facing away from him. “If you lie to me again, you’re not getting your gift.”

At this, Spencer’s ears seem to perk up. His face literally lightens, and he takes a feathery step forward, his hands taking their rightful place back on your waist.

Gift. He should’ve known, really. It’s been two weeks. Of course you’d gotten him a gift — you always do when he goes away for long periods of time. His heart flutters in his chest, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of your waist.

“A gift?” He asks quietly. “What kind of gift?”

“You might not get it if you keep playing this game of yours,” you warn him, although you’re lying, and both you and Spencer know it.

His lips set into a frown. He weighs out his options. He could either continue being bratty and then be put in his place, perhaps having his present taken away from him as a result, or he could cave and behave and get his gift now.

“Okay,” Spencer says, his hands slipping from your waist. “I surrender. Can I get my gift, now?”

You snort at him. His hazel eyes are glinting with excitement, his hands intertwined as he awaits your answer. He sways on his feet, his thumb brushing subconsciously over the diamond rings you had purchased him.

“No,” you respond, amusement lacing your tone. “You can’t just be a brat and then get a present. What kind of person would I be if I let you walk all over me like that?”

Spencer pouts, a look of disbelief flooding his features. “All I did was not kiss you when you came in,” he argues, his voice coming out like a whine.

“That’s not all you did.” You raise your hand to cup his face, forcing his eyes onto yours. “You didn’t meet my eye to begin with. You didn’t kiss me. When I asked you for a kiss, you deliberately teased me. Do you know how hard it is when I’ve not seen you for two weeks, and then you decide to act out?”

Head dipping in guilt, Spencer tries to avoid your eye. Of course, he knows how awful it is to be teased after that long, because you do it to him all of the time. You flaunted around in nothing but lavender lingerie the last time he was away for more than a week, forbidding him from touching you. It had been painful — excruciating, and he can feel his head grow light as the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers grow worse as he thinks back to how mean you were.

He doesn’t want to get on your bad side again.

“Okay.” He raises his eyes back up to yours. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

As if to add to his point, Spencer nods his head. His words are affirming, and he stays still. You convey him, weighing up his words.

“Get on your knees, then.”

Spencer’s eyes glint, but he doesn’t move. He stays glued into place.

You stare at him, unwavering. “Why are you making me repeat myself today?” You tut, and shake your head. “Maybe you aren’t all that sorry.“

As you begin to turn, Spencer sinks to his knees. His hands reach up to grab at the plush flesh of your thighs, and his eyes are slightly wide and blown as he cups the flesh through your dress.

“Please.” His voice is breathy and his pupils are dilated from his lust, sheathing his honey irises. “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

“Did I give you permission to touch me?”

Something similar to a strangled whine crawls out of Spencer’s throat, but his hands drop from your thighs. His lips are set into a small pout, his brows furrowed. You can feel your slick uncomfortably begin to paint your panties as you stare down at him; his subservient stance making your body thrum with arousal.

Feeling lightheaded, Spencer shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling foolish as he gazes up at you. All of his blood has rushed somewhere else entirely, and he finds himself forgetting about the prospect of gift-giving as he stares up at you from his position on the floor.

You look deliciously cruel.

“Colour?” You ask, your features softening for only a second.

“Green.”

He says green, so you go for it.

“You’re being awfully naughty tonight, aren’t you?” Your words cut through him like a knife.

Your hands glide into his hair, your lips quirking upwards slightly as he shivers from your touch. His brows pinch together as you reprimand him, confusion fluttering his features.

“I’m not meaning to be,” his answers, lying through his teeth, and you can hear his voice crack as your heels softly glide over the tight crotch of his trousers. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer is agonisingly hard.

“Your apologises mean nothing if you don’t have the decency to respect me by referring to me by name.”

His lips part, so pillowy and pink, so swollen. Desperate to touch you, but unable to do so, Spencer’s fingers curl into his trousers, a low whimper slipping past his lips as your heel gently begins to press down into his crotch, applying a satisfying amount of pressure to his throbbing cock. He knows what you want, and he’s now desperate to give it to you.

“I’m sorry…” his voice shakes as he meets your eye, “…mommy. I’m sorry, mommy. I mean it.”

“You mean it?”

“God, yes, I mean it more than anything,” he breathes, his voice laced with affirmation. His eyes screw shut as your heel teasingly glides over his inner thigh.

You blink down at him. You pull your heel away, tired of watching him writhe beneath you. “Clothes off, Spencer.”

You don’t have to tell him that twice.

His button-up and cardigan are tossed to the floor besides him before you could even finish speaking his name. The clinging sound of his Gancini belt floods your ears, and you watch as he struggles to unbuckle it, his lust for you making him dumb.

“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” you call from above him, taking satisfaction in the way his fingers glide over the leather.

“I am smart,” he says, wavering slightly as he tugs the belt off. He lets out a satisfied huff, his cheeks reddened from his frustration, and he scrambles to unbutton his trousers.

You hum in response. “Clearly not. You couldn’t even take off your belt, and you’re talking back again.”

Biting back a retort, Spencer slides his trousers down. The tent in his boxers is impressive, the grey fabric stained darker from his lust, and your eyes stay trained on the dribble of precum which has bled through.

“Needy?” You ask slyly, and he shuffles from your praise.

“Yes. I’m sorry, mommy. I can’t help it.” His breathing quickens as he slides his trousers off. “I’ve needed you everyday the past two weeks.”

His fingers tremble as he pulls his boxers down, exposing his cock. The tip is red, glistening with dribbles of precum, and you watch as his hands stay by his sides, waiting for your next command.

“Did you touch yourself when you were away?”

“No, never.” Spencer shakes his head, “I know the rules, mommy. I wouldn’t dare to break them.”

“You’ve broken a lot of rules tonight, baby. How can I trust you?”

You indulge him with your touch. Your fingers dance beneath his chin, tilting his head up to look at you. The expression on his face is priceless — his features contorted into a mixture of submissive and pure desperation.

He blinks. You rub your thighs together, the slick in your panties a result of his pitiful actions tonight. One thing you love more than a docile, willing Spencer is a bratty Spencer, and in reality, he wasn’t being all too bad.

You just needed an excuse to punish him.

“I — I wouldn’t lie to you, mommy. Ever.” His heart races in his chest as you sit on the couch opposite him, his hands still remaining at his side. “I promise.”

You smile down at him. “You’re such a good boy when you want to be,” you praise sweetly, “now, come here. Mommy wants you.”

Spencer shuffles forward slightly. He slots between your legs perfectly, his eyes finding yours. He waits.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Four seconds pass until you speak again. You’d spent those four seconds gliding your eyes over his frame, appreciating every dip, every freckle, every scar.

“You were being a brat —“

“—I was not being a brat, mommy, I —”

“—Interrupt me one more time, baby, and I’m going to make sure you don’t cum for a month.”

Your voice is smooth. Steady. Even. You mean it.

You blink, and then Spencer blinks. His cheeks tint a deep shade of red, and he leans backwards slightly. Lips parting, they then close. He wants to argue; to say that he just wanted to embed your face into his memory so he could relive the moment of seeing you for the first time in two weeks forever, but it doesn’t matter.

You’re going to punish him anyway.

“I’m sorry, mommy.”

You cock your head. “I know you are,” you say, after observing him for an additional for seconds.

He shuffles, the tip of his cock brushing against your ankle. You watch how his teeth grit, how a quiet hiss is born and killed in his throat. He’s sensitive, he’s sore, and he’s needy.

But he’s also bratty.

“You’ve been so naughty,” you begin again, your voice smooth and even as you stare down at Spencer, “why?”

He blinks. “I missed you.”

“Nuh-uh. It’s more than that.” Your brows pinch together, and you open your legs a little further. “What have I done to turn my pretty boy into such a little brat?”

Your fingers are cool and soft against his face. You reach towards him; angling yourself so the low-cut of your dress exposes itself to him.

From the way your thighs have parted to show him how wet you are, your panties dampened; darkened by your slick, Spencer knows you want him just as badly as he wants you.

He swallows. “I just missed you,” he tries again, his voice thick with emotion. “Please. I’m sorry, mommy.”

He’s lying, and you know it.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

You reach out to cup his face. “Stop being a brat, Spencer. I’m serious now,” you say, digging your nails into his cheeks slightly, relishing in the way he inhales sharply. “What’s gotten into you?”

He whines. His brows knit together and he pulls away. You let him, your eyes still trained on his.

“You were late,” Spencer mumbles, quiet as a mouse, gazing away from you. His words are incoherent, and you tilt your head.

“Repeat yourself, baby. I can’t hear you when you mumble. You know that.”

Your fingers gently graze his jaw, and you encourage him to meet your eyes. The necklace you’re wearing — the one which spells out Spencer’s name — is hidden between your cleavage, and his eyes flutter shut.

It’s pathetic, but he repeats himself, more clearly this time. “You were late home, mommy.”

You feel your shoulders lax. “I was late?”

“You were late. You’re never late.” Spencer opens his eyes again, and you almost pity him for how solemn he looks. “I — I don’t like the idea of other people having your attention.”

“How late was I?” You ask.

“Thirty minutes,” he grumbles, and he feels pathetic now. You’re staring down at him with an unreadable expression, and he pouts. “I — that’s our time, mommy. You know that.”

Spencer craves routine. He craves stability, and with his messy job, you bring him that. Coming home late meant that it was broken, and coming home late probably meant that one of your many male colleagues were dragging you into conversation when you were supposed to be at home with him.

“I do know that, baby.” Your voice is soothing, and your thumb glides over his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Your stomach twirls with heat.

Spencer Reid — your Spencer Reid — a doctor with three PhD’s, who has never been anything but kind and docile, is jealous.

“You’re being bratty because you wanted my attention?” You ask quietly, your fingers gently running through his hair.

Spencer feels his face grow even warmer. There’s an ache that’s been pulsing between his legs for the better half of forty minutes. You’ve been teasing him, non-stop. He presses his head against your cool thigh to soothe the heat on his face — and surprisingly, you don’t reprimand him.

“Yes,” he admits quietly, trying to dull the throbbing of his leaking cock. “I’m sorry, mommy.”

You tug him by his hair slightly. It sends a wave of pleasure throbbing through him.

“You could’ve just said so,” your voice is plain, “you know, because I understand.”

“You understand?”

“Yeah.” You see his shoulders lax. You part your thighs more, watching the way his eyes flicker down to your soaked panties. Relishing in the ways his pupils dilate. “But you’re still going to have to make it up to me.”

Spencer blushes. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He doesn’t ask for your permission to touch you, and for once, you don’t scold him.

There’s something so arousing about the way his nimble fingers push your soaked panties to the side. He’s eager — there’s no denying that. The low groan which slips past his lips as his eyes dart over your slick, puffy folds is affirmation of that, and he gently grazes his teeth against your inner thigh as he nears the area in which you need him most.

“Spencer,” you warn as he presses teasing kisses to your thigh, his warm breath fanning your cunt.

You swear you hear him chuckle. “Sorry, mommy,” he murmurs, “I’ll get to the point.”

Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton.

The three brands swirl inside of your brain, creates a luxurious mixture of words as he dips his head further.

You’re going to buy him whatever he wants after this.

Spencer’s tongue rolls through your sticky folds, licking a deliberate, slow stripe up your heat. Warmth bubbles in your stomach as he does so, your chest tight with desire as your hands find his locks.

So perfect, positioned between your legs like the obedient little brat he is, his hazel eyes sheathed by their lids as he indulges in the taste of you.

“So sweet,” Spencer praises, and you don’t miss the way he grinds against your ankle in the process.

You part your lips to scold him for his movements, but the words die in your throat as his tongue rolls around your delicate pearl.

Spencer knows your body better than you know it yourself. You let out a quiet gasp, your stomach growing flush with arousal as his nose presses further into your pelvis, his tongue lapping at you. He’s like a dog starved; a bitch in heat, his tongue flicking up and down your folds as he grinds his hips into your ankle.

Another shuddery whimper glides past your lips. Spencer's fingers curl into the soft flesh of your thighs, and he nuzzles closer towards you. His lips pepper lewd kisses along your folds, suckling around your clit gently, aware that you're overwhelmingly sensitive.

You tug on his hair softly, encouraging him to do more. You can feel his lips quirk upwards, and he feels your walls pulse, desperate for something more than his mouth. You don't want him to indulge you — if you did, you'd say, so he keeps his hands by his side, rolling the sensitive tip of his cock against the soft skin of your ankle.

"That's it," you murmur, your fingers curling in his hair, tugging at the roots of his brunette curls, "my good boy."

Spencer lets out a quiet whimper. You angle your ankle so he can hump against it easier, the slick of his precum acting as lube against your skin. Your body grows electric with sparks as his tongue licks stripes up and down your cunt, his tongue carefully swirling around your clit.

Your legs jolt, and his fingers curl into your thighs more. You're sure his fingers will leave bruises in their wake, but you don't care — you praise him, consistently, until your sentences becomes strings of wordless, incoherent babbles.

"Spencer," you whine, bucking your cunt into his face.

"Please, mommy," he begs shakily, "cum for me? Please? Wanna taste you so bad, mommy, please?"

Movements becoming more deliberate, more sloppy, Spencer lets out a choked groan as you tug his hair again — this time, a little harder. Your thighs clench, and your walls flutter, your stomach blooming with butterflies as you grind down against his face.

You indulge him, blinking away stars as Spencer's lips and tongue sloppily dote on your clit. Your mouth opens and closes, quiet gasps of pleasure spilling past your lips, your stomach tight with pleasure.

It feels like there's a knot inside of you. Spencer's worshipping is ripping it apart, slowly, and your eyes grow teary, swirls of black and white stars shrouding your vision.

You walls flutter, and your hips judder against his face.

You cum, gasping and writhing, your hands curling in his hair tightly, locking him into place. Spencer doesn't move, instead, lapping up everything that you give him. He indulges himself in you completely, happily drowning himself in you.

"Thank you, mommy," Spencer blushes, pulling away from your cunt. A string of spit and slick follows him, and his lower lip glistens from your orgasm. "So tasty."

His voice drops, and you roll your eyes. Your breath shudders as you exhale, blinking away stars as you gaze down at him.

"You're stupid."

"No, I'm not, mommy."

You lean forward, swiping your thumb over his lower lip. You collect the string of salvia and cum, pushing the pad of your thumb past his lips, humming as they instinctively suck on your digit.

"You're not dumb?" you ask, not moving your ankle away from Spencer as he continues to roll his hips against you.

"No." Spencer's breath hitches slightly as precum dribbles out of his sensitive tip. "I'm not dumb. I have an IQ of —"

"— 187, three PhD's, and you can read up to 20,000 words per minute." You lean backwards, pulling your thumb from his lips. "You're not dumb, baby. You're right. I'm wrong."

Spencer beams at this, your appraisal sending jolts of electricity pulsing through him. His tip brushes over your ankle, and his head lulls against your thigh. It's not much, but he's been going at it for a while now, and the friction is just enough to get him going, to get his length pulsing with want.

It's when you draw your ankle away, he's snapped back into reality. "But when I'm done with you, Spencer," you sneer down at him, your painted red lips twisting upwards into a cruel grin, "you will be."

Already, the lustful desire of needing you has melted his brain to mush. He's entirely forgotten about the gift that you'd gotten him, and your lips quirk twitch in satisfaction as he gazes up at you silently, his beautiful, honey-coloured eyes glistening with anticipation.

You wait until he speaks.

"Mommy —"

"Bedroom, baby." You interrupt, drawing your hands away from his face. When he stays still between your legs, you instruct, "now."

You don't have to ask him a third time. Spencer practically scrambles from his position on the floor, desperate to reach your bedroom before you call him back and decide to scold him further.

Whatever you've got planned for him must be somewhat tame if you're secluding it to the privacy of your bedroom.

It doesn't take long for you to follow him. You're pulling your shirt off when you enter your bedroom — the blouse fluttering down towards the ground, forgotten as you begin to unclip your bra.

Spencer's mildly upset that you've decided to strip without his help, having been looking forward to undressing you. It's arguably his favourite pastime; being able to shed you of your clothes and worship every inch of your exposed skin. He tries not to show his disappointment, but it doesn't work, the frown on his lips evidence of his dismay.

"Did you really thing I'd let you undress me after you've been so bratty?" You ask, watching his eyes dart over your body, although they're primarily focused on your chest.

He pouts as you say this. "I guess I'd thought you'd be nice," he grumbles, his hands positioned on his thighs as he stares at you.

You bite back a laugh at this. "I'm never nice," you respond, sliding into bed. You pat his back slightly, urging him forwards.

"You are nice," Spencer responds, following your instructions. He shuffles forward, and you position yourself against your pillows, your body resting against the headboard. His brows knit together in thought as you struggle to grow comfortable, and he adds, "sometimes."

"I'm nice when you're good," you tell him, finally satisfied with your position.

Spencer leans his head against your shoulder, and he exhales softly. You're so close — there's not an inch of you not touching him. Your thighs are looped on either side of his, your arms wrapped around his middle. Spencer looks so content like this, snuggled against you, in your arms; entirely at your mercy.

"I'm always good, mommy."

"Liar."

You softly glide your hand over his front, beginning at his navel. You ignore the area which needs you most — simply swiping your hand over his tip teasingly, cooing as he jolts slightly. Your nails rake into his skin, dragging upwards, and he shudders as crescent moons indent in their wake.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asks softly, shuddering as your hands meet his chest, your nails gliding over his nipple incredibly gently.

The cold air nips at his skin. Goosebumps ripple on his arms and his chest, and he exhales shockingly as you give his skin a light pinch.

"I told you," you answer quietly, enjoying the way his muscles tense as you gently roll his hardened nipple between your fingers, "I'm going to make you dumb."

"Mm," he murmurs in disbelief, only engaging in your antics because of the desire simmering in his lower belly.

Spencer sighs sweetly as your palm presses against his chest, softly dragging down his body. Your nails gently trace lines over his tummy, jagged, gentle lines. You pepper soft kisses to his left shoulder, your nose pressing into his skin as you breathe in his scent. He smells amazing, and his skin is so warm, and you lull your head against him as you gently begin to trail your hands over his thighs.

His cock is perked and needy, and he lets out another gentle sigh. It sounds more like a huff this time, but you don't mind. He's frustrated — of course he is; he's been interested in his relief for about an hour now, so incredibly frustrated and needy for you.

Your touch lingers near his crotch, and your nails digging into the skin of his thighs as your lips skim his ear. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, baby, and I want you to answer them," you murmur, pressing a small, wet kiss to his jaw. "Can you do that for me?"

Heart racing in his chest, Spencer nods timidly. "I can do that," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut as you softly suckle at his skin. "You know I can do that, mommy."

"Mm," you hum quietly, beginning to trail your lips down towards where his shoulder meets his neck, "do you know... when the first aeroplane was flown, baby?"

Parting his lips to speak, Spencer is interrupted by the feeling of your right hand gently circling around his length. It envelopes him, barely wraps around his girth, and he has to focus on steadying his voice as he responds. "That's easy, mommy," he says, "December 17th, 1903."

"Who flew it?"

You jerk your hand slightly, and Spencer's thighs flex. Your left hand scrapes at his thigh.

"The Wright Brothers," he answers finally, a choked moan gliding past his lips as your hand rolls slowly, up and down his length.

"Good boy," you praise quietly, and you nip at his neck softly. "You're so smart. Do you know that?"

"Yes."

Spencer's eyes droop slightly. He shifts his hips, a quiet 'ah' gliding past his lips as your thumb swipes over his leaking tip softly. He's so sensitive that even the small squeezes of your palm drive him overboard, his body sizzling with electricity as you tease him.

"Mommy, please," he begs quietly, his breath short and staggered already. His thighs tense again as you softly scratch your nails against his thigh, and his cock aches harder in your hand.

It's been so long. It's been two weeks, and your hand is so small and delicate against his length. So teasing. He doesn't dare rut into your hand, but he wants to.

You ignore him. "What's the one letter that doesn't appear in the name of any American state?"

"Q," he responds quickly — a little too quickly for your liking. "Please?"

Spencer shifts his hips again, hoping to allow you a better angle. If anything, it makes you pull away more, your grip on his cock loosening.

"Impatient," you comment, disapproval seeping from your tone as you glide your hand up his glistening cock softly, "so impatient."

"I'm sorry. It's been two weeks."

"I know."

"This is torture," he grumbles, his eyes screwing shut slightly as your palm softly squeezes him. His heart thrums.

"I know."

Spencer lets out a soft whimper as you continue to jerk your hand, your lips pressing warm, hot kisses to his shoulder.

"Another question," you say, breaking through the sound of your hand wetly rolling up and down Spencer's cock. "You should know this one."

His jaw ticks. "I know them all."

“Six letter word for the hole on a shoe in which laces are threaded through."

"Eye —" Spencer grunts as your hand squeezes his cock, forcing another spurt of precum to dribble out of the slit, "— eyelet."

"Impressive," you pause, and you kiss your teeth. "How many ridges does a dime have?"

Spencer's head tilts back in exhaustion. His curls are damp from sweat, his skin warm and a little sticky. You press wet, hot kisses to his exposed neck, and your teeth pinch at his throat softly.

"A dime?"

You glide your tongue over his pulse point. "Yes, a dime. My pretty boy is getting teased so badly he can't even think straight?"

He's so hungry for release. He's practically gnawing for the bliss that you bring him, and he lets out a soft whimper as your teeth scrape down his throat.

"118," he answers shakily, "the ridges allow the coin to determine if it is real or fake, and it —"

Faltering as your thumb twists around his mushroom head, Spencer's words stifle in his throat.

"What, baby?"

"It was implemented on all coins before the 18th century to help do so," he forces out, a pant following suit. "You're — oh, mommy, please?"

Voice coming out strained, you feel Spencer's thighs twitch beneath your palm. Your dig your nails into his skin a little harsher now.

"Please, what?"

"Let me — let me cum," he answers, his head lulling against your shoulder.

You smirk. "Not yet," you answer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "That'd be rewarding your disobedience, Spencer, and I can't let you cum until I've got what I've wanted from you."

His hips shift upwards, a sign of his impatience.

You understand; you do. There's just something so satisfying about pushing him to the edge, melting his genius brain into a puddle of incoherent goo.

As his thighs tremble again, you pull your hand away. Spencer lets out his first irritated cry, his hips bucking upwards.

"This is awful," he grunts, his eyes screwing shut.

You smile. "You'll get what you want soon enough, baby. You'll get this present, and your present from earlier. I'll make sure that you're very satisfied."

You softly let yourself drool over your hand, massaging the sticky saliva into your palm. You pull your hand back towards Spencer, and as you grip his cock, he lets out a deep gasp.

He wants to speak — you know he wants to speak. His throat bobs as you gently jerk him off, the slick, lewd sounds of your hand slapping against him reverberating around your bedroom. You twist your palm perfectly, your movements deliberate, touching him exactly how he likes.

"What are the plastic tips of shoelaces called?"

"Aglets."

"What's a jiffy?"

"It's 1/100th of a second."

You hum. Your teeth nibble at Spencer's neck, and your hand continues to pump away at his cock. His tummy and thighs tense, and you drag your thumb over his leaking tip softly.

"How many seconds are in a year?"

Spencer shivers, a sickly sweet whine escaping his lips. Your hand drags down to cup his balls, the other still pumping his cock lovingly. It's so much, and yet it's nowhere near enough. He needs more, he needs relief, something that you're refusing to give him.

"I —"

His eyes screw shut, his hands clutching the bedsheets tightly.

"Seconds in a year?"

You nod your head in affirmation, a small coo gliding past your lips as he bucks into your hand. Your grip on his cock is tight, and it's wet, and he glides in and out of your palm beautifully. His lips part in wonder, his body trickling with warmth.

"Don't know," he breathes finally, a broken moan choking in his throat, "'m sorry, mommy, I don't know."

He's burning hot. It's like he's got a fever. You fondle his balls softly, careful not to squeeze too hard. You want him to dip into the feeling of ecstasy, not drown in it.

"I thought you were supposed to be a genius," you whisper huskily, a satisfied grin on your lips as you speed up your movements.

Your stomach is pinched with warmth, sizzling with desire as Spencer cries out at your words. You wonder if you've pushed him too far, if your degradation was wrong, but his incoherent babbles of, 'mommy, please' reassures you that you haven't.

Pleasure buzzes wildly in his body. He can't think, let alone speak correctly, and his back arches up to meet you better. "Please," is all he manages, his words coming out in staggered breaths, "oh, please!"

"You little brat," you murmur, twisting your hand purposefully, "so fucked out you can't even think straight."

"I'm going to cum," is all he can manage to say before his sentence gets swallowed by a moan, "mommy, I'm going to —"

You quicken your pace.

Fire blazes inside of his stomach. Your nails rake into the soft flesh of his thighs, and Spencer's head tips further back. His lips are all pretty and pink, dangerously pump, and your breath hitches in your throat as he lets out another strangled whine. His eyes screw shut, and you give him a deliberate, tight squeeze.

He moans your name as he cums. It's too much — all of it is too much. His hips jolt, bucking upwards into your touch. Your feverish pace burns a hole in his heart, the loving kisses you pepper to his shoulder soothing his quarrels as his cock spurts of lines of cum, his hot seed coating your hand.

"My sweet boy," you coo quietly, inhaling the concussion of his expensive cologne and his sweat, "all fucked out and dumb for me."

Spencer gasps softly. His head rings as he finishes, your thumb gliding over his slit carefully. He can't speak, and his body twitches as your palm slows, your hand still cupping his balls softly, worshipping every inch of his cock.

"So pretty," you praise, and Spencer blinks away the black stars which shroud his vision.

It feels like it takes forever for him to settle back down. Your nails lovingly scrape up and down his skin, your voice gentle and angelic as it utters sweet praises to him. He feels spent, exhausted, impossibly stupid as he slumps against you, his lungs burning with relief.

He's tired, and he doesn't open his eyes again until he can feel damp fabric softly press against his forehead.

"Did I go too far?" You murmur quietly, concern plastering over your features as your eyes flit over your boyfriend.

You've never seen him so physically exhausted. You gently glide the cloth down towards his crotch, wiping away any evidence of your rendezvous, and he shakes his head.

"No. You were perfect."

"I got you your gift," you say meekly, pointing his gaze towards the small box in the corner of your bedroom, wrapped neatly with a satin bow.

A chuckle is dragged from Spencer's throat, and you smile, unable to bite back your own small laugh as his face burrows into your neck. "Can I open it tomorrow? I'm a little tired now."

"Of course," you murmur sweetly, letting him rest the weight of his body on you.

Your fingers run it's way through his hair, a small smile of satisfaction painting your lips.

It drops, though, when Spencer speaks.

"There's 31,536,000 seconds in a year," he mumbles into your neck, "just in case you wanted to keep doubting my genius."

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #i need that needy nerd #hes so pathetic #and needy #i need that genius turned into a blubbering idiot #need them thinking with their other head

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mitobozo · 26 days ago

Note

HES SO CUTE AND SILLY. Gangy I need myself a Peter Parker LIFE IS A PRISON😔‼️

can you do one where peter gets hurt a little bit and gets all whiny and crap and the reader is trying so hard to stay focused. LOVE YOUR STORIES BRO!!!!!

I LOVE THIS IDEA !!! it’s definitely such a peter thing to do. here’s a short, cutesy little thing, i hope you like it and im sorry it took me so long to get back to you💞✨ !! warnings are just peter being a big whiny baby whose desperate for affection, small mentions of injuries, 1,3k wc <333

“Ow!”

“Peter, be quiet! Stop whining, I’m almost done.”

“I’m in pain, baby,” he whined.

It hadn’t been a surprise to be disturbed by a knock on your window, Peter usually stopped by after patrol which was why you’d started leaving it open for him. But when he hadn’t slid the window open after those few soft taps, you’d gotten a little worried.

So you’d gotten out of bed to open for him, only to find your boyfriend perched before you, mask off, pouting heavily at you.

Of course, you’d helped him in and gotten him laying across your bed so you could start to clean him up. You’d started keeping a first-aid-kit at hand since you’d found out he was Spider-Man. It had been of great use.

But it hadn’t taken you long to realize that his wounds, as far as his usual patrol wounds went, weren’t bad. Not at all. In fact, you were positive that he could’ve gone home, slept the rest of the night, and woken up good as new as if nothing had happened in the first place. Maybe your boyfriend had forgotten that he had super-healing abilities.

Or maybe he just liked the way you babied him.

“Oh, are you now?” You asked, glancing up at him with a raised brow. There was really nothing for you to do other than wipe the few cuts and scratches with antiseptic and place small bandaids over them. He just enjoyed pestering you.

“Yes,” he said so seriously, you almost laughed. This Peter was a stark contrast to actually-injured-Peter, who would do everything he could to assure you he was fine when he was literally bleeding out before your eyes. You didn’t like that. At least this was funny.

“Petey, baby,” you laughed softly, adjusting a small bandaid on the high of his cheekbone where he’d had a small scrape. “You’re actually pretty put together tonight. Must’ve been a pretty quiet night, hm?”

“No,” he sighed dramatically, grabbing the wrist by his face gently, keeping you close to him. “No, it was horrible sweetheart, I’m gonna need extra care tonight. You know, to help the trauma.”

Shaking with laughter, you leaned in and pecked his cheek, right beside the cut you’d just bandaged. “The ‘trauma’, Petey? Really?”

A large, dopey grin broke over his face as you pecked his cheek and he squeezed you wrist a little. “There. That’s perfect, such a big help sweetheart, you have no idea what you do for me. You make the pain bearable, pretty girl.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “There, all better?” You asked him as you pulled away where you were met with a scowl.

“Y/N, honey, I’m suffering! I’m knocking on death’s door, angel! Give me something!”

You absolutely lost it at that, falling back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. “I can’t help you when all you do is whine!” When you opened your eyes, Peter was hovering over you, trying to keep his little facade of being upset and in pain, which was fruitless with the large smile blooming on his lips.

“You’re so mean, you know that?”

“Oh really? I’m the mean one?”

“Yes! You just found out your boyfriend, the love of your life, your future husband, the father of your future children—”

“What?!”

“—is dying, and what do you do? You laugh!!”

Another laugh escaped you, this time the sound infecting Peter as well. “I-if you’re dying, doesn’t that mean you won’t be my husband or the ‘father of my future children?” You manage out between laughs.

Peter gasped offendedly. “I…I…” he tried to defend himself to no avail. You’d caught him.

You laughed even harder. “It’s okay, Petey. I’ll tell my future children all about you.”

He didn’t seem to like that very much. In one swift motion, his hands were on your hips, picking you up as he laid back on the bed again, his back pressed against the headboard before he plopped you down onto his lap.

“Oh hi,” you grinned at him, loosely looping your arms over his shoulders, his own hands coming to rest on your waist.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, his eyes soft and loving as he looked up at you.

Leaning down, you pressed your forehead against his. Peter’s hands tightened on your waist, tugging you closer till your chest was pressed against his.

“I have another wound you haven’t patched up for me yet.” He spoke softly.

“Yeah?” You asked, fully expecting him to be playing a bit, the smile already starting to tug at the corners of your lips. “Where, sweetie?”

He smiled right back at you, sticking his hand between where your chests were pressed together and pressing on the spider emblem on the center of his suit, making the fabric deflate with a soft breath and flood around him.

Pushing the suit away for him, you noticed a scratch on his chest you hadn’t realized was there before, making you frown. It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t bleeding, but it was long and a harsh shade of red, the skin around it tinged pink with irritation, and it definitely could’ve used a cleaning.

“Petey, baby, why didn’t you show me this before?” You asked softly, shifting in his lap as you leaned over to grab the kit again.

Peter sighed, biting back a smile. This was exactly what he’d needed, that soft, gentle voice of yours you used on him whenever he stopped by bruised and banged up. “Why, you think it’s bad sweetheart?”

“No, no, thank god…” you muttered as you got to work on the scratch. “But I bet it burns. Does it hurt, honey?”

“Yeah,” he answered, letting out a soft groan for show as he leaned further back against your headboard. One of his hands left your waist and found it’s way to your hair, playing with the strands and giving one a gentle tug every now and them.

“Peter,” you grumble, refusing to look up at him.

“Your hair is so soft.” He murmured in awe, as if he’d never seen anything like it before.

“Genetics.” You deadpanned. “Now stop distracting me, I’m trying to help you!”

“You are helping me, pretty girl. Just watching that gorgeous face while you bandage me up is doing half the healing already.” Another tug to your hair.

You swatted his hand away before poking his side with a soft smile. “No bandages for this one, sorry Pete. I’m just gonna have to heal you with kisses.”

“That sounds great,” he beamed widely. “Your kisses make me heal way faster than bandages, trust me, I speak from experience.”

Ignoring him, you leaned down and peppered a few soft kisses along his chest, staying beside the cut but never kissing the wound itself. You could feel his breathing stutter, the rhythmic movements of his chest turning irregular beneath your lips.

Peter hands on your waist tightened, his grip pushing you down on his lap. “Baby…” his voice was a soft, desperate thing, a deepness in his tone that made your stomach flip. Well that wasn’t right.

You sat back up, picking up a leg to swing over and slide off his lap but his hands on your waist slid down to your thighs quickly, stopping you.

“What’re you doing, pretty girl?” The utter betrayal on his face almost had you second-guessing what you’d done for something way worse. “Why’d you stop?”

“You’re hurt, Petey,” you answered simply, “we’re not doing anything tonight.”

“W-what? I’m not hurt, no, I’m fine! I’m perfect!”

“Really? I thought you were at death’s door.”

“Oh that…Yeah, no, he sent me away. Said it wasn’t my time.”

“Right, of course,” you murmured, nodding your head with all seriousness.

“Your kisses were working,” he stated sincerely, “you have to keep going!”

“Whatever you say, handsome.” You smiled, leaning in to press your lips to his.

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #tasm #hes so cute #so silly #i need him #why isnt he real

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mitobozo · 26 days ago

Text

This made me giggle a little bit

lessons in sexting ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

warnings: very suggestive! (18+)

“PETER!” you exclaimed, and he dropped inside of your bedroom window. You lay on your shared bed where you once waited for him to arrive. He yanked off his mask and crawled between your legs, quickly placing his hand along your waist and head buried in your chest. “What’s wrong?”

“I can never go outside again,” he muffled, turning his face to the side as he remained on your chest.

“What are you talking about?”

He dug around in his pocket before grabbing his phone and scrolling to find a picture of himself. Lying down, his sight refused to meet yours as his head remained turned to the side, and he raised his phone to your face. “Read the text.”

The photo was quite…shameful. In the photo, the phone was angled downwards towards the bottom half of his thin, sweaty suit. Peter was unbelievably hard and gripping his erection above the material. The upper half of the photo showed Peter’s teeth gripping his mask, drippings of sweat falling down his face. Underneath it was a text that read, “Baby, I miss you <3”

“I didn’t get this text-”

“Look up,” he murmured, and you moved your eyes to see that he sent it to Harry. You couldn’t help but laugh, Peter then groaned into your body and placed his hands on his face.

“Is business rough these days? I didn’t realize Spiderman offered this kind of service.” You laughed, slamming his phone down on the bed.

“Please.” he began, “He hasn’t responded 'cause it's late but I know he will never let this die.”

“I don’t know if I will either!”

“I missed, you!” He exclaimed. “It was getting boring and hot in that suit.”

“If it helps,” you whispered, running your fingers through his unkempt hair. “You looked good.”

“Really good?” He murmured, moving his eyes up to your face before placing kisses on the top of your breasts.

“Mmm hmm,” you hummed, nodding as Peter moved to hover above your body, placing you beneath him as he kissed you deeply. “Really good.”

#peter parker #tasm

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mitobozo · 26 days ago

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AHHH HE LOOKS SO PRETTY, I LOVE THIS SM! BLENDING THIS ART AND CHUGGING IT RARARARARA

Someone on here said “I love the way you draw Andrew” and that was enough for me to draw for the full 48 hours after HDHAH

Thank you so much to that person for the compliment and the motivation RAH <3

I’m going to clean up the linework some more but was way too excited to share, I’m kinda proud of this one

(Edit: I cleaned it up a little >:D TOP LEFT SPIDEY GAVE ME ISSUES FR 🫡)

#andrew garfield #tasm peter parker #peter parker #tasm #hes so cute #i love artists #let me eat it

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mitobozo · 26 days ago

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So real, Gwen's stronger than me if this man showed up to my room? Looking like this? Im bouncing on it🥰🙏🏼

Does anyone else wanna just sink your fingers into his hair and yank him backwards so you can kiss him so hard he forgets his own name or is that just me?

#peter parker #tasm peter parker #tasm peter #need that #hes so cute

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mitobozo · 26 days ago

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Silent reblog, Im so cooked chat

IN IT FOR THE MONEY

.---------------$$$----------------.

Rodrick Heffley x AMAB!Reader // SMUT

(reader has a penis but is always regarded with they/them. there is no name either. your name is your pronoun)

YOU'RE BOTH AROUND THE SAME AGE!!

Summary: Rodrick gives the reader head in a public bathroom for 150$ :3 (it's not really only for the money)

Content warnings: public/semi-public sex (theyre in a bathroom) getting caught (kind of?), cum swallowing, blowjobs, palming as masturbation, face-fucking, choking & gagging (it's okay because he likes it), sub!rodrick, dom!reader, hair pulling, inexperienced!rodrick, praise kink

Rodrick was kneeling, the dips of the tiled floor leaving indents on his knees, but the rush and pleasure of sucking someone's dick in a public restroom easily overshadowed the discomfort. If either of them were too loud, they could be easily found out, and it made him shiver with excitement; the risk of getting caught in this little scheme... His stomach fluttered at the thought of it. The adrenaline spurred him on.

There were the uncomfortable sounds and grunts of overs in the stalls beside them, but only thing he could focus on was pleasuring the person sitting down on the covered seat of the toilet in front of him. Besides, the light haze of pleasure that laid over his mind made his thoughts almost fuzzy. He could barely bring his attention to anything but the cock shoved down his throat.

"Mmm...that's it, baby," they groaned.

Rodrick blushed a nice shade of red as he glanced up shyly, and the corners of his mouth curved up into a little smile around the dick in his mouth.

The blowjob was sloppy, messy, and clearly wasn't the best. But since Roddy here was inexperienced, they had to give him some slack. He'd managed to take their length into his mouth nicely, and even if his hands were hesitant as he gripped the base of it, he was stroking whatever of their length he hadn't put into his mouth. It wasn't the worst, and if push came to shove, they were open to fucking his face whether he liked it or not; He needed to work for the 150$ that he swore was the only reason he was doing this for.

But they knew those glances he'd throw at them in the halls. They felt his eyes on them everytime he thought he was being discreet about checking them out. They knew the needy and almost dreamy looks he gazed at them with whenever they entered the room.

The temptation of money and a bribe wasn't the only thing that prompted him to accepting their offer.

"Keep going." A grin grew on their face as their grip tightened in Rodrick's hair. "You're doing so well, baby."

He let out a soft moan at the sting of it, the sound reverberating up their cock as he bobbed his head up and down with hallowed cheeks.

It wasn't like they said it with empty words either. Despite it's mediocrity, they could already feel their gut twisting into knots as their orgasm approached.

"Ah..." they moaned softly, a low, drawn out sound that had Rodrick's heart stuttering in arousal. They bucked their hips up into Rodrick's mouth. A snicker left their lips when the drummer sputtered on their dick in turn, gagging softly.

Their amusement only furthered when he'd glared up at them for that. And god, with a face like that--flushed a pretty red and his brows furrowed in frustration, saliva dripping down his chin--they couldn't help but bite their lip.

"What?" They teased. "Can't someone enjoy themself?"

More focused on the task at hand than focused on responding to them with his mouth occupied, Rodrick rolled his eyes and bobbed his head again.

He squirmed slightly on the cool flooring of the restroom, rubbing his thighs together in attempt to relieve the uncomfortable feeling standing at attention in his pants while he sucked them off. He'd been like this the moment they'd offered him money to suck them off: painfully hard, from the first thought about the erotic scene they painted into his head, and from now. His own weeping cock was slowly spilling in his boxers, pre-cum beading and leaking out the tip, entirely neglected, untouched, and desperate for attention. Just like he was.

Their dick was heavy on his tongue, and he could feel the vein that ran along the bottom of it's length as he sucked on it. His gut churned hot with arousal and excitement as he bobbed his head. Every second felt like a jolt of electrifying pleasure ran through him, knowing that this was them who he was sucking off, that it was them who had him on his knees and his dick so hard he could've cried, but made him hold back from touching himself because they'd told him to. He couldn't believe this was actually happening. It didn't feel real, but he knew it was. He listened intently to their soft moans and groans, matching them with a breathy moan of his own as he tasted them. There was the salty, bitter, flavor of their pre-cum dripping into his mouth when he ran his tongue over the tip of their dick.

It felt warm, throbbing with his lips around it, and he felt like he had been set on fire with utter desire.

He looked back up at them when they demanded his attention with a tug of his hair. A soft whimper was stifled around their dick as it left his bruised, plump, lips.

"Fuck yeah, good boy. Keep your eyes up here, yeah?" Rodrick heard them pant out, with their voice low and heavy with pleasure, and he did his absolute best to do what they'd said.

He had to fight to keep from touching himself even as their fingers tangled within his hair and held tightly, rolling their hips up into his mouth as they took charge and forced his head up and down their length like a fleshlight.

Rodrick's hands scrambled for purchase, finding themselves gripping their thighs as they practically fucked his face. His mind went fuzzy as his gut burned with desire as hot as his crotch. He fought for breath as they thrusted right into his mouth.

God, he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to jerk himself off so badly at that point. He was absolutely relishing the fact that he was being used by them for their own pleasure. Just by experiencing their dick hit deep inside his throat as he gagged and choked around it felt as if it was enough to get him off.

He let one of his hands let go of their thigh as he pressed a palm down hard on his own raging boner, barely able to stop himself after accidentally jerking his hips up into his own touch. Just some pressure...it wasn't going against their requests if he wasn't jerking off, was it?

Their fingers dug into his scalp, and his into the fabric of their sweatpants, as they brought his head up and down. He gagged, a disgusting concoction of spit, saliva, and pre-cum dripping from his lips as he moaned. "Some pressure" turned to him palming himself roughly, desperately, pathetically.

"Shit, shit, fuck- God, yes, Rodrick," they moaned, along with some other obscene language his foggy mind couldn't quite understand as he was entirely focused on the pounding of their cock against the insides of his throat. God, he would not be able to speak properly after this.

Their movements noticeably had gotten sloppier, not that it was as obvious to Rodrick as he palmed himself furiously, whining around their cock as his hips jerked, sensitive.

Finally--finally--after what felt like both too long and too short of them fucking his face, Rodrick heard a particularly loud moan leave them as they came. A shudder went through their body while a hot rush of thick, creamy, cum filled Rodrick's mouth, and he whimpered when--at the very same time--they lowered his head all the way down to their groin.

The thick load of cum paired with their dick still stuffed down his throat provoked another gag as he was kept down there, choking as his mind blanked. Spit? Or swallow? Would he be gross and disgusting for taking it down? Fuck, but he wanted to so badly.

It was dripping down his throat. God, it was so much.

But he let it sit in his mouth for now, letting the salty flavor marinate over his tongue as they kept their dick nestled in his mouth. He couldn't decide yet while he still chased his high, pressing his palm down against his groin and bucking his hips. It felt so fucking good.

They were slowly moving his head up and down their dick as they fucked his throat through their orgasm. He could feel their cum being fucked down his throat as he gagged, almost choking on it as he struggled for steady breathing. It was difficult to properly focus. It felt like he couldn't at all--his mind was scrambled.

He let out stifled moans and whimpers around their cock as he palmed his own, the pressure building up inside him like a tsunami. Then, the waves crashed down, blanking everything for a glorious minute, as he shivered and came. Cum squirted out in an uncomfortable, sticky, mess into his boxers and pants, being spread down to his inner thighs as he squirmed.

He tried to manage his heavy, laboured, breathing while he was still kept on their dick like a cockwarmer. Fuck, did he love it though. He wouldn't mind staying here, kneeling on the cold tiles of a public bathroom, warming their dick in his mouth for hours--

With a pleasured sigh, they finally pulled Rodrick's head off their dick with an erotic wet sound. He was almost disappointed.

"Open wide..."

He coughed and found himself falling limp against their legs, quivering from his orgasm. Parting his lips let their cum dribble out his mouth and back onto their dick, so he swallowed down the sticky fluid before licking a stripe up their cock to get all that cum.

It throbbed against his tongue as he made contact, sensitive with overstimulation slowly setting in, and he heard a hiss from above him. From them.

"Ah..."

Rodrick couldn't believe he was doing this. It was so gross but so...sexy too. His face burned with both humiliation and excitement, feeling their eyes on him as he licked up their cum with a foggy mind. Once he was done, panting, he rested his head down on their thigh.

He gazed up at them to meet their eyes, sighing as their grip in his hair loosened to slowly comb through his locks.

"Good job," he heard them say. "You did so good for me..." Rodrick shivered at the praise, letting out a soft, breathy, whimper in response.

Then, another voice, that was very distinctly not them--

"Yo, who the fuck had sex in here?"

Shit.

#rodrick heffley #male reader #money is money

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mitobozo · 26 days ago

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Oh no, Tumblr found out my third weakness

"College boy." Rodrick Heffley x male!reader pt 2

THIS IS AN ABSOLUTELY GOATED request for part 2 from 🌾🍞 anon, who asked for a part 2 and I'm flattered!! I'M SORRY, ITS BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU REQUESTED A PART 2, I HAVE EXAMS AAAAA- Hope you enjoy this part too (they get freaky)...!! Mwaaaaa asks always open guys, I love them!

cw: period-typical attitudes to being gay (not homophobia though), male/amab reader, older/college reader (21), Rodrick in last year of highschool, so he's 18, awkward first-time blowjobs, rude/crude teenage boy humour

★ It's been a while since Rodrick tripped over his sexuality, thinking of you so badly he actually couldn't escape a speeding ticket when driving his van. So now he actually has to walk home and he hates it. Even worse when a certain convertible pulls up and he REALLY doesn't want to decline a free ride... click here for part 1

Rodrick needed to back-track this all. Okay, he'll admit, he WAS thinking about it. Thinking about it all day, all week.

It all started when he got Heather's number when he flirted with her outside the bowling alley, and told him to "swing by sometime." And he had. Of course he had. He was Rodrick Fucking Heffley, who got punked by a group of highschool girls.

So how the hell did he end up slammed against a granite countertop, gripping a stranger's expensive shirt while their tongue was halfway down his throat?

Well, turns out Heather's older brother wasn't just some preppy dude with a nice car. He was hot. Older, confident, smug as hell — the kind of guy who looked at Rodrick like he was a stray dog he was about to either adopt or put in his lap just to see what would happen.

And Rodrick let it happen.

No one knew. He hadn't talked about it. Who would he even tell? Rodrick hadn't even looked him in the eye the next time he came around to pick Heather up — just stayed silent, face hot, like he was afraid his dick was gonna remember what happened if he said more than a sentence.

Now it's been a couple weeks.

And today, Rodrick was trying so hard to look cool.

He was waiting out front of the school with his bandmates, sprawled across the sidewalk like they owned the place, cracking jokes and pretending they weren't all probably failing. Rodrick had his jacket off his shoulders like it was a cape. Fingerless gloves, shirt unbuttoned just enough to say yeah, 'I know I'm hot,' eyeliner smudged on purpose.

It was a whole look. And you were eating it up.

Heather was taking forever. Probably reapplying lip gloss or bullying freshmen or whatever she did.

His friends were trickling off, getting picked up or peeling away on their sad little skateboards one by one. Rodrick stayed put, tapping his boot against the pavement, adjusting his chain wallet, glancing at his phone for no reason. Just vibing.

And then?

Then he heard it.

A car horn — short, sharp, and obnoxious — ripped through the air like a slap across the face.

Rodrick's head snapped up.

He finally noticed you.

Window down. Arm draped out the side, knuckles loose on the wheel. Designer sunglasses. Lip between your teeth, chewing gum slow and deliberately like you were in a goddamn commercial. The engine purred like a threat. You looked like sin on legs and a fat inheritance.

And you were looking right at him.

Rodrick froze like he'd just been caught with his pants down.

Because in a way, he had. And after what happened last time? He doesn't want to imagine having his pants down, because... well, that's obvious.

The car didn't roll past. It lingered. Engine purring low AGAIN like it was laughing at him.

Rodrick squinted against the sun, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck. He didn't move. He could've walked away, sure. Pretended he didn't see you. Kept his pride and maybe a shred of sanity.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw clenched like he was trying to win a fight he didn't even know he was in yet.

The convertible idled in front of him, all sleek lines and ego. Then came the voice.

"Hey, loser."

You were leaned out the window, sunglasses low on your nose, gum clicking against your teeth. That grin on your face? It was unholy. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Rodrick rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw the moment you kissed him play out in the back of his skull. "Real original," he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Aw, don't pout." You stretched your arm a little farther out the window, flexing your fingers mockingly. "I figured you'd be flattered I remembered you."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not." He puffed up a little, angling his shoulder like he wanted to block your view but couldn't stop himself from inching closer to the car. "What're you even doing here?"

You popped your gum. Loud. "Picking up my bitchy little sister. What else?"

Rodrick blinked. "Heather?"

"Duh."

His brows knit together, mouth twitching like he couldn't decide between confusion or sarcasm. "She left like... fifteen minutes ago."

You tilted your head, mock confusion on your face.

"Did she now?"

You slammed your palm hard against the outside of the door with a thunk, arm still draped lazily out the window, wrist dangling like you owned the whole damn parking lot. The car jumped slightly under your force, and Rodrick actually flinched.

You didn't smile, cursing obnoxiously loud, "That bitch."

For a second, his face was all wide eyes and instinct, like a feral cat cornered behind a dumpster.

Then he burst out laughing.

Not just a chuckle—a full, mocking cackle that cracked out of his chest like he was watching a soap opera and you were the main character having a meltdown. "Holy shit," he snorted, "You look like a pissy brat. Relax, man."

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut the hell up."

Rodrick took a step forward, one arm just above the driver's window, leaning in casually and milking this new authority—like he'd won something. "Touchy, huh? Thought you were all grown up—"

"Touchy?" you cut him off sharply, voice low now, almost a growl. "You wanna talk about touchy? Last time I recall you're the kid—a kid with a raging boner."

The laugh caught in his throat.

Rodrick's mouth opened, then closed. Like maybe if he stared at you long enough, you'd take it back. His ears turned a distinct, traitorous red.

You popped your gum again, the sound sharp as a slap, and let your arm hang loose again like you weren't even phased. You stared into his face, his more rigid posture and his fist against your car. You weren't phased, god no, you saw pathetic, barely legal teens running their mouths all the time. But this time, you wanted that mouth on something else—eyeliner, cracked lips and smudged makeup all.

Rodrick, however, looked like someone had just unplugged his amp mid-set.

"Well?" You grin, eyes flicking from his face down to his studded belt then back up again, "You better run home, buddy. Before your mommy tells y' off or something?"

Rodrick didn't move.

His hand curled into a loose fist against the top of your car door, knuckles pale like he was using it to stay grounded. His eyes flicked down to the tires, then your rims, then back to your face. He was quiet for a second too long, and that silence said everything.

You raised an eyebrow. "What, cat got your tongue?"

"No," he muttered, voice tighter now, jaw clenched like he'd just bit down on glass. "Just thinkin'."

You leaned your cheek into your shoulder, blinking at him real slow. "Let me guess. Van trouble?"

Rodrick's eyes narrowed.

You huffed a little laugh, shifting in your seat. "Right. You've been walking, haven't you? What happened, Daddy find out you drive like a bat outta hell?"

He didn't respond, just gave you a glare that tried to be threatening but only made you smirk harder.

You dragged your tongue across your teeth and clicked your gum again. "I'll give you a ride."

Rodrick perked up ever so slightly, but you held up a hand like a cop issuing a citation.

"Backseat."

His face dropped.

"What?"

You popped the car door lock with a little click, lazily jabbing your thumb over your shoulder. "You heard me. You wanna get driven, you sit in the back. Can't have you near the stereo, you might get ideas."

"Are you serious?" His voice cracked with disbelief and something dangerously close to a whine.

You smiled now, mean and slow. "Dead serious."

Rodrick looked at the door, then at you, jaw working like he was chewing rocks. "You treat me like a fuckin' dog, man."

You shrugged. "Nah. I like dogs."

He muttered something under his breath—definitely a curse, probably directed at you—but he opened the back door anyway, dragging his feet like he was being escorted to a prison van.

You watched him slump into the seat through the rearview mirror. "Good boy."

Rodrick flipped you off immediately, middle finger directed at you through the mirror, leanign against the window like a little shit.

You didn't start the car.

Instead, you leaned forward, grabbing a fresh piece of gum from the center console, slow and deliberate like you were on a break instead of chauffeuring some crusty eyeliner gremlin with control issues. You unwrapped it with a flick of your wrist, popped it in your mouth, and started chewing again, slow like molasses.

Rodrick squinted at you through the rearview mirror. "Dude. What are you—?"

You turned, not your whole body, just your head, resting your elbow on the wheel like you had all the time in the world. "You want some?"

He looked at the pack, then at you, suspicious. "Is that the weed kind?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, princess. I wouldn't waste the good shit on you. Pink lemonade. Super innocent. Calm down."

Rodrick gave a little scoff but didn't move.

"Suit yourself," you said with a hum, stretching just enough to spit the old gum into a tissue and stuff it into the door pocket. "More for me."

A pause.

"Just drive," Rodrick gritted, leaning his forehead against the glass like he was trying to escape by osmosis or something.

You made a soft noise of protest, exaggerated and bratty. "Can't. Finishing my gum. Can't you see? My mouth's busy."

Rodrick groaned, leaning back again, both hands in his hair now.

You caught his eye in the mirror, that same mirror where he'd glared at you, flipped you off, bit back a dozen smartass retorts. And now?

Now his gaze was stuck. Jaw clenched. Thighs spread just a little too wide.

Your smirk curved wider, and you tilted your head.

"Unless," you said, voice dropping slow and sticky, "you want your mouth busy too?"

Rodrick stopped breathing.

Like actually. You saw it. His chest locked up, and his eyes darted from your mouth to the back of your headrest and then down to his lap like maybe that would save him. He HAD been thinking about it all week. He was basically semi-hard for days, honestly (though he'd never admit it), too embarrassed to jack it off.

You didn't turn around. Just stayed staring into the rearview, chewing your gum, letting the quiet buzz of the car hold the moment taut.

And now Rodrick Heffley looked less like a punk and more like a problem about to beg for one himself.

"Well?"

Rodrick cleared his throat. Loud. Like maybe that'd distract from the very obvious urge

"I'm not— gay— or into...that—," he muttered.

You raised your brows at the mirror. "Cool. Neither is gum, but you've been chewing on me with your eyes since the kitchen."

"Jesus," he groaned, pushing his palms to his face. "You don't get it."

"No, I do." You smirked and let your tongue flick against the gum once. "You're not gay. You just—what? Accidentally had your tongue down my throat? Accidentally got hard? Accidentally stood in the shower for twenty minutes thinking about it, but didn't jack off because that would make it gay?"

Rodrick flinched. You grinned. You knew.

His hands dropped to his lap again. "I didn't—fuck off, dude—"

"Aw, c'mon," you crooned, turning your head just slightly now, still leaned casually against the wheel like you had all the cards. "I'm just saying. If you're gonna moan about being straight, you might wanna stop looking like you're one lip-bite away from crawling up here and asking me to fuck you."

He scowled, flustered, but didn't deny it.

You let the silence crawl back in, slow and viscous, like syrup in the heat. Then, softly but it wasn't meant to soothe him or anything—the exact opposite actually,

"Unless that's not what you want. Maybe you don't wanna fuck. Maybe you just wanna suck."

Rodrick blinked, almost spluttering over nothing. "What the hell—"

"Not a bad option." You popped your gum again. "Start slow. Feel it out. Literally. Could be an experiment. You're in high school, right? Great time for science."

Rodrick looked like he might short-circuit. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

He's a highschooler, a dude at that too—sex and porn is meant to be funny, obnoxious and excite him. Not nervous, god why is he nervous?

Then, very softly, his gaze dropped and he muttered something that sounded like:

"...I mean—not...I dunno..."

It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either. You could work with that.

You reached up and killed the engine. The quiet thud echoed loud in the space between you. You unbuckled your seatbelt, smooth and slow, then rolled your neck like you had time to kill.

Then, one hand shoved casually in your pocket, you stepped out of the car.

Rodrick straightened in the backseat, heart pounding like the drums he thought made him cool.

And you rounded the side, steps easy. Measured. Like you weren't about to absolutely ruin him, "Let's take care of that week-long boner, loser."

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Rodrick had to stop himself from backing away, cursing at first but shut up immediately. No time wasted — your fingers curled around his collar, tugging him forward until your mouths collided in a kiss so messy it knocked your teeth together. He tasted like Coke and teenage desperation, and you still tasted like that gum you'd been chewing, artificial mint and sugar, sweet and sharp on his tongue. It made his knees weak.

He leaned back against the seat, trying to match your rhythm, but he was all nerves and fidgeting hands, kissing like someone who'd had a few hot dreams and maybe tried it once behind a garage in seventh grade. Your lips moved slow, dragging over his in a way that had him chasing after the contact, heat rising up his neck. Every time your teeth scraped his lower lip, he gasped into your mouth like you'd stolen all the air from the car.

You kissed like you were used to this. Like you knew how to melt someone down to mush without even breaking a sweat. And Rodrick, poor Rodrick, who always tried so hard to look cool with his flannels and black nail polish and that stupidly smug walk, was crumbling already.

You gripped the sides of his unbuttoned flannel, easing it off his shoulders, one arm at a time, and he let you, blinking up at you like you were something holy and dangerous. Underneath, his vintage Iron Maiden tee clung to his chest, collar stretched and sleeves rolled, like he'd tried way too hard to look effortless that morning. He wasn't pulling it off now—he looked flustered, cheeks pink and lips slick, like he'd been caught in something too big for him.

He shifted, sitting up slightly, and fumbled at the button of your jeans. His fingers were trembling. He missed the catch the first time, then the second. His nails scraped your waistband. You didn't help—just watched, still half-straddling him in the cramped backseat, licking your lips like you were enjoying the show.

"Take your time," you said, slow and syrupy, practically crooning it against his jaw.

Rodrick froze. Looked up at you, eyes wild, like you'd just pulled a gun on him. His face twisted, flustered and furious, and he scoffed, "Fuck you. You're takin' the piss right now."

You laughed, quiet and rich, leaning in until your forehead bumped his. "Nah," you whispered, your lips brushing his again, so soft it made him twitch. "I just like watching you try."

His breath hitched. You kissed him again—this time slower, letting him taste the gum still on your tongue, sticky-sweet and minty. It pissed him off on how good it tasted—he made a mental note to actually take the gum next time you offered.

Next time? God, why is he even thinking about a "next time"?

It took Rodrick a solid thirty seconds to finally undo your belt. He kept tugging at the wrong loop, too forceful, too clumsy, and you leaned your weight back on your palms, watching him like this was entertainment. Maybe it was. His brows were drawn together, lips parted in concentration. When he finally got the tongue of the belt through the buckle, he let out a breath like he'd just cracked a safe.

The zipper was easier—he tugged it down in one slow motion, the sound loud in the heated silence of the car. He paused when your cock was free, stiff and flushed, the tip already glistening. His eyes widened just a little. You didn't miss it. You never did. You've done this a few times before, but he clearly hasn't even seen porn of two dudes before.

"You're a guy too, Rodrick," you said, voice warm with amusement. "You know what feels good, right?"

He nodded, hesitant. One hand cupped you awkwardly, his fingers twitching like he wasn't sure where to start, then finally curled around your cock. His touch was cautious at first—slow pumps, like he was still testing the waters. But it only took a few strokes before he found a rhythm, the kind that made your hips jerk slightly forward into his hand.

"Mmph," you exhaled, half-laughing, half-moaning. "Damn. You're pretty good at this."

That did it—Rodrick's cheeks lit up instantly, a flush rising from his collar to the tips of his ears.

You tilted your head, grin sharp. "So how often do you jerk off to get this good at handling dick, huh?"

He choked on air—literally coughed, pulling his hand back like your cock had burned him or something. "What the fuck—?!"

You laughed outright this time, low and throaty, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back to your crotch. "Relax. I said you were good. Don't go getting all shy on me now."

Rodrick muttered something again—something that might've been fuck off or I hate you or Jesus Christ—but he was still holding you, still moving his hand, and you were still panting through your teeth, barely holding in a groan.

"Don't just use your hands," you said slowly, your voice going silkier, heavier. "Use your mouth. C'mon."

His eyes snapped to yours like you'd just pulled the emergency brake mid-highway. "What?!"

You just tilted your hips forward, cock tapping lightly against his lower lip, a bead of precum catching on the edge of his mouth. "C'mon. I've seen how you stare. Open up. I'll tell you what to do."

He was frozen. And then, so slowly it was almost comical, his lips parted, breath trembling.

"Keep your head down. Windows are glass, y'know?" you murmured, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding his head down to hollow out his mouth. "Now choke on something for real, babe."

Rodrick pulled off for a moment, panting and wet lips against your tip, brows furrowed in a weak glare, "Call me babe again, I'll bite your fucking dick off."

You huffed a laugh, "Sure, sweetheart."

And before he could snap back, you nudged his mouth open again with a firm, guiding hand on his scalp.

He went back down slower this time. Less out of hesitation—more like...curiosity. His lips wrapped around your tip, warm and tentative, and you felt the way he breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring as the weight of your cock settled onto his tongue. The taste hit him in waves—salty, bitter, heady—and his whole face twitched like he didn't know if he hated it or if he wanted more.

He tried to hide it. Tried to pretend he was indifferent. But you saw the way his lashes fluttered, the way his eyes briefly closed when you twitched in his mouth. That tiny throb of your cock against his tongue? He felt it. And it made him shift in his seat.

He was getting hard.

You caught the way his thighs pressed together. How his hips squirmed, almost guilty, like maybe if he clenched up tight enough his dick wouldn't be leaking against the inside of his jeans right now.

You groaned, low and pleased, hips barely tilting forward. "That's it. Good, fuck..."

Rodrick didn't answer. Couldn't—not with his mouth full, and your fingers tugging lightly at his hair to keep him there. But his eyes flashed up at you, defiant and pink-cheeked, watery with effort. You were thick, and he still wasn't used to it. His jaw ached, his throat was trying to suppress a gag, and yet he didn't pull off again.

You gave a shallow thrust—just enough for him to feel your cock stiffen inside his mouth.

He shuddered.

Rodrick groaned, and the sound vibrated down your length. He didn't want to answer. But his mouth stayed open. He sucked back down, slower, deeper this time, spit dragging from his chin to your base.

He liked it.

He hated that he liked it.

And you could feel the tremble in his thighs when your cock bumped the back of his throat again—could see the way he rocked ever so subtly into his seat, chasing a little friction, desperate not to make a sound.

You noted it through hazy vision, furrowing your brows to make use of it. A little surprise never hurt anyone, right?

Your hips twitched once—just once, experimentally—up into the wet heat of his mouth. And that was all it took.

Rodrick flinched with a surprised grunt, the motion nudging him deeper, forcing him to adjust and—fuck—he didn't back off. He actually followed through, the shift in pressure making your thighs tense.

"Oh—fuck..." you groaned under your breath, fingers tightening in his hair, guiding him just enough, but letting him choose to keep going.

And he did. Mouth working messily and drooling now, rhythm shaky but there, flushed red from his ears down his throat, like sucking you off was getting him off too—and it was. His own hips kept shifting like he didn't know what to do with the ache in his jeans. Because he really didn't—the closest thing he's ever been to cumming untouched was a wet dream.

You caught it just between the messy fold of his clothes —the way his hand hovered near his waistband, unsure, then gave in.

Your hand clenched against the car seat. The air felt thinner, charged, like it was vibrating around you both.

And when it hit, it hit hard. Your breath shuddered out, spine arching just a little, and Rodrick jerked at the taste, the sudden strange texture filling his mouth, but didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. He stayed right there, like he didn't know what else to do except ride it out with your cock in his mouth.

A second later, he slumped forward with a stifled gasp, forehead thudding lightly against your thigh. His mouth still damp. His belt half undone. He was breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile, and the way he clung to your leg like it was anchoring him made your lips twitch into a slow, smug smile.

His face was pink. Embarrassed and glowing all at once.

You ran a hand through his sweaty bangs, barely brushing your knuckles over the back of his neck.

"Damn," you muttered, catching your breath. "You're wayyy too good at that for a guy who's not into dudes."

Rodrick groaned into your thigh, trying to burrow and hide his face. "Shut up."

You couldn't. Not when he looked so cute— his face was a warm, flushed colour and eyeliner that began to run after sucking your cock pricked a few tears at his eyes.

You noticed the stickiness against the loosened waist of his jeans, his hips twitching in tiny, involuntary aftershocks. A huff of laughter slipped out of you before you could stop it—mean, but kind of stunned, too.

He's still catching his breath like he's fighting off the shame. You take the bait, whistling slightly as you motion to the crotch of his jeans where he'd cum, "Didn't even have to touch you, damn. Liked it that much?"

Rodrick groaned loudly, dragging the sleeves of his discarded flannel over his face like he could disappear inside them. His whole face went about as red as the knobs on your car radio, and when he didn't snap back right away—not with a joke, not with a shove, not even a middle finger—you blinked.

He was mortified. It would be too easy to push him further, but you decide to let up this time.

Your teasing tapered instantly. "Hey," you said, voice gentler now. Your fingers skimmed along his shoulder, grounding. "Hey, I'm not—"

He didn't lift his head, "Oh, fuck off."

You shifted, letting your palm settle between his shoulder blades. "Look, I'm not gonna keep going if you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," His voice was still muffled into your jeans, but more steady, holding more vigour now, "Just. Shut the fuck up."

You did, scoffing and half-relieved his bite came back. "...You think your parents'll care if you stay out a few more hours? Or are you some curfew princess."

His head tilted, just slightly. "What?"

"Just asking," you shrugged, voice casual, but your thumb brushed behind his ear, playing with the fake cuff on them.

Rodrick's still reeling from the mess he just made, but he lifts his head, blinking at you. His face is a mess of emotions—still a little red but some sort of gratitude that you aren't totally making fun of him at least.

"Yeah..." he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. "They're not home for a while."

You give him a wink, rubbing your thumb on his bottom lip now—feeling the stickiness of it from whatever of your cum he couldn't swallow. Or rather, coughed back up when trying to. "I'm staying my whole break here this time. If you're up for it."

Rodrick's eyes narrow in warning and disbelief. "You really are an asshole."

You shrug, still chewing your gum and leaning back in your seat. "I'm not heartless though."

He props himself up on his elbows, cogs turning in his head. Did you mean what he thought you meant?

"What?" You look at him, mumbling for the first time since you've met him. "I got hobbies besides being college fuckboy-trash."

Rodrick stares at you, eyes narrowed like he's trying to figure out if you're screwing with him again—but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying the smile he's fighting. He exhales a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, well...your other hobbies better include food. I'm starving."

You reach for the keys from your back pocket, gum snapping between your teeth in a smile you pray he didn't catch. "Guess it's your lucky night, Heffley. Hope you like drive-thru food and post-nut clarity."

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @cursed-carmine

#rodrick heffley #male reader

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mitobozo · 28 days ago

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This is cute, I fuck up cutesy fics like these I fear.

── THREE INCIDENTS ❤︎

❤︎ pairing: spencer x gf!reader

❤︎ summary: three different incidents that revealed to spencer’s team that he has a girlfriend.

❤︎ warnings / tags: fluff!

❤︎ author's note: i got a new tattoo on my wrist yesterday so it’s been a bit more difficult to write but i had this in my drafts!! hope you like it sweetiepies <3

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST ❤︎

incident number one - the mystery of the baked goods.

"where did they come from?" emily asked with furrowed brows, her head cocked to the side. "i have no idea..." morgan mumbled in response. "did you ask garcia if she brought them?"

"brought what?" garcia walked into the kitchen area, a wide smile on her face until she saw what was on the table, "oh."

"baby, did you bring those?" morgan asked, making the blonde shake her head, "no idea where they came from." "why's everyone gathered around-" jj's sentence was interrupted once she spotted the same thing garcia had. "do you think they're poisoned?" garcia whispered.

"what's going on, guys?" spencer came into the kitchen area with a smile on his lips, but unlike everyone else, he ignored what they were looking at, making a beeline towards the coffee maker, pouring some into his cup. "cupcakes." garcia responded.

spencer turned to face them with a slightly amused expression on his face, looking between the box of cupcakes to his team, "what about them?" he asked, lifting the coffee cup to his lips, "they just appeared there." emily said, making spencer let out a breath of a laugh, "no they didn't. i brought them."

"you? what'd you bring cupcakes for, kid?" morgan asked, "did i forget someone's birthday?" "no." spencer shrugged, "i brought them just because. if you guys don't want them i can—" "nope, we'll take them." morgan interrupted, grabbing a cupcake, the rest following suit.

that evening, spencer got to his apartment, recognizing the sound of debussy's rêverie playing on the record player and the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen. he took off his satchel and placing it in its usual spot. when he made his way into the kitchen, he saw you standing at the stove, a wooden spatula in your hand. spencer leaned his head on the doorway, a small smile as he watched you.

when you finally noticed spencer, a wide smile overtook your face, "hey there, stranger. how was work?" "tiring." he smiled, taking slow steps towards you. spencer wrapped his arms around your middle and pressing himself close to you, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck. "how was your day?"

"it was good." spencer mumbled, pressing a kiss against your neck that made you shiver. "they liked the cupcakes you made." "they did?" you smiled, "they did." "maybe i'll start baking more often."

and so... the BAU break room started having homemade baked goods every week. and every time, spencer said that he was the one who brought them.

incident number two - the mystery of the TARDIS mug.

spencer was seated at his desk, going over paperwork yet occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall as if willing it to move. spencer picked up his cup, taking a long sip of coffee, only to hear a loud gasp come from next to him.

when he lowered his cup, he saw garcia staring at it with wide eyes, "oh. my. god." she exclaimed, "where did you get that?"

spencer looked at the cup in his hand, a slight fond smile on his lips as he was brought back to the moment you gave him the TARDIS-shaped mug, the man beaming at you before lurching forward and pressing his lips on yours.

"oh, it was a gift." spencer smiled softly, "i don't know where it's from, but i'll ask her and i'll let you know."

penelope's smile quirked up at his response, "her?"

spencer cleared his throat, turning back to the paperwork and pretending to focus on it again, "it was from a friend." he replied quietly, but garcia still walked away with a grin on her lips.

incident number three - the mystery of the go-bag.

spencer had an eidetic memory, which made it nearly impossible for him to forget anything.

but that morning, his alarm clock had malfunctioned, and he was running late, and somehow... he had forgotten to take his go bag with him after having taken it to home to wash it.

hotch had said that they'd be leaving in thirty minutes, but it'd take spencer about forty-three minutes just to get to his apartment, and another to get back, and he couldn't possibly ask the team to stand back... he heard the ding! of the elevator, but the man ignored it. maybe he could call you and ask you to-

his train of thought was interrupted by someone clearing their throat, and when he looked up, spencer's eyes widened in surprise to see you standing in front of him, holding up his go-bag with your eyebrows raised and a slightly teasing smile. "you forgot something."

spencer rose to his feet, making his way over to you, completely unaware of the looks the two of you were receiving, "thank you, i just realized i didn't have it with me." your boyfriend said with an appreciative smile, "you also left your phone home." you chuckled softly, cocking your head to the side and holding out his phone, the man taking it and slipping it into his satchel, "thank you for bringing me these. i'll call you later, alright?"

"alright." you pressed a kiss too spencer's cheek, "love you."

"love you too." spencer replied, waving at you as you took a couple steps backwards, before turning around and walking to the elevator. he watched as you pressed the button, turning to look at him one more time and waving at him before getting onto the elevator.

"you have some explaining to do, pretty boy." morgan grinned, pressing his hand on spencer's shoulder, making the man's cheeks start to turn red.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff

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mitobozo · 2 months ago

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Yall... Me when me when hes a needy pathetic nerd... (Im NOT beating the freaky allegations)

Desk Pet.

Despite knowing the importance of work, Spencer still can't help but distract you in the worst way possible.

Warnings: Sub Spencer, meanish reader, slight pet play (use of nickname puppy), grinding, leg humping, cumming in pants, begging. // Sorry for disappearing! It will happen again!

WC: 3.0K

You were sitting at your desk in your bedroom, intently staring at your computer screen as you tried to file through your work. Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration and you were so deep in thought you didn’t even hear your boyfriend Spencer walk into the room.

He had been working late, so it was just past midnight. His footsteps were silent as he walked past you towards the bed. But he saw you were engrossed in your work and was going to sneak past you without disturbing you, but a thought popped into his mind and he suddenly couldn’t resist.

Biting your lip, you look down at the papers on the table and start to write something down, oblivious to the way Spencer was sneakily padding over to you with a clear intention in mind. You didn't know what he had planned, but you knew you couldn't afford any distractions right now.

He came up behind you and stood at your left-hand side. Your attention was still focused on the papers in front of you, much to his dismay. He leaned in slowly and kissed the right side of your neck, moving any pieces of hair that got in his way. He then nuzzled his face against your neck, his breathing becoming quick and shallow.

A shudder ran up your spine and your heart almost stopped before you processed what was happening as he snapped you out of your work-induced trance. After the initial shock, your eyebrows knit further in annoyance. You had a lot of things to get done, and he sure wasn't helping, and you knew he knew that.

"Not now, Spence. I'm really really busy, do you think you can give me a few hours?"

You try to sound as sweet as possible, because you knew for a fact that he could not wait a few more hours. He was impatient and needy at the worst times, now being one of them. You tried to ignore the warm feeling of his lips pressing tiny kisses against your neck.

“How about now? I just want a little taste..”

His lust blown eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked at you, with a slight playful smile. His voice sounded low and husky and his eyes burned with arousal. His words had a slight edge of desperation to them and he seemed to have no intention of giving up any time soon.

Breaking your gaze from your work you look at him just long enough that those wide eyes of his almost win you over, but you're quick to get back to writing as you shake your head. The desperation was evident in his voice, but you really had so much to do. You just couldn't afford to stop and give him what he wanted.

"Baby, I told you. I'm really busy, be a good boy and be patient for me, please?"

Spencer had looked like a hurt puppy when you turned away from him, he couldn’t believe you didn’t give in after his first time asking. His face twisted into a sad frown as you wrote on your stupid papers. He sighed again and tried harder to get your attention.

“Just a few minutes, please? Do I really have to wait until later?”

He asked pitifully. The puppy dog eyes and little frown that looked so adorable on his face were working overtime to get you to give in and fuck him already.

With a soft chuckle you look at him and shake your head once more. It was always hard to say no to him, and you rarely did, which is why he always took it so hard.

It was always so endearing how desperate he got when he didn't get what he wanted. You really did want to give him what he wanted, but he was far too spoiled already. He had to learn his lesson sooner or later.

"Spence, baby. Go lay down or read a book until I'm finished, I promise after I'm finished we can do whatever you want, okay? You'll be okay waiting for a bit."

He was determined to make you give in by any means necessary. The slacks he neglected to change out of were growing tighter by the second, heavy cock straining against the already uncomfortable material. He was so hard and needy and he didn’t know what he’d do if you kept this up.

Spencer leaned in closer to you, and his lips pressed against the side of your neck again. This time he sucked and swirled his wet tongue against it, creating a tingling feeling that spread throughout your body. He looked down at you with a pleading look, trying to make you give into his pleading and begging sooner rather than later.

“Please.. I-I can’t wait an entire night to be with you. I just can’t..” He whined, looking at you pitifully. His tone was almost like he was throwing a tantrum, and at this point he might as well have been.

"Well you're going to have to, if I don't get this finished I'm fucked."

You didn't even spare him the glance, already knowing he was giving you those pouty lips and sad puppy eyes. Maybe it was because you really did need to focus, or because you knew if you looked at him for longer than a second you wouldn't be able to.

His bottom lip curled downwards into a pout and he let out a sigh, before slowly leaning back away from you. He took a step back but his eyes remained glued on you.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll be a good boy..” He whined again, and pouted.

The dejected tone in his voice sent a pang through your heart, and you couldn't help the way you bit your lip in thought at how to proceed this. You knew you had to work, but you also knew how much he loved being around you. Sighing, you speak your compromise.

"Come here."

You called out in a firm voice, waiting for his presence behind you again.

He seemed a little surprised by your rather blunt word choice, but he obeyed nonetheless and came back over to stand behind you. Plus your tone of voice when you called for him turned him on in an instant. You still had your attention on your work and he knew that, but he liked the small progress he was making.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

He was still in a slightly dejected tone, but he had a glimmer of hope. He craved to hear and feel the passion and desire he knew you had inside of you, and he needed it now.

"Get on the ground."

You offhandedly said, as if it were nothing more than a passing thought. With your rolling office chair, you pushed yourself back a bit so he had more space. Space to sit underneath your desk like a good pet while you finish your work. He was so desperate for your attention, he'd take anything you offered.

The moment he heard those words his heart dropped into his stomach. He was so desperate to be with you, that even being right at your feet was more than he could ever ask for. He loved when you told him what to do and when to do something. He absolutely adored being ordered around.

Spencer was quick to obey you as he fell to his knees and crawled under the desk, waiting for more orders. His eyes burned with lust as he stared up at you.

Your eyes flickered down at him once he was settled between your legs, and you widened them the littlest bit more, just to tease him. Without another word, you began typing on your computer, seemingly ignoring him after telling him to kneel at your feet like a dog.

To put it simply, he was desperate to be noticed. He wanted your attention so bad he’d do anything for it. He wanted you to acknowledge him, give him the littlest glance and he’d be happy.

Yet, he still knew better than to bother you right now while you were working after already burning that bridge. So he just looked up at you as you typed away on your computer and waited for a sign from you. His eyes locked with yours that were glued to the screen and he looked at you with a gaze full of adoration and worship.

But you hadn't even been granted five minutes of peace and quiet before you felt him scooting closer towards you. He seemed to take a liking to your right leg, gravitating towards it and not so subtly opening his own legs to slot your calf between them. You stop typing for a moment, but you don't give the satisfaction of sight.

"Spencer."

Voice low and scolding, you warn him with just the call of his name. You thought you had given him more than enough attention, especially after he had been such a brat and refused to leave you alone. He's lucky you even let him sit under your desk, and now he was taking advantage of it.

His eyes darted forward when he heard your low, scolding voice, as if he had been caught. He looked at you with eyes that were positively spilling faux innocence, like he was expecting to be let off the hook.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

Spencer asked quietly, tilting his head to one side. His expression looked hopeful, like he was expecting more. A part of him was hoping to be rewarded for his behavior. He knew that wasn’t the case, though. You never rewarded misbehavior.

"Watch it."

You warned him once again. The tone in your voice was nothing short of intimidating and serious, and yet it did nothing but turn him on even more. You could feel his arousal throbbing against your ankle as he cozied himself up against your leg. You tried to ignore the weight and heat of his shaft pressing on you, but you were just a woman.

He rested his chin on your knee, eyes wide and sparkling. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked a little confused as he tried to figure out what he had done wrong so as to deserve your warning. You told him to get on the ground, you never told him he couldn’t use your leg to get himself off. He had no idea he was taking advantage of your kindness, and yet had no problem doing it.

“Watch what?”

The brunet asked innocently. He kept his eyes glued to yours, waiting to see what you were going to do, as if challenging you. The longer he looked up at you, the hornier he got. Taking a deep inhale through your nose and rolling your eyes, you snap at him.

"I've told you countless times, I need to get my work done. I can't give you what you want."

You reminded him once again, eyes darting everywhere on the desk and yet not one glance underneath it. You had hardly registered the way his hips were slowly rolling down against your leg and how his plush pink lips parted with a soft moan. He was grinding against you like a bitch in heat, barely listening to a word you said at this point.

He let out a whimper as he pushed the pulsing head of his dick against you without a care in the world. Those wide, adorable brown eyes of his looked so desperate as he continued to look up and try his best as to not be caught by you. You couldn't see it, but you felt his arms hook around your leg for more leverage to hump against you pathetically.

“I know, I know. I just–can’t wait. It has to be you..”

Your breath hitched as your breath got caught in your throat. Something about those words he just whimpered out, they were winning you over. You purse your lips with a sigh and look down at the pathetic puppy at your feet. The movements of his hips and crotch had slowed down, but you could tell he was just itching to start again. The way his eyebrows were slightly upturned in the temptation of bliss, and the soft puffs of a whimper leaving his mouth. It was too much, and you were worn weak.

"You have five minutes, if you don't get off by then, you leave this room. Understood?"

Spencer smiled widely when he heard what you agreed to, and he crawled forward more to hug your leg closer to his chest. Pressing his forehead against your knee, he made small, soft whimpering noises as he got to work.

“Yes, Ma’am. I understand. Five minutes.”

He recited back to you as coherently as he could, already lost in the feeling of your unmoving ankle colliding so deliciously with his leaking cock. He was staining the insides of his boxers with sticky warm precum, and the wetness made his head spin and his breath shallow.

Turning your attention back to the work at hand and not the bitch at your feet, you shake your head and try your hardest to ignore the way he was practically humping your leg at this point. He was trying his hardest to keep quiet, but it obviously wasn't working. If Spencer was anything, it was vocal when he felt his best. You could feel every stutter of his hips and the way the rest of his body shook when he pressed his arousal harder against the bone of your calf. You'd be lying if you told yourself this wasn't turning you on beyond belief, ignoring him as he used you for his own pleasure.

He pushed himself against your leg some more, but he didn’t push it too far for now. You knew he was about to burst, but he tried so hard to hold it in to enjoy it. He was breathing more heavily as instinctively kissed your knee. His sounds of need became louder with every hump.

“Oh, fuck.”

He shuddered out, his voice still low and sultry and nothing short of needy. His whole body quivered with the amount of effort he was using to hold on. Not only would it be humiliating to have finished not even thirty seconds after you granted him permission to get himself off, but it would be an utter waste of time.

As the seconds ticked by and approached his time limit, the push and pull of his lower body was almost maddening. He was rubbing himself so hard against you through his pants, and you secretly hoped he'd be able to finish in five minutes, considering how badly you wanted to see him make a mess without even having to touch him, let alone pay attention to him.

Spencer looked up at you, and he still had four minutes to go before his time was up. He was already out of control, and it was getting harder and harder to hold himself back.

He kept rubbing himself on you and making those low, desperate sounds. He was going to explode soon, and although unlikely, he hoped that you would stop working when those five minutes were up. He hoped you would finally pay attention to him. He was so needy and desperate. He wanted you now.

While he was having the time of his life grinding against you, it just wasn’t what he really needed. He needed to be buried inside of you, pushing as deep as he possibly can as your cunt sucked him in even further. He needed to have you gushing around him as his elbows gave out on him as he tried his hardest to keep fucking you through his third orgasm.

But he wasn’t going to get that, not tonight.

Deciding to try and be nicer to your poor boy, you move one hand away from your work and card it through his soft curls. Running your nails against his scalp, back and forth, as if to imitate the cant of his hips. It almost served as a silent praise, 'what a good job you're doing' you could have said, but you had a demeanor to keep up and a report to write up.

He couldn’t help the pathetic groan that was punched out of him at your touch. You always knew where he loved being touched the most, and you knew it never felt as good when he did it himself.

“Oh, fuck–please.”

The words left his mouth in a hiss as he pushed himself more against you. His jaw shook and his sounds grew in intensity as his body froze and he squeezed your leg impossibly tighter. It wasn't a moment later that you felt his entire body go rigid against you and his breath caught in his throat in what sounded like a choked sob.

The tightness of Spencer’s pants did nothing to mask his shame as he exploded into the poor stained fabric. His eyes instantly found your face and almost forced you to look right back at him as he finished. His mouth was quivering as pathetic whimpers and moans punched their way out of his throat. Thick spurts of warm cum made their way into his boxers. He had positively soaked the front of his pants, with a minute left to spare.

The moment he finished, he fell flat against you and his hand reached out and grabbed your thigh, clinging onto you like he was dying and you were his lifeline. His head was pressed firmly against your leg and he was still shaking and breathing heavily from his release.

His face was burning red from the strain he just went through. He felt as though he shot out his soul in the process of drenching himself. He had a stupid grin on his face as he looked up at you with pleading eyes.

“Can I stay now?” He asked in a desperate tone, with those same damned puppy dog eyes.

Rolling your eyes, you smile down at him and suck on your teeth. He always knew how to push your buttons and get what he wanted, every single time.

“Fine. But keep those hands to yourself.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #am i a whore?#i need that needy nerd #hes so pathetic #and hes just so nerdy

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mitobozo · 2 months ago

Note

I LOVE myself a pathetic needy nerd🤭

LITTLE BLURB ON SPENCER WAKING UP WITH THAT PAINFULLY HARD MORNING WOOD PLS PLS??

That one hc where you explained bro would rut his hips into the air, the tip of his cock rubbing against the material of his underwear making him whimper, GOD I NEED A BLURB FOR THAT PLS MAMA🙏

꩜ PAIRING: spencer reid x afab!reader

꩜ RATING: +18, mdni

꩜ WARNINGS/CONTAINS!: smut, male masturbation(kinda), morning wood, cumming in pants, that's abt it.

[WARNING!] - explicit sexual content! mdni!

spencer hated a lot of things about being away from you on cases, there was the fact he couldn't ramble to you about anything and had to be professional all the time, also that he couldn't just be in your company of course. he couldn't touch you, kiss you, hug you, hold your hand, nothing, but worst of all he hated waking up without you.

you had fell into a pretty unconventional morning routine with spencer after you realised that every morning without fail he was hard, it was never because of anything specific or because he had a dream about you, he just always woke up hard, even before you met him. so it quickly became a routine that he would wake up before you, patiently wait for you to wake up, kiss you and then you'd help him out a little, it was truly a dream for any man and he loved it but the only downside was when you weren't there, like now.

spencer had been on a case for not even a week and he was struggling, every single morning he was aching in his pants and his own hand just wasn't the same, he was grouchy to say the least, so much so that even derek noticed, spencer having been a little snarky with him.

this day was the worst by far though. the rest had been bad but bearable, the odd day being easy enough to just let his dick chill out on its own but not today, today spencer woke up lined in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck, his shirt clinging to him, throat dry and his cock painfully hard in his pants.

spencer knew you can't control your dreams but god he wished he could so he didn't have to wake up from an unattainable fantasy of your mouth wrapped around his cock. usually he didn't have too many raunchy dreams about you, it was almost as if his brain knew you were there and he didn't need dreams to imagine you like that but in the same way it's like his brain knew you weren't there right now.

he couldn't help but let out a whine at the feeling of his length straining against his clothes and also at the realisation that this one was not going away on its own and he had to have a very desperate, very lacklustre jerk off in a hotel room alone, it truly was not his proudest moment.

still delirious and full of sleep he opted for letting his hips roll upward for some friction, his tip brushing the material of his pyjamas making him gasp slightly, the usually soft material feeling so rough against his sensitive cock.

shamefully, he couldn't help but do it again, rutting his hips into nothing just for a little stimulation on his aching length, a pathetic whimper slipping past his lips as he repeated the motion, and then again, and again until he was practically fucking the inside of his clothes.

it was pathetic and he knew it but he just couldn't stop himself, the thought of having to actually jerk off just seemed like so much effort and why would he when this felt so good?

what he didn't realise is that it felt a little too good but he was so caught up in the pleasure and sleepy daze that before he knew it he was choking out a whimper as he spilled into his pants, warm spurts of cum soiling his pyjamas and coating his skin as he continued to whimper and gently rut his hips.

when he finally came down from his high he couldn't help but sigh at himself, he truly felt pathetic, he had just desperately humped nothing until he came in his pants, definitely not his proudest moment but also a moment of clarity that he was not made for being separated from you.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #i need that needy nerd #god am i a whore?

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mitobozo · 2 months ago

Text

PHENOMENAL WORK GANG. I ate this and the second part up, SO HARD.

part one: alert synchronicity

— ★ spencer spends a day surrounded by small reminders of you—and finally understands that he's already lost his heart to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist. - part two

Something shifted.

It wasn’t just a minor change, a fleeting blip in the rhythm of his day—no, this was something bigger. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.

Whether it was a trick of the mind or a deeper instinct trying to get Spencer's attention, he didn’t know.

He woke that morning with an odd heaviness in his limbs, the kind that made the simple act of opening his eyes feel like a monumental effort.

The space beside him was empty. Cold.

And for a long, disorienting moment, he stared at the undisturbed sheets, his mind caught between sleep and wakefulness, reality and the lingering traces of a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

You weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t. You had left hours ago, after the movie credits rolled and the apartment had settled into silence.

You had laughed at something he said, before gathering your things and slipping out with a quiet "Bye Spencer."

That had been the plan. That’s how it always went.

Yet, for twenty minutes, he lay there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the vacant space beside him as if expecting it to offer answers. His mind was a paradox—simultaneously blank and overcrowded, thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a gust of wind, too fast to grasp, too numerous to ignore. It was as though a hundred thoughts were scrambling for attention at once, but none of them quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t grab onto anything.

All he knew was that something didn’t sit right.

Was it just exhaustion? The residual effects of too many late nights and too many cases blurring together?

Because the truth was, he had felt it before. That eerie, inexplicable tug of fate, the universe nudging him toward something he couldn’t yet name. And today, it was stronger.

Today, it refused to be ignored.

The sensation clung to him like static, prickling beneath his skin even as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked tired—more than usual.

His eyes landed on the toothbrush—the one that wasn’t technically yours, but might as well have been. A soft pink handle, sitting next to his own.

He’d bought it months ago, after the third time you’d stayed over and sheepishly admitted you’d forgotten yours. It had been a practical decision at the time—a small, logical accommodation for someone who kept ending up in his space, in his life, for longer and longer stretches.

His fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, as if it might burn him. A strange warmth spread through his chest, fluttering and restless, but beneath it was something hollow, something aching.

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to understand it.

Shaking his head slightly, Spencer wandered into the kitchen. The fridge door groaned as he pulled it open, half-hoping for inspiration, half-hoping to distract himself.

He frowned at the nearly empty shelves. A few containers. Half a bottle of almond milk. Some leftover takeout he wasn’t entirely sure was still safe.

He pouted, just a little. That soft, childlike disappointment that slipped out before he could mask it.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought sparked:

Your cookies. The chocolate chip ones.

The kind you never used to bake until you learned he liked them more than your usual vanilla batches .

The first ones you made had been slightly burnt on the edges, the chips off balance, but you kept trying. Adjusting the recipe, tweaking it each time like it was a science experiment. The way you’d squint at the oven timer and mutter about ratios—it made him smile more than he ever let on.

Over time, they’d gotten better. Perfect, even. To the point where Spencer had started associating the smell of melted chocolate and brown sugar with you—with the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, with the flour dusting your sleeves, with the way you’d always leave a few extra in his freezer "just in case."

Now, the absence of them felt like a physical thing.

He closed the fridge door slowly and let out a long sigh, his back pressing against the cool metal as he leaned there for a moment.

But then his eyes caught something on the counter and his breath caught.

There, on the counter—your box of cookies. The very ones he’d just been craving.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor sometimes, dangling the answer to a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. A coincidence? Maybe. But the way his pulse jumped at the sight made it feel like something more.

A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the box, his fingers brushing over the familiar creases in the cardboard—the same way you always folded the edges to keep them fresh.

On top, a note in your unmistakable handwriting:

“For my favorite genius. I know you probably don’t have anything to eat for breakfast. And you need to stop living off coffee.”

Next to it, a lopsided smiley face, the kind you always drew when you were teasing him.

And beneath it, another slip of paper—this one with a quote:

“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.” —The Importance of Being Earnest.

His book. The one he’d lent you months ago, dog-eared and annotated in the margins with his cramped scribbles. You’d not only read it, you’d remembered it. Enough to pluck this line, this line, the one he’d laughed at when he reread it next to you.

Something warm and unnameable curled in his chest.

He gently traced the smiley face with his index finger before carefully peeling the note off the box and walking to the fridge. He smoothed the edges against the metal and stuck it there. Right in the center, right beside the magnet he never used. The quote followed, aligned just so.

Two little pieces of you.

He fully enjoyed the cookies—more than he wanted to admit. One turned into two, two into five, and before he knew it, he was staring at the bottom of the box, only two left. He hesitated, tempted to finish them off, but something made him stop. Maybe he wanted to save them. Maybe it felt symbolic somehow—leaving just a little behind.

He set the box aside with a quiet sigh, realizing it was probably time to face reality. If his breakfast consisted of cookies and the last splash of coffee from yesterday’s pot, then yeah—he needed groceries.

The thought alone was exhausting.

Reluctantly, Spencer went to get dressed. As he rummaged through his dresser for a sweater, his fingers brushed against something soft in the corner of the drawer. He paused, then slowly pulled it out.

The scarf.

The one you’d given him last winter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, a little handwritten tag that simply said “For when the cold gets into your bones.”

He hadn’t worn it much. Not because he didn’t love it. He did. Too much, maybe. He was worried he’d ruin it, spill something on it, or catch it on a subway door or lose it in a moment of distraction.

So instead, it became a part of his quiet morning rituals—he’d look at it while choosing what to wear, smile to himself, then fold it back gently, like preserving something sacred.

It became a small, secret reminder of you that never failed to make his lips twitch upward.

But today, something tugged at him. Wear it.

He paused, hesitating. There was no case today. No flights, no crime scenes, no risk of ruining it in some chaotic whirlwind of work. It was just grocery shopping. A quick errand. No danger. No reason not to.

Before he could overthink it, he looped the scarf around his neck. The wool was warmer than he expected, carrying the faintest trace of cedar and vanilla—your perfume, maybe, or just the ghost of memory.

He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The cold hit him immediately —but the scarf helped.

You helped.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel quite so alone.

The drive to the grocery store should have been routine—just another mundane task.

Spencer flipped on the radio out of habit, his fingers automatically tuning to his usual station: the one that dissected quantum physics and debated the ethics of emerging technologies in monotone, academic voices. It was comforting, familiar. He usually looked forward to it. Even if he already knew most of the facts being discussed, there was something soothing about hearing others speak his language.

There was comfort in the predictability of it.

But today, the voices grated.

He listened for maybe a minute, maybe less. The words blurred together, sounding hollow in a way they usually didn’t.

He stared ahead at the red light, fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. Restless. Unsettled.

His gaze drifted to the radio display. Without really thinking, he pressed the button to change the station.

Click. Static. Then a beat.

And then—your favorite song.

It took him a second to register it, but once he did, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a popular song, not one that played often. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard it on the radio.

But here it was. Blasting softly through his speakers like the universe had handpicked the moment.

The same song you’d hum under your breath while baking, the one you’d insisted on playing three times in a row that one rainy afternoon when he’d pretended to complain but secretly memorized every lyric.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, as if the universe had reached into his chest and plucked out a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. Behind him, a horn blared—sharp, impatient—jolting him back to reality.

“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, flushing as he hit the gas, the car lurching forward a second too late.

He didn’t change the station.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze, the music wrapping around him like an echo of your voice.

By the time he pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the song had faded into something else, but the melody lingered, tangled up in the wool of your scarf and the ghost of flour on your hands.

Once he stepped out of the car, Spencer paused and looked up at the sky. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, dark and swollen with the promise of rain.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and muttered to himself, “Alright. Just in and out. Quick.”

October weather was unpredictable. He quickened his pace toward the store, shoulders hunched against the cold. The last thing he needed was to get caught in another downpour.

Like last night.

The memory surfaced unbidden: you, standing in his doorway, drenched and shivering, your hair plastered to your forehead while rainwater pooled at your feet. He’d panicked—of course he had—fussing over the cold you’d surely catch, the inconvenience, the unnecessary risk you’d taken just to watch some movie with him.

And then you’d grinned, wide and unrepentant, before launching yourself at him.

The hug was instantaneous, your arms locking around him, soaking his shirt through in seconds. He’d stiffened—“You’re getting me all wet!”—but you’d just buried your face in his shoulder and mumbled, “We’ll be sick together, Spencer.”

He hadn’t stood a chance.

You’d spent the rest of the evening wrapped in mismatched towels, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your laughter warmer than any blanket. And if a cozy evening like this with you made him get sick? Who was he to care? If anything, he had used the rain and the cold to scoot even closer to you on the couch, mumbling a small "My apartment is cold" as an excuse to press his thighs closer to yours.

Now, standing in the grocery store parking lot with the wind gnawing at his scarf—your scarf—he realized something with startling clarity:

He missed you.

Not in the abstract, distant way he missed people when they were gone. But viscerally, like a pit in his stomach, that couldn't be filled with anything but the sight of you standing infront of him with a smile.

The clouds overhead rumbled softly, like the sky missed you too.

Spencer turned toward the store, tugging his scarf a little tighter, and stepped forward, but something caught his eye.

Next to the grocery store, nestled between a laundromat and a pharmacy, was a new coffee shop. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the name?

His breath caught slightly in his throat as he read the sign above the door.

Drip Drop Brew.

His eyes widened. He blinked, like maybe he had read it wrong. But no—those words stared right back at him, painted in playful script across the front window in soft red and black.

His breath stuttered.

“Drip drop drip drop,” you had murmured just last night as he made you tea, still damp from the rain.

You had stood beside him in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing useful, your hair still curling with leftover stormwater. You never offered to help—and he never minded. You just liked being near him while he moved around the kitchen.

“Drip drop?” he’d repeated back, bemused, pouring hot water over chamomile leaves.

“The rain,” you’d said, as if it were obvious, tilting your head toward the sound. “Listen.”

And he had. Not to the weather, but to you—the way your voice softened around mundane things, how you found rhythm in the ordinary. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was such a you thing to do, finding magic in something as ordinary as the sound of water hitting glass.

Now, standing frozen on the sidewalk, the memory wrapped around him like the scarf still knotted at his throat.

A coincidence. It had to be.

But the way his pulse jumped said otherwise.

He took a slow breath, torn between stepping inside and continuing to the grocery store. He didn’t need coffee.

Groceries were forgotten the moment he pushed open the coffee shop door.

The place was you—cozy and vibrant, with mismatched armchairs in deep red and black , shelves lined with well-loved books, and the scent of freshly ground coffee.

He could already picture you here, curled up in that corner nook by the window, a half-finished report abandoned in favor of people-watching.

You both had a habit of doing reports in cafés—something that started as convenience and turned into tradition. A small ritual between the chaos of the job. He could still remember the first time you'd convinced Hotch to let it happen.

It had been on a slow day, paperwork piling up, everyone dragging. You'd walked into the bullpen and said, “What if we were… slightly more productive in a cozy public setting with caffeine and pastries?”

Complete with your best “convince-Hotch” smile.

Somehow, it worked.Honestly, most of the team had a hard time saying no to you. Even Hotch, who wasn’t exactly known for bending rules.

But Spencer? Spencer never stood a chance. He wasn’t even sure the word no existed in his vocabulary when it came to you.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly said no to you. The word dissolved in his throat whenever you smiled at him.

He ordered a coffee—black, simple, but he let the barista add a drizzle of cinnamon syrup, just because it reminded him of the way you'd order his drinks when you thought he needed “spicing up.”

Then he settled down in the corner seat, back against the wall, giving him a view of the whole shop. It should’ve felt peaceful.

Instead, the absence beside him was deafening.

He let his eyes wander, taking everything in. The handwritten menu on a chalkboard. Cute drawings of animals, such as ladybugs. The tiny potted succulents lining the windowsill. A basket of dog treats by the door. A stack of used books by the counter with a handwritten sign that read: “Take one, leave one, love always.” C

Time slipped through his fingers like sand.

What should have been a thirty-minute grocery run had stretched into nearly two hours—first the coffee shop, then the quiet absorption of his book (of course he’d brought one; he’d sooner leave the house without pants than without reading material).

Eventually he forced himself to leave.

With a full bag of groceries and a head full of thoughts, he made it home. The sky had darkened even more, a low rumble of thunder in the distance echoing through the streets. Rain hadn’t started yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He unpacked everything robotically, stacking the pantry and fridge, then tossed his coat aside and curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around him.

He traced the spine of the book in his lap, his thumb brushing over the slight crease near the top.

Your book.

The one you’d pressed into his hands last week with theatrical solemnity, your brows furrowed in mock severity. “This one is my favorite,” you’d said, voice low, as if entrusting him with state secrets. When you’d jabbed a warning finger in his face, he’d barely suppressed a grin. “If anything happens to it—”

He’d waited, eyes bright with amusement, until you’d leaned in close, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper: “You will know my rage in ways you’ve never known before.”

The threat was absurd—he’d seen you genuinely angry exactly once, and even then, you’d mostly just frowned harder—but he’d played along, snatching the book from your grip with exaggerated defiance.

“Terrifying,” he’d deadpanned, already flipping to the first page.

That was another one of your rituals: swapping books every week, your version of a love language. You’d once called it “literary matchmaking.” Every Friday, without fail, a book would be passed between you—sometimes annotated, sometimes dog-eared, always loved.

This book had been your favorite.

Now, tracing the dog-eared corner of page 111—your favorite passage—he realized with a quiet ache that he could almost hear your voice between the lines.

He’d read three chapters today, but the words blurred together, his focus frayed by the day’s odd synchronicities—the cookies, the scarf, the song, the café.

And now this: your favorite book in his hands, your phantom laughter between the lines.

Spencer exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch.

The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind him of you.

Thirty minutes later, he turned the final page.

The book was finished, and God, he understood now why you loved it so much—the way the prose curled around his ribs like smoke, the underlined passages that felt like secrets shared between just the two of you.

Your notes in the margins had been his favorite part: little exclamation marks beside plot twists, sarcastic commentary in the corners, the occasional doodle when you’d clearly gotten distracted.

With a quiet sigh, he set the book on his lap, but the spine—well-loved and cracked from years of your hands holding it—fell open again of its own accord.

And there it was.

A single line, highlighted in soft yellow, framed by a constellation of pink hearts you’d drawn with the same care you reserved for frosting cookies or arranging flowers in his too-empty apartment:

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

The air left his lungs in a rush.

It hit him with the force of a bullet train—no warning, no gradual buildup, just the devastating certainty of it.

The cookies. The scarf. The radio station. The coffee shop. The way his chest ached when you laughed. The way he’d memorized the cadence of your voice without meaning to. The way every road, every book, every breath seemed to lead back to you.

Oh.

Spencer Reid was in love with his best friend.

And the terrible, beautiful truth was—he’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #this is so cute #im so gay for this nerd

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