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parfaitblogs · 16 hours ago

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mariaaaaa i was drunk last night mariaaaa how did you knowwwww i woke up and said DRUNK READER? FOR ME???? 😛😛😛. it’s quite sickening work the fact that i don’t have spencer reid in my bed getting me dressed after we go out together like wdym i have to put myself to bed… alone… where is he… ALSO KISSING THE WRIST? WHO IS YOU!!!!! i’m going to think about spencer reid kissing my wrist for the foreseeable future until i can’t think anymore oh em eff gee.

GENTLEMEN PREFER PAJAMAS

you are tipsy and flirty with spencer after a night out, leading to soft kisses, drunk rambling, and sleepy cuddles

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: alcohol consumption, no gendered language (I don’t think at least, let me know if there is), tipsy reader, sensual undertones but nothing crazy, flashback of sex scene but it's not too descript, drunk flirting, established relationship, lots of sleepy affection, mild undressing, domestic fluff, mutual pining but already together wc: 1.6k

You collapse onto the pillows in a sprawling, uncoordinated heap, giggling helplessly into Spencer’s mouth as he lands right after, warm and solid and perfectly weighted. You imagine some celestial force eavesdropped on your wishes and promptly deposited him on top of you.

You remind yourself to thank them and gravity. Tonight, at least, it’s completely forgiven for all those stubbed toes and spilled coffees.

And gravity is making your limbs feel like noodles. No, scratch that, noodles would have infinitely more structure. It’s possible you’re not even a person anymore. Perhaps you’ve melted straight into the mattresses, becoming one with it, all fluff and sighs and goofy grins.

Is that a thing? Can people turn into beds? You’ll ask Spencer later.

Right now there’s kissing to do. Right now, your fingers are stumbling over a jawline so sharp and lovely and you think he smells like laundry straight from the dryer. You suffocate in it as your nose nudges to the hollow beneath his throat.

And his hands — oh, his hands — they’re now under your shirt and it tickles and you think you’re giggling again, because what else is there to do when heaven is handsy?

He sighs, hands sinking into the plush curve of your waist. It’s a familiar sigh you love hearing, one of those overly dramatic, pretend-exasperation sounds to signal his patience is running thin. Except you know better. Intimately so. Because beneath that theatrical huff is a smile he can’t quite hide, not when you can almost taste it if you turned your head just right.

He loves this, you’re certain, even if he refuses to say it. But that’s fine. You’re smart, even drunk-smart, and knowing is basically just as good as hearing. Actually, it’s even better because now you’re filled with the giddy determination to chase after that invisible grin with your lips, to hunt down the saccharine concealed there until it blossoms fully into laughter.

“I think,” you whisper loudly, your own smile mashed sloppily into the roughness of his cheek, “you just wanna get me naked.”

Spencer snorts. "I think you need to drink more water."

Killjoy. Beautiful, smirking, possibly medically correct killjoy.

Spencer gently lifts your arms, pulling off your shirt in one very smooth, very grown-up motion. Textbook Spencer Reid, all responsible bedtime procedure and absolutely zero funny business.

But your brain is champagne bubbles, pleasantly fizzy and a little devilish, so your fingers mound absently, tracing warm, languid circles along your newly exposed skin.

You watch him shamelessly, delighted when his cheeks flush just enough that he’s forced to look away, trying to convince you both he’s entirely unaffected.

"Don't need it," you murmur, eyes half-lidded and full of affection. "Just need you, thanks."

"Nice try, angel."

You sigh, softening like butter left too close to the stove as his fingertips coast feather-light down your back while coaxing you upright.

He takes his time, smoothing out each bump of your spine vertebrae by vertebrae. C1 all the way to C7. Then, with a sigh of his own, he pulls back, a moment stretched too thin, and reaches for your pajama top.

You take the time to look at him. Really look.

His belt hands low on his hips, leather biting into the fullness of his stomach, and you ache, physically ache, to trace that little line where cotton gives way to skin. His dress shirt, rumpled and sleep-wrinkled, clings across his chest like it wants to be closer too, buttons tugged taut over the breadth of him.

His tie is gone. Hours ago, probably. Lost to some hallway or couch or whatever innocent piece of furniture was first to fall victim to your pawing hands.

Spencer tugs the pajama top he fished from the drawer down your arms, moving slowly so you don’t lose balance, not that you’d fall when you’re glued to the bed and using him as a human anchor, arms looped around his neck.

“You know,” you begin, lips dragging along his jaw like a love-drunk GPS, “Penelope is so funny.”

"Mhm."

"No, like, funny-funny. She made songs. About people. Little jingles. Did you know Derek has a theme song?”

"I did not."

"Well, he does. And so do you."

Spencer pauses. "Should I ask?"

"No, because you'll be mean about it."

"I'm never mean to you."

You narrow your eyes at him, or try to. They’re a little too heavy to cooperate.

“Spencer. You once corrected my math during sex.”

He shrugs. “In fairness, it was a bold miscalculation.”

He exaggerates.

Spencer had been beneath you, hands clutching greedily at the back of your thighs, his pupils blown so wide you could drown in their inky hunger — hunger he never bothered trying to disguise. You were gasping, half-lost on the exquisite stretch of him inside you, feeling so full it was like your body had molded itself around him, rewriting its shape in his image.

In the hazy gaps between thrusts you murmured a proud little tally into the air. Three times, maybe four. You couldn’t remember, didn’t care. It felt triumphant enough. Spencer, it seemed, had not.

He corrected that the first time wasn’t technically full sex, so the current count stood at two. You could still remember how your palms had flattened on his chest.

He looked up at you with a smirk that said, what? It’s true.

And you kissed him hard enough to shut him up. Not because he was wrong, but because you absolutely refused to let him be right.

“So you’re admitting you’re mean to me on,” you say, squinting at him as you try to remember the word you were looking for, “occasion.”

Spencer’s lip tugs upward as he puts a hand to his chest. “Slandered in my own bed.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” you gasp, cupping his face. “You are the opposite of mean. You’re… you’re nice. You’re, like, aggressively nice. Stupidly nice. But you’re not stupid. You’re so smart. And — you’re the best boyfriend ever. Literally ever.”

“There's a lot of praise tonight, sweetheart.”

You groan, face smooshed right into his chest as embarrassment wars with your lingering bravado. Blame the tequila. Blame your poorly-timed confidence at the bar, when you sidled up to him, inspected him head-to-toe like he was some stranger, and purred, what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone?

Never mind the fact that you arrived together. Never mind the fact that he had been holding your purse.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

His voice spills out all velvet and sweet enough that your brain happily gives up on forming a coherent rebuttal. Gentle fingers squish your cheeks together, molding your lips into a pout that you’d probably laugh at if he weren’t already leaning in to kiss it.

And he does, of course, soft lips pursed just slightly, showing you a peek at that deeper, cherry-stained color hidden inside.

Lips shouldn’t look that edible, should they?

But with him, everything feels bite-worthy, nibble-able, lickable, and utterly unfair in how pretty he is. You constantly remind him, watch as his ears bloom pink, eyes narrowing in an attempt to deflect your adoration, especially when you’re in public.

You know he struggles with it. The receiving. The enormity of being loved without proof, without conditions, without demands. But that’s never scared you off. If anything, it draws you closer, makes you cherish every reminder, every repetition, every soft retelling of the truth he’s still learning how to hold. Because one day, maybe, you’ll say it so many times that even he can’t deny it anymore.

“You know,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as your finger taps his lower lip, voice slurred like honeyed bourbon. “That thing you did earlier, kissin’ my wrist all slow — mm-hmm — was that on purpose?”

A low laugh escapes him as he guides your form onto the bed, sliding down to lay beside you. He props his head on one hand, studying you.

“On purpose? As opposed to… what? A spontaneous wrist-kissing seizure?”

You wrinkle your nose, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes.

“Spence, there’s accidents, and then there’s… purposeful stuff, right? Like when someone just does things because they wanna make you feel good. Little things, like kissing wrists, and… remembering your favorite cereal and —” You lose yourself briefly, blinking sleepily. “And it just feels really, really nice when someone does things on purpose for you, ‘cause it means you’re worth noticing, I think. And you do that a lot.”

He smiles, thumb dragging a lazy arc along your cheek. You lean into the touch like a cat, nuzzling closer.

“I love your mind. Drunk Socrates, but cuter,” Spencer teases, pulling you closer so your head rests comfortably against his chest. “You probably won’t remember any of this in the morning,” he adds, “but I will and… I don’t know, noticing you has never been something I try to do.”

He exhales slowly.

“It’s actually harder not to,” he continues, “You know, yesterday you left your book on the counter, spine cracked and bookmarked with a receipt, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what part you’re up to. I actually looked up the chapter summaries to figure it out.” He chuckles under his breath. “You’re just constantly… there. In my head. Background processing, even when I’m thinking about something else.”

You dissolve further against him, the lines between your bodies blurring pleasantly, warmth pooling so deeply that your outlines vanish. You silently plead with yourself to remember this clearly in the morning, and that your expression in daylight won’t too obviously reveal how completely you’ve fallen in love again.

“So what you’re sayin’,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around him, nipping at the slope of his shoulder, “is I’m basically a parasite you can’t get rid of.”

“Exactly,” Spencer says, fingers digging into your side. “Mutually beneficial symbiosis. I’d let you take over my entire life if you wanted. Full infection. No cure needed.”

“Mmm, you’re gonna regret sayin’ that when you wake up stuck with me forever.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And you believe him.

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

#fic recs

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parfaitblogs · 2 days ago

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didn’t know she ever apologized, cool! 👍

and i believe you totally misinterpreted the mere four words i wrote… i was aiming to make you aware of the controversy, but you’re obviously up to speed on everything, which i was uninformed of. good for u

then u could’ve said “hey do you know about the gracie abrams ‘sticky situation’ thing? if not, here’s what it is!” and i would’ve been a lot nicer in my response. the mere four words you wrote are often used as a gotcha moment to cancel her, or her stan’s, and while i don’t agree with dismissing what she said, i also don’t agree with boiling the severity of something like pedophilia down to fanwars and a twitter “joke”. that’s all. no hard feelings 🫰

#asks 🦌

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parfaitblogs · 2 days ago

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sticky situation - gracie abrams

yayyyy thank u so much for actually caring about a topic as serious as pedophilia and not using it as a gotcha moment because you don’t like an artist! (or me!)

also i’ve been asked about this before and ive shared my thoughts here 🫰

#asks 🦌

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parfaitblogs · 2 days ago

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also i usually send my asks Not anonymously so i get the notification but Lo and behold the only time i decided to do that you thought i was bullying you and then we created a little game and i was like wait…maybe i am fit for the anon life… But ofc i wasnt. Just isnt my true nature.

i’m so glad it isn’t your true nature 🤍🤍 sometimes i love knowing who i’m talking to

#asks 🦌#👹

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parfaitblogs · 2 days ago

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I revealed myself adter that coment bc i realized how ovvious it was… then u didnt asnwer my ask and i got sad u didnt like ke or something…😞

truthfully sometimes i just have nothing that would be considered interesting or developing to a conversation so i just don’t answer the ask 💔 sometimes you guys have said it all already 💔 how boring would your dashes be if every time i got an ask i just said “trueeee” and left it at that. sometimes i let asks marinate until i come up with something more interesting to say. though. but it is never because i don’t like you 🫰 i love talking to you guys 🫰

#asks 🦌#👹

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parfaitblogs · 2 days ago

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#🌔

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parfaitblogs · 3 days ago

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“I’ll take the fault for thinking I could be satiated with just a little taste of you, but it’s not my fault you were laid out looking so beautiful and tired. You understand I had to do something, right?”

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MY GODDDDDDDDDDD OHH MY GODD OH MY GOD. YES I UNDERSTAND. I DO. YES. FUCK. ME??????

false god | s.r.

A/N: hehehehehineedhimcarnallyheheheheh.

summary: in which spencer finally comes home from a case after you've just finished exams and can't resist showing you just how proud he is

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, university!reader, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, fingering, oral (f receiving), heavy petting, praise kink, pet names, aftercare

wc: 3.3k

The apartment is quiet when Spencer slowly opens the door, twisting the knob back into place with so much care that not even the faintest click could be heard. It’s been nearly a week since he’s been home, since he’s seen you. While in normal times it would be bearable because he’d call and facetime you every day, you were unfortunately also too busy with school and finals to even engage or drop a quick hello to him. You knew he was busy, he knew you were busy right back. Time got so far away it jumbled your synchronized schedules.

He missed you, a lot, is what he’s trying to get at.

Careful not to make any noise, he slides his shoes and satchel off and leaves it by the door. Spencer walks to the kitchen as he takes off his suit jacket to hang it on the chair, and opens the fridge to grab a glass of water. He notes that while he’s been trying to be quiet, the apartment has been quiet. You’re probably sleeping, he knows how exhausted you’ve been the past couple weeks.

Spencer should feel guilty when he walks to the bedroom, mindlessly undoing the cuffs of his dress shirt. He can’t bring himself to feel such a way when he finds you sprawled out on the bed—your shared bed, he still thinks in disbelief—softly snoring away while your hair fans around you and your pajamas crumple about your body.

You stir slightly at the sound of his footsteps and he freezes, watching you settle back into deep sleep right as he reaches the edge of the bed. He kneels down to be level with your face and reaches a hand out to gently brush your hair back, no longer concerned with not waking you and suddenly overwhelmed with the dire need to see your eyes.

“Hi angel,” he murmurs, “I’m home.”

You sigh and flutter your eyes open, a lazy smile growing in recognition of the face in front of you, “Spence, missed you.”

He has to consciously hold back a groan. The way you even just say his name is enough to bring him to his knees—evidently so by his current position—but he has to be a gentleman and considerate of how tired you must be.

“Missed you too,” he continues to stroke your hair, “You alright? Exams go okay?”

“Mhm, all A’s.”

Spencer beams, “That’s my girl.”

You preen under his soft touch, “Case go fine?”

He nods, “Took a while but we got him, glad to be home now.”

“Oh good,” you mumble, “come to bed now.”

“Let me go change first and I’ll join.” he almost stands to his full height before he feels your hand stopping him, “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t go.” you whine.

His thumb goes to rub over your outreached hand, kneeling back down to your face, “I’ll only be five minutes.”

“Too long,” you sigh, “need a kiss first.”

Spencer lets himself be pulled closer to you and presses his lips to yours. He smiles into you, but it’s a deep kiss that shows how much you missed each other. Your lips deepen the kiss and your hand holds the back of his neck close to you. If he wasn’t so attuned to you he would have missed the faint whimper you let out. But he knows you like a native language, subconsciously able to pick up on the nuances you give.

“What’s really wrong?” he mumbles against your lips.

You pout, “Missed you.”

He chuckles softly, “You said that.”

“Meant it,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Spencer rises to sit on the bed to sit next to your lying body, his hand smoothing down your face to take place on your neck, “Left my poor baby all alone.”

“So cruel of you.”

“So cruel,” he echoes. You’re laid out on the bed with a blanket barely covering you, leaving him no question that you’re wearing the silk pajama set he bought you a few weeks ago. He’d seen it in the window of a shop walking home from the library one day, and walked about three blocks thinking about you in the set before turning around to purchase it.

You don’t usually splurge on luxury items, you found it made you feel silly to spend that kind of money on yourself when it could go towards bills or other important necessities. Spencer did not find it silly, in fact he found it imperative that you are spoiled and shown how loved you are. He doesn’t buy into materialism, he knows the way he loves you speaks louder than any item or string of words can hold. But he’ll argue it’s a compulsion, a way of life even.

“Cute pajamas.” he says, trailing a hand down the length of your arm.

A lazy smile grows on your face again, “Thanks, my boyfriend bought them for me.”

He grins, “He must really like you.”

“Something like that.” you giggle.

“You look really nice in it.” You can tell he’s restraining, for who’s sake is still up for question.

“Just nice?”

“I’m trying to be polite here, pretty girl.”

“But what if I wore it because I don’t want you to be nice?” you push.

Spencer lets his hand rest on the inward curve of your hip, squeezing slightly at your taunt. “You’re not tired?”

“Not for you.”

He hooks his fingers below your waistband and lingers, “I think you’re too good to me.”

“Sometimes I think it’s not enough,” you grin.

“Oh it’s more than enough, angel. Don’t worry.”

His fingers travel further down and ghost the front of your panties, the flutter of your eyelashes giving him all the confirmation he needs to keep going. He gently strokes a digit back and forth, watching as your breathing deepens quickly.

“Shh, I got you,” he coos, “just relax.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to help you curl further into him, his other hand lazily stroking lightly against your slit. “Must be so tired from all that studying, hm?”

You nod into him, your lower lip pouting as his strokes begin to take root in pleasure. “Needed you.”

He hums, “I know baby, I’m sorry. I’m here now, can I make it up to you?”

A sharp gasp leaves you as his finger dips below the fabric, swiping intently and slowly up your folds before returning to above your panties, “Please,” you beg.

Spencer smiles and hooks two fingers onto the fabric covering your core and tugs it to the side, using his index finger to hold it in place. He uses his middle and marriage to collect the slick at your entrance and smear it all over your cunt, finally using his thumb to work it into your clit with soft circles.

You moan out at the intense sensation, deeper breaths escaping as he dips his fingers into your cunt. “Fu—uck, Spence.”

“Feels good?” he asks, you nod quickly digging your head further into his chest, “Good, look so pretty like this baby.”

He pumps his fingers at a deathly slow pace, more so for him to feel every ridge and inch of you as he enters and leaves. He was gone for so long, and while his eidetic memory has served him well, there is nothing in this realm that will ever compare to the feeling of you at his mercy. He would sit in his hotel room and stare at the ceiling, trying his hardest to move heaven and earth to materialize you out of the atomized memories he has of you tucked away into his hippocampus.

It’s no use, he’s come to realize. Nothing will ever capture the way your face contorts when his long fingers brush against that spot inside you, how you say his name in that breathy moan that makes him wonder with all parts doubt in how he could ever leave you alone to your own devices. Someone like you should never have to lift a finger in their life, should never feel pain or sorrow or anger.

So in an act of repentance, he snakes the arm that was around your shoulder down to your chest and lets his hand dip under the silk tank top to cup your breast. He catches your nipple between his thumb and index and rolls with love, with a yearn to fill the void of lost time and to present himself with the worthiness of forgiveness.

You grant him salvation, in the form of you preening at his fingertips like a goddess in full divinity, soft moans falling from your lips in sacred prayer.

He speeds up his fingers when he feels you clamp around him every other thrust, “Close?” he murmurs.

You hum deliriously, “S—So close,”

It’s only one, two, three more deep strokes until you come undone all over his fingers, his pace not letting up as it takes you to the peak and leaves you floating above. Only does the gentle circling of his thumb on your clit regain your consciousness and tether you back down to the ground.

You weakly push a hand against his arm, “Too much,”

“Okay, okay,” he gently removes his fingers and immediately pulls them into his mouth, softly moaning as he swirls his tongue and swallows all of you.

God, does he love how you taste. His eyes roll to the back of his head—you’re practically nectarious, a testament of what truly stood in the way between Eve and sin. Spencer finds himself moving on his own accord, much like Eve entering the Garden of Eden, because he simply cannot resist temptation any longer.

“Spence…what are you,” you whisper, words slurring in your post orgasmic haze.

He kisses down your shoulder and trails down your chest into your torso, slowly climbing further down your body until he’s reached the crest of your hip bones. His thumbs smooth the expanse of the skin, pushing the silk fabric of your shorts up to reveal the lacy panties you’ve chosen to wear that night. Lavender, his favorite.

You feel the ends of his curls tickle the inside of your thigh, and it’s then you realize his goal. “Baby, I don’t think I can…oh—ohh.” You’re cut off by him pressing a firm kiss to your clothed cunt, his thumbs symmetrically kneading the flesh of your thighs.

“Good, don’t want you to think,” he mumbles, “just want you to feel me.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of your shorts and panties, pulling them off you in one fell swoop. You take a sharp inhale at the exposed air reaching you, but he quickly soothes it by returning his lips to the crevice where your thighs meet your core.

“I don’t mean to sound crass, but I need you to know that I had every intention of coming home to you and just letting you rest. Maybe fuck you to sleep once if you were a little more awake.” he wraps his arms around your legs and locks down, “I’ll take the fault for thinking I could be satiated with just a little taste of you, but it’s not my fault you were laid out looking so beautiful and tired. You understand I had to do something, right?”

He slowly lets his tongue trail from the bottom to the top of your cunt, your face contorting with deep pleasure and his eyes fluttering shut.

“My apologies, pretty girl.”

His tongue dives back into you like a selfish man, in a way that shows indulging in you is merely an incentive for him and no one else. Your voice singing out his name in breathy moans is a worthwhile bonus. He laps up every drop of you while you drift in and out of consciousness, the exhaustion of the past few weeks coming to a head and dispersing at the mercy of Spencer Reid.

“Spence—oh,” you whine, your hand going to lazily perch in his hair to tug lightly. He groans into your cunt and grinds down his own length into the bed, the insatiable hunger building between his own legs yet his desire too desperate to be anywhere but between your own to take care of himself properly for now.

He unhooks an arm around one of your thighs and slips two fingers into your hole, nearly whimpering at how easy you took them in.

“There we go, there’s my girl. All ready for me,” he murmurs, “just need one more from you like this and I’ll give you what you want, angel. I’ll give you anything you want.”

You inhale sharply, voice getting caught in the overwhelm of it all, “G—Gonna come,”

“ ‘m right here baby, come all over my mouth. Need it so bad.” he begs.

Spencer Reid rubbing his own length onto your bed while he lays between your legs with his tongue buried deep inside you, begging you to come for him because he sounds like he might actually die if you don’t—is what sends you over the edge.

Your second orgasm washes over you like a soft wave hitting the shore, deceptively calm yet sneaking into every crevice and corner of your being and occupying it with full intention and purpose. Your back arches and falls back to the bed with a thud, your chest heaving up and down as it tries to bring you to rest.

“You okay?” Spencer grins up at you from between your thighs with that stupid smile that makes you feel all funny inside, an added bonus when it’s glistening with you.

You hum in soft agreement, hands aimlessly reaching for him. “C’mere, please.”

He slowly slides back up your body atop you, your arms linking behind his neck and tugging him down to kiss him resolutely on his lips. You start off with little pecks, peppering in little I love you’s between each one, you don’t even realize he’s turned your bodies so you’re both laying on your sides facing each other.

Spencer breaks the kiss reluctantly, his hands smoothing down your torso before gently turning you around so your back is flush with his chest. “Think you can give me one more, sweet girl?”

In all the rustling and movement he’s somehow rid himself of his underwear, evidenced by you utterly melting as he lines himself up at your entrance. Spencer wraps his arms around your stomach, one finger ghosting over your clit as he guides himself to your core. He lets the head drag tauntingly between your folds, gathering all the slick and spit onto himself to coat in.

“I—I don’t know,” a low groan escapes you, “i—if I can.”

“Oh baby, I know you can take it.” he coos, slipping himself into you inch by inch, “always take what I give you, hm? That’s why you’re my good girl, my best girl.”

You whimper as he sinks further into you, the overstimulation from your previous orgasms catching up to you.

He bottoms out, nuzzled in between your legs and into the crook of your neck, and moans out softly at how your close proximity is soothing every ailment he claimed to have in the time spent away from you. If he had to compare your divinity to a being, he could be basic and say Aphrodite for all the obvious reasons in which your beauty is a weapon. But if you were to really ask him, he would say Apollo for how you could simply smile at him with the radiance of the sun and heal him entirely.

For now, he’ll settle by giving his appreciation through slow thrusts and low murmurs in your ears. His hips pull back and gently push forward, lips immediately tacking onto your neck.

“Oh, angel girl,” his voice drips with wreck, “missed this so much, missed you so much.”

Your senses are on fire, every last one of them screaming with the memory of your previous peak, and the one before that. And yet, in thinly veiled love disguised as sadism, the burning ceases and all you can feel is him.

Suddenly, it’s not nearly enough.

Your hand reaches behind your body and clasps onto his cheek, holding him in place and close to you—as if there’s anywhere else he’d rather be. “More,”

He doesn’t think twice and hooks an arm under the bend of your knee, holding your leg pulled back towards him, and opening you up beautifully for him to thrust deeper into you.

“This what you want?” he pants, beginning to thrust at a relentless pace, “my baby just needed me to come fuck her dumb, hm?”

You whine out again, nodding mercilessly as he picks up the pace and adds two fingers to your clit. He circles the nub furiously, biting back a groan as you clamp down on him every other stroke like you did before on his fingers.

“Fuck,” you whimper, the familiar coil tightening in your gut, “think I’m go—oh—nna come.”

His fingers move faster on your clit, his thrusts deeper, “That’s it, baby. Come on, let go f’me. I got you.” he whispers.

For the third time in the last hour, your orgasm crashes onto you. Silently, you preen against his chest in absolute and total pleasure overtaking you. Spencer continues to fuck you through your peak, feverishly chasing his own high.

You fall limp against the bed, Spencer holding you against him for a few more deep strokes before spilling himself into you. He whimpers into your neck as he pushes through the overstimulation and fucks every last drop of come into you, whispering sweet nothings as you both calm back down.

He follows suit and limps behind you, an arm lazily swung around your torso still as your deep breathing syncs up. “Feel okay?”

You giggle dreamily, “More than okay, oh my god.”

“Good, baby. Don’t move, let me clean you up.”

“Don’t think I could move if I tried.”

He delicately slips out of you with a soft exhale and goes to the bathroom, wetting a washcloth with warm water before walking back over to the bed. He tries to suppress his moans as he parts your legs to see his come dripping out of your hole like a work of art. He swipes the washcloth gently between your legs making sure to take away every last sticky spot, and massaging the skin with love and care.

Spencer walks back to the bathroom and drops the dirtied washcloth into the hamper, washing his hands before walking over to his dresser to grab a pair of boxers to slip into.

He walks to the kitchen to grab you a glass of water and the Ghirardelli caramel chocolate squares from his satchel that he picked up on his way home. When he enters the bedroom again he grabs one more pair from the dresser to slip you into, and opens the window to let the fresh night air in before sliding back into bed with you.

He gingerly drags the clean boxers over your legs to rest on your hips, then hands you the glass of water and watches you to make sure you chug the whole thing down. He smiles when you present him with the empty glass, and rewards you with a chocolate square.

“My favorite!” you gasp, “I love you.”

“I love you too, I’m proud of you by the way.”

You moan again at the taste of chocolate melting in your mouth, “Sorry, this is so good,” he chuckles as you swallow and continue, “I know, thank you. Means a lot.”

You make him eat a square too before licking the excess chocolate off his fingers, a fit of giggles flowering the bedroom before you both doze off tucked into each other’s arms. It’s the best sleep both of you have had in weeks.

#nsfw recs!

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parfaitblogs · 3 days ago

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i’m going insane. like clinically. insane. what the actual fuck is your fucking problem tumblr user mariasont. what is WRONG WITH YOU. nevermind the fact that spencer is having all these articulate, downright terrible thoughts (though i’m minding it quite a lot what the fuck), the fact that he’s having them about someone who is known to be shy. like. what. what a depravity. i need him so bad.

GLUE MYSELF SHUT

it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word wc: 1.6k request: here

The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.

For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.

He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.

You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.

He isn’t much different at this moment.

You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.

It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways.

Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again? Could you come from just a few well-placed touches?

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.

Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.

His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.

He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.

Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.

With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.

These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.

Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.

So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.

But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.

Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.

He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.

You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”

Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”

You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it.

Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion.

When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.

Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.

There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.

Shit.

“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.

“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”

Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”

Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.

“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”

“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.

It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.

Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.

“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”

You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.

All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places.

“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”

“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”

“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”

Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.

He wonders who has painted you in that light.

You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up?

And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?

Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.

He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often.

But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.

“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.

“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”

Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.

“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it.

Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.

One day he’ll show you.

shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!

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

#fic recs

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parfaitblogs · 3 days ago

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i LOVE ur soft dom reid sm. you do it perfectly, and in the one where r goes out with her friends and calls him UGHHH its so cute i love it so much i’m addicted!

HELLOOOO thank u so so much that means a lot wow 🙁🫂. i definitely wrote that drunk fic based on super true events that have happened between spencer and i already it’s true that was autobiographical. a retelling of a night out, if you will.

#asks 🦌

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parfaitblogs · 3 days ago

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decided to reveal myself !!!!!!!! i am 👹

hi honey so i did see you comment that crackhead thing under a mutual’s post and i did work it out a couple days ago i hate to say… but i am glad you have revealed your identity now hello 🤍🤍 how are we 🤍🤍

#asks 🦌#👹

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parfaitblogs · 3 days ago

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i knew it, i know you ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: ambiguous ending. certified overthinker reader. effie trinket would hate you for what you do to mahogany. argument. they yell at each other. everyone is angry n mean. :(. word count: 3k a/n: me when fine shyt starts flirting but i've already convinced myself everything he says is a genius manipulation technique that i need to outsmart before he adds me to his list of gullible weak victims. this was a vent piece from like 3 weeks ago. still relevant. love u.

You'd be a very successful magician. Vendors and patrons would move Earth just to see your disappearing act in person, to see if it's as brilliant and mind boggling as people say it is. If you were as talented as rumours say.

You'd say so.

A flickering lamp illuminates mahogany. Mahogany you hadn't cleaned in weeks. Mahogany you hadn't sat at in weeks. A thin layer of dust tells the story of how it sat untouched. Neglected. It's wondering of when you were coming home. If you were. If you'd ever swipe a rag over it again, lay down a tablecloth, set it with silverware you only have one set of.

You would. You would. You promised you would. You placed a hand on it when you left that odd Thursday and whispered you'd return eventually. A silent deal with yourself you'd never get rid of it. Spoken aloud when you inherited it from grandparents now deceased. Then, swept up in an ill fated fairytale that kept you from coming back to it. Another table, not quite as nice, not nearly as expensive, discovered the lines of your palms amidst debate. The edge of your elbows to hold up forkfuls of food. Your thighs, pressed up against the sides. Attention given to something cheaper, and the dust sprites atop this table taunt you for it.

You're not staring at it, though. Transfixed, instead, on how the lamp barely provides light for the rest of the apartment. Cautioning on the side of blowing any second now. You'd be thrust into darkness so fast you wouldn't know how to react. Maybe you'd stumble around a bit; try to find your phone for a light. Maybe you'd sit in the black. Let the air still, seeping into your bones until you are as good as air that does nothing. Perhaps you already are.

You don't get the chance.

Somebody's fist raps against your front door. You know who. It's politely quiet, but eagerly fast. Seeking you out quickly after seven damp days of radio silence, to find if you've died or not.

You should be hastier. A soon to follow knock announces that for you. Yet, you're a soul on the ceiling, watching an uninhabited sack of skin walk towards the banging fist, turn the door handle, and let an uncomfortable flood of light into the apartment.

He must recognise the hollowness in your eyes, because he doesn't say anything as he enters your apartment. A quip about how you didn't invite him in manifests on your tongue, but then you remember he doesn't know there's a problem between you two.

"What a joyous apartment you have," he says, flicking the light switch to light up the rest of your neglected apartment. The last book you were reading found on the edge of your couch, face down and open, the spine creased beyond repair. A glass once full of water now sits empty — evaporated — on the kitchen counter. A duffel bag of two people's mixed clothes and travel sized shower products on the floor next to your feet.

"What're you doing here?" you ask him, feet firmly planted in the entryway. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

He does, though. He freely moves around and it's as if no time has passed. He is more at home in your apartment than you have been all week. Guiltily, you feel resent well in your stomach. How dare he come in and act as though nothing has happened?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know. You repeat the mantra until he speaks again, for it is not his fault you are upset over something you made up in your head. A narrative only the worst parts of your brain can entertain.

"Well, you disappeared for a week," he states, palms pressed against your kitchen bench as he leans against it. "I got worried."

"Why?"

What a stupid, stupid question to ask him.

"Because you disappeared for a week," his words come out tantalisingly slowly, as if he's trying to explain to a toddler. Perhaps he is. As old as you are, you seem to feel like the five year old who resides inside you more often than not. Pathetic sentiment.

"Forgive me for not being a constant presence in your life," you say. It isn't meant to bite, but your tone of voice comes out too sharp for it to not, and he is all too quick to catch it.

"Sorry?"

You freeze. Time stands as still as it has all week. The light bulb of your desired lamp blows, and you distantly hear it pop. It no longer matters; your overhead lights are on, courtesy of the man standing before you. You feel plunged into the dark anyways.

"I didn't mean that. Sorry," you deflect, and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes is sent his way. Not that you look at him. Too afraid of what his eyes will say to yours if you lock them together, you keep your gaze on your couch.

"Yes you did."

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything.

You accept the defeat. "Yes I did."

"Explain, please?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head, and the inside of your cheek finds its way between teeth. "It's mean."

"Then be mean."

"No. I—I can't," you shake your head. "It doesn't really matter."

His lips press together, and you can feel the nausea in your stomach churn. "It doesn't matter?"

Your head shakes again, "Mm-mm."

"Well, great. You've got an issue with me that causes you to disappear for a week, but it's all good because it doesn't matter?"

Oh.

"I don't have an issue with you," you lie, but God forbid you do such a thing in front of a profiler.

"You do. Clearly, or else you wouldn't be this hostile with me. What have I done?" he's gotten off the kitchen bench. He's closer to you. Or, maybe, he's just risen his voice, and he hasn't moved an inch.

You're entirely not present enough to figure out which it is.

"Spencer, you haven't done anything. It's all stuff inside my head," you shake your head, again, and it's done so violently you can feel the contents of your brain shake within your skull.

No you can't. No you can't. You're imagining that to worsen your own feelings. Nobody can feel that. Everything inside of it is so loud, and Spencer is no longer Spencer. Rather, a lifeless, faceless entity occupying your apartment. You don't even recognise him.

"Then tell me what's inside your head, honey, please—"

He doesn't even sound like Spencer anymore.

"—It's so mean. I can't."

You don't sound like you.

"Then be mean!"

"You're exhausting to be around!"

You snap, and he falls silent. For once, he doesn't have something to respond with. You're grateful, somewhere inside of you. The same place the urge to backtrack and try to make things alright again comes from. You're usually ruled by that place.

Today, you are not.

"You are so exhausting to know. I am so fucking exhausted. I spend my life jumping through hoops to get you to talk to me, to notice me. I mean, you only care when I'm doing exactly what you want. Naked. You only care when it's convenient. When there is nobody else there to satisfy you, nobody you actually want, you will call for me. Right? You have to fill the hole in your heart somehow. Your stupid, incessant need to have somebody there at all times. Why can't you sit with yourself? Alone? You grew up alone, right?"

It's such a mean thing to say. For a second, you're outside your ablaze mind, and instead watching you say all these awful things to the man you claim to love. Love. How could you possibly love anyone you speak to like this? "You've been alone before. You can't be alone some more?" he's taken steps towards you, and gentle hands on your waist have you inhabiting your body once again. You're crying. Warm, fat tears falling down your face, but he doesn't try to wipe them away. "Why am I just a piece in a—in a fucking chess game? Does that analogy make it make sense for you now, Spencer? You are playing me like chess. How fucking dare you!"

So much of your energy is exerted into pounding your fists against his chest, and he just lets you. Every word you spoke corresponding with another hit. He doesn't do anything until you exhaust yourself, and your hands fall limply by your sides again.

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?"

"What?"

"What have you found?"

"Nothing," panic rises in your chest. "I—I don't understand why I had to have found something—"

"—This isn't coming from nowhere," he observes. Then, it clicks. His understanding of your brain coming to the forefront of his mind. "Unless it is. All this talk about my inability to be alone, did I leave you alone for too long? Is that where this is coming from? Are you spiralling and making up a narrative about me and then, evidently, taking out your frustrations at a made up problem on me?"

"No," your voice strains. "I mean, I did find something, but it's stupid now."

"It's stupid now," he parrots, condescendingly. "Stupid as in, you think you're going to be ridiculed for being upset about something valid, or stupid because it is not valid at all?"

"That's—you're being mean," you stammer, but even as you say them, the words sound unjust.

He must laugh mockingly, or maybe he's belittling you with it. Unkind words being thrown, and now you're trying to make him the bad guy. What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation.

"I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?"

Yeah, okay, you deserve that.

"You're invalidating what I'm saying—"

"—I'm regurgitating your own words back at you!" he snaps. "You said it was stupid. You. Not me."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—The latter, then. You're embarrassed to admit that."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—Whatever it is you found, I don't care. I can't imagine you've found anything."

You stare at him, waiting. Waiting for him to continue, to berate you some more, to offend you so deeply you can find a real reason to be upset with him. Right now, there is nothing but overthinking his gestures, and blowing things out of proportion.

"It's little things."

"Little things," he clarifies.

"Yeah."

You hear him sigh. He's exasperated. "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Like—like..." you're stammering again, your brain folding over itself to find something you can bring up to him that doesn't sound utterly insane. You aren't insane.

Right?

"Like when I left early the morning after sex for work?" he cuts in, and your chest tightens. Not because his words are mean — though, they are — but because they are true. "Did you think I didn't want you anymore? Or when I didn't call you back for two days because I was on a case? Those little things?"

"I guess."

"Right," he nods. "So, again, did I leave you alone for too long you spiralled into making up narratives about me?"

"They're not narratives—"

"—You've wholly convinced yourself I am a bad person!" you flinch at how loud his voice is, and for a moment, he pauses. He softens, his tensed arms relaxing, and he's sure to take a comforting step back from you. "You're so sure of this idea that I am using you for sex, and I don't want you for anything else, and only when I am bored, or lonely," still silent, he studies your face for a reaction. Whatever he finds mustn't satisfy him, because he continues. "I don't text you constantly because I don't want to be overbearing. I don't hierarch my friendships by how often I talk to someone. Rather, by what I spend my time with them doing. Being with you is so easy. I love being with you. Yes, I like having sex with you too, because I am attracted to you, and that's something we've established. If that has changed, and this is a long, winding way to tell me that, then please—"

"—It hasn't changed," you're quick to correct him.

"Okay," he nods again, firmer this time. "Then, I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Why can't you just talk to me? Why do I have to be insulted before you communicate with me? It feels almost unfair."

It is unfair. You know that. The thought appears in your brain every single time an insult flies out of your mouth.

Yet, you can't stop.

"You're ridiculing me right now. Why do you think I can't communicate with you? You make me feel small. Like—like my feelings aren't valid, and I'm crazy! Am I crazy? Do you think I'm crazy, Spencer? Do you hear me say all these things I think about you and go, fuck, this girl is a psycho? You must. Or else you wouldn't be here," there's a look of recognition behind your eyes that scares him. Your lips twitching, a sardonic laugh leaving them. "You find it fascinating, don't you? Figuring out my brain. Why I do the things I do, why I feel the way I feel. I have a brain you can psychoanalyse for your sick pleasure, so of course you don't leave!"

"No. That's not why I'm here," he speaks so calmly, and you know you've touched a nerve. You feel bad, somewhere. Outside of this untouchable blackout, you're apologising to him. Over, and over, and over.

"I'm here because I like you," when you open your mouth to mock him, he cuts you off, "did you know I think about you constantly? Everything I do I think of you. I find books I've read in stores, and think of you, and how you'd love them. I see posters for movies I have no desire to watch, but consider asking you to go see them because you mentioned liking the lead actor in passing. Every case, I am picking up the phone on the first ring in case it's you asking how it's going. I care so deeply for you, and this is confusing me a lot, hurting me a lot, because I didn't realise you weren't aware of that. But I can't reassure you every week that I do like you."

You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

This bad.

"It's not my fault you can't step outside yourself."

This bad.

Your chest aches, and you can feel every single familiar feeling in your body dissipate. Once again, just a sack of skin standing in the centre of your apartment, looking at a boy who has so much distaste for you in this moment, his anger is silent.

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

And then he's gone.

Silence.

There is so much silence when you are alone like this. His final words echoing in your brain, following your conscience down to the depths of it. Ruminating beneath years — decades — of mistreatment, insults. Every single layered brick that built the person you are today rotting in the pit of your brain, with the last thing Spencer Reid ever said to you, fresh; hot.

He left, and you're stuck with the silence of your apartment. The door that fell shut taunting you, for it was the last thing you possess to feel the touch of his hands. Gentle hands that used to hold you as you cried like this, letting you soak his skin with tears and then taking you out to the rooftop to watch the stars. Loving hands that used to push buttons you never knew to exist until he pushed them, emitting sounds you didn't know you could make until he emitted them. Kind hands, that would hold your waist when in a crowd of people; your face as he kissed you.

You pick yourself up off a floor you don't remember falling to, stumbling over feet too fast for your brain, trying to get away from here. Here, where he yelled at you, and you; him. Here, where he told you your brain is too bad for him to deal with. Here, where he left you.

You find your bathroom.

Uncomfortable, fluorescent lighting blinds you as you find solace in the cold tiling; the chipping painted cabinetry. Trembling hands fish your phone out of your pocket, and you stare at the black screen on the device for so long you must go insane. Burning the barely there image of your teary face into your mind, going over every single thing he said to you tonight. Every single cruel thing you said.

Guilt creeps up on you, twisting its way through your gut and up to your throat. Choking you, until you're gasping for air, eyes wide.

"No," you stutter, the word leaving your lips too many times, your head spinning. Fingers burying into your hair, phone clattering to the floor. "No."

At some point, sobs calm down, and tears dissipate. You find your footing within yourself again, furniture becomes furniture again, objects are objects. Your brain is no longer closing in on itself.

You unlock your phone and find his contact.

It rings for minutes. Probably only seconds. So loud in the silence of your apartment, and every ring inches open the door of regret.

The line clicks. Quiet follows.

Quiet, not silence. Though you are breathing heavily to yourself, you are not alone with your thoughts, and it is not the only sound you can hear.

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too.

#icymi ♡#Spotify

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parfaitblogs · 4 days ago

Text

i knew it, i know you ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities.

You'd say so.

You don't get the chance.

Somebody's fist raps against your front door. You know who. It's politely quiet, but eagerly fast. Seeking you out quickly after seven damp days of radio silence, to find if you've died or not.

"What're you doing here?" you ask him, feet firmly planted in the entryway. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

"Well, you disappeared for a week," he states, palms pressed against your kitchen bench as he leans against it. "I got worried."

"Why?"

What a stupid, stupid question to ask him.

"Forgive me for not being a constant presence in your life," you say. It isn't meant to bite, but your tone of voice comes out too sharp for it to not, and he is all too quick to catch it.

"Sorry?"

"Yes you did."

Well, fuck, Spencer. Guess you know everything there is to know about everything.

You accept the defeat. "Yes I did."

"Explain, please?"

Wordlessly, you shake your head, and the inside of your cheek finds its way between teeth. "It's mean."

"Then be mean."

"No. I—I can't," you shake your head. "It doesn't really matter."

His lips press together, and you can feel the nausea in your stomach churn. "It doesn't matter?"

Your head shakes again, "Mm-mm."

"Well, great. You've got an issue with me that causes you to disappear for a week, but it's all good because it doesn't matter?"

Oh.

"I don't have an issue with you," you lie, but God forbid you do such a thing in front of a profiler.

You're entirely not present enough to figure out which it is.

"Spencer, you haven't done anything. It's all stuff inside my head," you shake your head, again, and it's done so violently you can feel the contents of your brain shake within your skull.

"Then tell me what's inside your head, honey, please—"

He doesn't even sound like Spencer anymore.

"—It's so mean. I can't."

You don't sound like you.

"Then be mean!"

"You're exhausting to be around!"

Today, you are not.

Then, he speaks, in a voice so calm you think you imagined your outburst. "What have you found?"

"What?"

"What have you found?"

"Nothing," panic rises in your chest. "I—I don't understand why I had to have found something—"

"No," your voice strains. "I mean, I did find something, but it's stupid now."

"It's stupid now," he parrots, condescendingly. "Stupid as in, you think you're going to be ridiculed for being upset about something valid, or stupid because it is not valid at all?"

"That's—you're being mean," you stammer, but even as you say them, the words sound unjust.

He must laugh mockingly, or maybe he's belittling you with it. Unkind words being thrown, and now you're trying to make him the bad guy. What a breathtaking reveal of your expert victimisation.

"I'm being mean?" his tone is incredulous. "Me? Coming from the girl who said I'm, what, exhausting to be around? To know? I'm the mean one?"

Yeah, okay, you deserve that.

"You're invalidating what I'm saying—"

"—I'm regurgitating your own words back at you!" he snaps. "You said it was stupid. You. Not me."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—The latter, then. You're embarrassed to admit that."

Let me speak. "Spencer—"

"—Whatever it is you found, I don't care. I can't imagine you've found anything."

"It's little things."

"Little things," he clarifies.

"Yeah."

You hear him sigh. He's exasperated. "I'm gonna need more than that."

"Like—like..." you're stammering again, your brain folding over itself to find something you can bring up to him that doesn't sound utterly insane. You aren't insane.

Right?

"I guess."

"Right," he nods. "So, again, did I leave you alone for too long you spiralled into making up narratives about me?"

"They're not narratives—"

"—It hasn't changed," you're quick to correct him.

It is unfair. You know that. The thought appears in your brain every single time an insult flies out of your mouth.

Yet, you can't stop.

You stare at him. "Then you don't really know me. I said really early on that I'm insecure."

"I didn't think it would be this bad."

This bad.

"It's not my fault you can't step outside yourself."

This bad.

Quietly you murmur, "Then I can't do this."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me neither. You're exhausting too."

And then he's gone.

Silence.

You find your bathroom.

Guilt creeps up on you, twisting its way through your gut and up to your throat. Choking you, until you're gasping for air, eyes wide.

"No," you stutter, the word leaving your lips too many times, your head spinning. Fingers burying into your hair, phone clattering to the floor. "No."

At some point, sobs calm down, and tears dissipate. You find your footing within yourself again, furniture becomes furniture again, objects are objects. Your brain is no longer closing in on itself.

You unlock your phone and find his contact.

It rings for minutes. Probably only seconds. So loud in the silence of your apartment, and every ring inches open the door of regret.

The line clicks. Quiet follows.

Quiet, not silence. Though you are breathing heavily to yourself, you are not alone with your thoughts, and it is not the only sound you can hear.

There, through the phone, you can hear him breathing too.

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