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sunshinegirl29 · 7 days

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line my eyes and call me pretty- s.r. x fem!reader

sort of a continuation of Laid, but this can be read as a standalone

warnings: smut, spencer in eyeliner (I cannot explain how this makes me feel)

“Sit still!”

“You have a pencil against my eye and you’re squirming over me like a worm on a rainy day and you want me to sit still?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

You sit back, pointing the eyeliner at him, your brows furrowed in mock seriousness. “Sit. Still.”

Spencer looks at you wide-eyed for half a second before he rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he tsked. He shifts again, clearly struggling to remain still under your intense gaze.

“Seriously, Spence. If you keep moving, I’m going to poke your eye out.”

He gulps, his expression half-concerned, half-amused. “You wouldn’t actually do that, would you?” His hands come to settle on your thighs on either side of his.

“Of course not,” you say, rolling your eyes. “But if you don’t stop fidgeting, I might accidentally make you look like a raccoon.”

A smile breaks across his face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his antics. “Okay, okay. I’ll try,” he promises, forcing himself to stay still, though you can see the twitch of his lips, trying to hold back a grin.

You lean in closer, your concentration returning as you carefully apply the eyeliner. He swallows hard as you work, the proximity making his heart race in a way that has nothing to do with the makeup. You can’t recall why you offered, and you can’t recall why he agreed.

“See? Not so bad,” you say, leaning back as you finish one eye. “You look great.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden darkness framing his vision. “Great, huh? I didn’t know I needed eyeliner to look good.”

“Oh, trust me. It’s a game changer,” you tease, moving to the other eye. “Just wait until I’m done. You’re going to look like a celebrity.”

“More like a clown,” he jokes back, but you can tell he’s starting to enjoy the process.

“You’re such a pretty boy, Spencer,” you say, finishing up the other eye with a flourish. “You could pull off any look.”

He blinks again, and for a moment, the room is filled with a comfortable silence. Then, you sit back and admire your work, a grin spreading across your face. “There! All done.”

Spencer tentatively reaches for the little compact mirror in your makeup bag, his eyebrows raised in surprise as he looks at his reflection. He examines the dark makeup on his lower waterline, the deep color making his brown eyes pop. You feel a heat flush through you. His eyebrows are still raised in surprise as he turns his head slightly, taking in the way the makeup enhances the angles of his face. He blinks a few times, the action drawing your attention to the way his lashes now seem even longer, darker, framing his eyes in a way that’s almost too captivating.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the sudden rush of heat that spreads through you. Seeing Spencer like this—so effortlessly handsome, the sharp lines of his face accentuated by the dark eyeliner—sends a shiver down your spine. He looks so different, so confident, and yet still undeniably him.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, noticing the flush on your cheeks, and his own face softens into a shy, almost bashful smile. "Do you like it?" he asks quietly, a touch of uncertainty creeping back into his voice.

You gently nudge the mirror out of the way, catching his lips in a feverish kiss. Within seconds, you feel him, half hard against your thigh. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as your kiss deepens.

Spencer’s uncertainty melts away as your kiss deepens, his hesitation giving way to the passion building between you. His grip tightens around you, one hand sliding up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you even closer. The intensity of the kiss sends a jolt of electricity through you, your body responding to his with an undeniable urgency.

You shift slightly, your core brushing against the growing evidence of his desire, and a soft gasp escapes his lips, his breath hitching at the contact. The sensation ignites something primal within you, a hunger that you can no longer ignore. You press your body against his, reveling in the feel of him, so solid, so warm beneath you.

Spencer’s hands move down to your hips, his touch firm yet gentle as he guides your grinds against his lap. You straddle him without hesitation, feeling the heat of his body through the thin fabric separating you. The way he looks at you, his eyes dark and filled with a need that mirrors your own, sends a thrill of excitement coursing through you.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your lips hovering over his, so close that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and heavy with desire, and you can’t help but smile at the sight of him like this—so open, so vulnerable, yet so incredibly captivating.

Your hands find the hem of his shirt, your fingers brushing against the bare skin of his abdomen as you slowly begin to lift it. He shivers under your touch, his muscles tensing slightly, but he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he leans back, his eyes never leaving yours, giving you the space to undress him.

The shirt comes off in one smooth motion, revealing the lean, toned lines of his chest and stomach. You take a moment to admire him, your eyes tracing every curve, every dip of his body. He’s beautiful—more than beautiful—and the realization hits you with a force that leaves you breathless.

Spencer’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink under your gaze, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips, a mix of shyness and pride. He’s not used to being the center of attention like this, but the way you’re looking at him, with such open admiration, makes him feel... cherished.

You lower your head, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses along his collarbone, your lips brushing against his skin with a softness that belies the hunger simmering beneath the surface. His breath hitches again, his hands gripping your hips tighter, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, and it only fuels your desire further. Your kisses trail lower, down the center of his chest, over the smooth expanse of his skin, until you reach the waistband of his pants. His breath stutters as you pause, your fingers playing with the button, teasing him just enough to make his heart race.

Spencer watches you, his eyes dark with anticipation, his lips slightly parted as he waits for your next move. You take your time, savoring the moment, the power you have over him, and the way he’s so completely at your mercy.

Finally, you undo the button, your hands slipping beneath the fabric, and as you begin to undress him further, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you in a shared moment of passion and connection. The room is filled with a soft glow, the air heavy with the scent of anticipation and the quiet sounds of your bodies moving together. As you slide his pants down, Spencer shivers under your touch, the cool air contrasting with the heat radiating from his skin. He’s so beautiful like this, so vulnerable yet completely absorbed in the moment.

You lean in again, capturing his lips in a kiss that’s deeper, more urgent. Your hands explore the bare skin of his torso, fingers tracing the firm lines of his muscles, feeling every slight movement as his breath catches in his throat. His hands, once tentative, now roam your body with growing confidence, pulling you closer, encouraging you to move against him.

You can feel his need, hot and insistent against your thigh, and it sends a wave of desire crashing through you. Your bodies move in sync, a rhythm building between you, fueled by the heat of the moment and the deep connection you share. You quickly discard your own clothes, sinking onto him. Your shirt is bundled up over your chest.

The intensity of your movements causes a light sheen of sweat to form on your skin, the warmth and friction amplifying the sensations coursing through both of you. The heat makes your breaths come quicker, mingling together in the small space between your lips as you pull back to catch a glimpse of his face.

Spencer’s eyes are half-closed, his expression one of pure, unguarded desire. The dark eyeliner that once perfectly framed his eyes is now smudged, a faint black trail running down his cheek, mixing with the beads of sweat that have begun to gather on his skin. The sight of him like this—so disheveled, so lost in the moment—sends a thrill through you, and you can’t resist the urge to brush your thumb gently along the streaked makeup, your touch light but electric.

He leans into your touch, his breathing uneven, his lips slightly parted as a soft moan escapes him. The sound ignites something primal within you, and you capture his lips again, the kiss more feverish this time, as though you can’t get enough of him.

Your bodies continue to move together, the slickness of sweat only intensifying the sensation of skin against skin, heightening every touch, every brush of your fingers against his body. The friction builds, a slow burn that spreads from where your bodies are joined to every nerve ending, until it’s almost too much to bear.

Spencer’s hands grip your hips with a newfound urgency, guiding you, encouraging you to move faster, harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tries to keep pace with the overwhelming sensations. His eyeliner continues to run, each streak a mark of how thoroughly you’ve unraveled him.

You watch his expression shift as the pleasure builds, the flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck, his lips parted in breathless anticipation. The sight of him so close to the edge, so completely consumed by the moment, pushes you even further into the haze of desire.

The heat between you becomes all-consuming, a furnace that melts away any remaining restraint, leaving only raw, unfiltered emotion in its wake. Your movements become more desperate, your breath mingling with his in gasping moans as you chase that final, shattering release.

And when it comes, it’s like a wave crashing over both of you, pulling you under into a sea of sensation, the world around you blurring as you find your release together, the rhythm of your bodies slowing as the tension finally breaks.

You collapse against him, your body still trembling with the aftershocks, your chest rising and falling in time with his as you both struggle to catch your breath. The room is filled with the sound of your heartbeats, the quiet aftermath of something that felt almost too intense to be real.

Spencer’s arms wrap around you, holding you close as you both come down from the high, his skin warm and slick against yours, his eyeliner now completely smudged, giving him a wild, untamed look that only makes him more irresistible.

You press a soft kiss to his jaw, then to his lips, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him beneath you, so spent and vulnerable and beautiful. As the last remnants of the moment fade, you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, the smudged makeup only adding to his allure. He smiles at you, shy and a little self-conscious, but there’s a new confidence in his eyes, one that tells you he’s starting to believe what you’ve been telling him all along.

“You’re my pretty boy,” you whisper, your voice filled with affection and admiration. And as he leans in to kiss you again, you know that he’s beginning to accept it too, embracing the way you see him, the way the world is beginning to see him—as someone truly, undeniably beautiful.

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sunshinegirl29 · 15 days

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This has gotta be one of the most beautiful Spencer pieces I've read. Ugh. Gimme everything you've written ever.

symbolic interactionism ; harlot (18+)

Spencer Reid x BAU Reader

TLDR: Spencer and Reader confront their complicated feelings around sexual intimacy - comfort, angst - 5.2k words

Warnings: 18+ MDNI - discussions around sex linked to shame and humiliation, implied sexual assault for both reader and Spencer, including Spencer's own history (spoiler(?) for season 3), mention of nudity but no nudity, one mention of disordered eating but it's a blink and you miss it thing, reader tries to initiate sex at the start of the fic, miscommunication trope for five minutes, usage of terms slut, whore, harlot but all used by reader to describe herself, mention of enjoying pain (Tramp!Reader guys), self-deprecating reader, religious language and imagery - please let me know if any more.

Notes: 2nd person, no y/n, fem reader. Fun fact, tramp was the first fic i ever wrote for spencer even though it was my third I ever posted :)

“Actually, the term princess evolves from the Latin masculine princeps, meaning ‘chief’ or ‘first’ and indicated a person of high rank, then evolving into Old French and Middle English princesse, which has the modern-day definition of the term. You know, the Latin term actually comes from the two words primus – meaning first – and capere – to seize – so ironically, its definition is more in line with kings-,”

“God, I love you, Spencer, but will you please take my clothes off?”

Spencer blushes and stammers at the weight of you on top of him, seemingly remembering how you straddle him, your heat and presence awe-inspiring. His fogged glasses remain firmly on his face and his hair, usually tame and sleek, is wild from your nails grazing through it.

Despite his nervousness, you continue to kiss his neck and jaw, treasuring him like he was made of marble and carved by God, resisting the urge to leave traces of your love in blossoming lilac watercolour. In the early morning light, still sleepy and not yet encouraged by coffee, your nose grazes his casual morning stubble and you find comfort in one of his t-shirts.

I never wear them anyway, he’d said, you can have them.

Spencer realised, though, despite how he had every interest in getting rid of them, that there was a reason he’d kept his old t-shirts – how good you looked in them. He wonders if part of him thought this the whole time - before you'd both broken the barrier of the friendzone - and was just hoping or wishing or dreaming in some way.

“I – uh – they’re actually mine-,” he jests, choking on it.

“Smart guy.”

“Baby, why don’t we – uh-,”

It had been one-hundred-and-seven days since you and Spencer had started dating, and you had yet to see him naked.

Not that you were clawing at the wall over it – or maybe a little – but it did surprise you.

Just a smidge.

Spencer carried his clothes into the bathroom when he showered, and you were not allowed to see him shower – or shower with him, which was incredibly tragic – nor had you ever watched him change into his pyjamas. Up until now, the closest – and furthest – you’d gotten was a make-out session in the darkness of his bedroom, cushioned by the slight wandering of hands and interrupted when Spencer noted you both had to get up in six hours and fourteen minutes and were already below optimum sleeping time.

“Why don’t we what?” you ask, lifting your head from the crook of his neck, thumbs stroking over his jaw and cheeks – cradling him still.

Your pupils blow all colour out of the river of your eyes as you beam down at him, the gentle morning sun casting you in a creamy vanilla haze. You’re content. Spencer has never seen you as pliable and calm as you are in the mornings.

He just wishes he felt the same.

And typically, he does.

When the mornings are rushing out to work and pretending to the team that you hadn’t been mumbling sweet-nothings under forest green blankets just an hour earlier – sometimes, I think, you were made for me, but I know that’s- I was made for you – or when Spencer wakes up a few minutes before you and tries to surprise you with a coffee, only to be startled by your pouting presence in the doorway - I woke up alone- I'm sorry, I wanted to surprise you -, or on Sundays – like today – where you abandon your bed sheets in fear of never leaving them and trudge to Spencer’s leather couch, littered with cushions and books, finding solace there, too.

Spencer typically feels that easy lightness you effortlessly coax out of him.

It’s just…

Spencer stutters and clasps your hands in his, lowering them from his face.

You sit there, a little confused – and slightly hurt, though you’d never admit this – and watch as he pats your leg.

Like a friend.

“You okay, handsome?” you question.

“Yeah, yes, yes, I am… I’m fine…” he rasps, sleepy still, gazing up at you like you, too, are the Lord’s fondest creation.

The peek of evolution.

Everything that Darwin was talking about.

“You sure?” your brows pinch, “You seem a little… out of sorts… in comparison to your usual out-of-sort-ness.” You flash a smug little smirk, and Spencer maps trails across your thigh and your hip, "Have you accidentally shit yourself?"

“I- what, no! No, I don’t know… I don’t know…” he mumbles.

But he knows everything.

You trial moving your hand again – unsure if he’ll tug you away once more – and your fingers comb through his hair, nails gently grazing his scalp.

“You don’t know how you feel?”

You’re not an idiot.

You’re aware of the compromising position and what you said right before he stopped and started like a car driven by Spencer Reid.

It’s because of this that you slouch back, angling into a more family-friendly position.

“You… you don’t want to sleep with me?” you try to hide your slight offence at the idea, even though you’re the one proposing it.

Spencer swallows and blinks as he tries to form a response. It’s hard enough in your enamouring presence, especially with you so close like this.

He’s overtly aware of the sweat beading on his back and how his jaw tightens with every guilty feeling bubbling away.

“I…” he swallows, “I’m not… ready… for… anything like that.”

You nod.

“Okay.”

“I… it’s just… I’m twenty-five. I… should be ready-,”

“There is no should.”

“Actually, studies show we reach sexual maturity by the time we’re eighteen-,”

Your head shakes.

“Spencer, sex – more than just the act but everything else – is not something measured by studies and statistics. It’s…” you gulp, “it’s very personal, and… messy and... sometimes horrible, and... so, don't worry about it."

There’s a stiff silence as the room falls quiet, and you feel very silly for sitting on his lap, so make a movement to shift away, but his hands grip your hips, and he keeps you close.

Messy. Horrible.

Spencer’s gaze flicks sympathetically about your expression – like a bear you’re doing everything possible to tame, even if it means losing your fingers in the process – and it’s his turn to worry about you.

“What’s going on up there?” he asks, nodding to your forehead as though it were entirely separate to yourself, and you could be an objective observer.

You shake your head, forcing contentment as you gaze into his eyes, framed perfectly.

“Nothin’… just worried about you, that’s all…”

Spencer doesn't buy it for a beat. You might be all aloof and too cool but you're not a poker player.

You’re aware of how you are.

You’re brash.

Despite this not being one of your favourite qualities, in times like this, it does have its perks.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask.

“What?”

“The ‘not being ready’, is that… is that something we need to discuss?”

Spencer’s breath comes like a tsunami – it rises slowly, and then floods out in one, big rush. He hoped it would calm him - activate his parasympathetic nervous system - but if anything, he’s now infinitely more aware of how not ready he is to broach this topic with you.

“I-, uh… no… I don’t-,”

“It’s not that it’s a problem, Spence, ‘m just worried that… we’ve not really – uh – done any of that kind of stuff, and… I think we sort of need to know where we both stand.”

“I’m just not ready.” Spencer cracks – not loudly, not angrily.

It's more like a yelp in a haunted house when something goes bang. It's not rage. It's fear.

But, regardless, it's still sudden, and it shuts you up. You nod and accept his answer.

And, as you always have – not because he’s done anything wrong or you have – you search for an escape. You glance around the room and decide to get up, regardless of his weight on your thighs.

You pat his shoulders, like a friend, and shift from his lap.

He lets you go this time.

“You want a coffee?” you yawn, stretching out in his t-shirt, wishing you weren't wearing it at all.

You're back to ice-skating around topics you'd rather avoid, pretending they're not there - ignoring ghosts is sure to make them go away, right? You don't know what you'd do if you saw something move in the middle of the night, but only the pursuers perish.

Spencer dislikes this part of you but knows you're just trying to keep yourself safe.

“Yeah, please…” he hums.

As you disappear into the kitchen, Spencer’s face reddens and his palms sweat, and despite how your presence had made him stammer, your absence displeases his nerves much more.

Ignoring his stress, he follows you into the kitchen because he’s not sure you’ll come back out again for another twenty minutes otherwise, and you certainly won't come back as loving and affectionate as you had been when he'd called you princess very hesitantly - blushing like a fool, unsure how you'd take it.

He finds you at his coffee machine, fishing through his container of ground coffee beans more like a child at the beach. At the sound of his footsteps, you remember what you’re doing and scoop them into the machine pointedly.

“Impatient boy.” You tut.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“You didn’t snap.”

He did.

“I did.” he sighs, “Uh… it’s just… all a… sensitive topic for me.”

Isn’t sex a sensitive topic for everyone?

You offer him sanctuary in not turning around and allowing him to speak without meeting your intense gaze.

“Do I need to know about it? Is…” you gulp, “is it something I need to know in order for you to feel safe?”

Spencer goes to say no and roll his eyes, but then the question sinks in, and he feels less like doing that.

His silence offers you your answer.

“I care about you a lot, Doc, so…” you shrug a bit, turning then to smile at him, “I’m all ears, whenever you’re ready.”

Despite your usual prickly nature, Spencer finds your capability for warmth entrancing. He wonders if this is the version of you that you hide under thorns. He runs a hand over his head – emulating how you might’ve done it, not that it has the same effect – and sighs, gnawing on the rotten weight of the past.

“It’s complicated.” He rasps.

“We’re both complicated.”

“I – uh – it’s not – uh-,” he rubs a hand over his face like it might help, “I just… feel differently about that kind of stuff, it doesn’t… doesn’t come naturally, doesn’t feel right…”

“Feel right?” you ask.

“Not everyone can feel about sex the same way you do.”

Your brows raise. Everything, for a blink, pauses.

“Huh?”

“I’m not like you, I’m not…”

Your hands find your hips and thunder erupts inside you.

“Not what?”

Your pointed tone says he’s already messed up.

“I- no, no-not like that, I don’t mean it like-, I’m from Las Vegas-,”

“And that’s relevant, how?”

Spencer has this amazing knack for digging big holes quickly. You’d find it impressive if you weren’t offended.

Everything in Spencer’s head screams abort, abort, but he’s determined to make it out of here with his head intact.

“I’m- well, sexual promiscuity-,” he continues.

You laugh. It’s not funny. That’s why you laugh.

Another deep breath later and Spencer's desperately trying to save your relationship with his sleepy, bare hands.

“No, I- can I start again?”

“Why, got a few more comments you wanna throw in?” you ask, “I’m sorry your girlfriend’s such a harlot, I’ll be a saint in my next life - maybe then you'll wanna sleep with me.” Your head cocks to the side.

And, fuck, you know you're being cruel.

But cruelty, sometimes, feels like heaven in comparison to the shit-storm dealt your way otherwise.

You're not one for meanness. You can appreciate sometimes how good it feels.

In a last-ditch attempt, Spencer opts to throw himself in the line of fire.

“Look, I’ve really messed this up, I’m an idiot,” Spencer shows his hands, unarmed, “I’m not trying to imply anything. I… I really do admire your confidence… I do… and I wish I felt like that – like everybody else – but I don’t.”

You stay quiet and let him have it.

You tortured him enough to get your point across, and you’re starting to think you’d felt so strongly about fighting back because, like Spencer, things are getting a bit too close.

You’re two dogs backed into a corner.

“When I think about…” his hand comes to his chest, “about any of that stuff… about… sex or… even just – uh – like – not… not wearing any clothes in front of you, being naked, I…” Spencer’s eyes dart around the room, “get tight in my chest, like ‘m on the verge of a heart attack, I don’t know…”

“Anxious?”

“Something like that.”

You nod, then come to sit on the kitchen counter in front of him, tugging him to stand in between your legs. Your fingers stream his hair again and he leans into your touch, his glasses shifting as the hinges press into your palm.

Despite the horror of the topic, Spencer relishes in knowing you're not mad at him any more.

“Spencer… did… did something happen?”

Spencer’s teeth grit and water trickles into the coffee pot, fresh and rich, and the world slowly wakes up around you. Cars pass on the street and the floorboards above you creak, and rain patters on the distant windows. Spencer finds home once again in the soft skin of your thigh, clinging to you with a little more need than he realises.

You don’t mind.

“I mean, I’ve never done anything.” Spencer admits, “You’re the furthest I’ve ever gotten, ‘nd… that’s… already terrifying because… I don’t want to be bad.”

“Spence…”

Your hand finds his and you trace the curves and curls of his knuckles.

“And on top of that, it’s…” he sighs, “I… I’m not exactly…”

His struggle is palpable in the particles of the room, dust colliding so much louder than it had been.

“What, honey?”

His head shakes.

Spencer might know a lot of words, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he certainly is no good at putting them into sentences.

“In my… myself, I’m not…”

“Oh.” You nod, understanding, “Okay.”

You swallow.

“You’re uncomfortable?”

Spencer cringes at the word but knows it’s the right one – unsure, humiliated, guilt-ridden. These are all words that come to Spencer’s brilliant mind, but none of them quite make it past the gateway of his own dignity – not that he feels he has much.

“Okay…” you mumble, “Spence, if sex and all that stuff is off the table forever… that’s fine… I- that’s not a problem, that’s okay. But-,”

Spencer sighs.

His eyes close and he awaits the inevitable ending.

“God…” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I- yeah, I know, that’s not what you signed up for-,”

“Hey, woah, hang on a second, cowboy. I didn’t say that.” you stroke his hand firmly, tugging one of them up to kiss his knuckles, “What I was going to say… was, but if you did want to do stuff like that… and wanted to overcome that anxiety and that stress… I would happily help you with that. In saying that, Mr Profiler… I need to know where that’s coming from so we know what we’re doing.” You say, “Unless it’d be more comfortable for me to profile you-,”

You both scoff, and he shakes his head at you.

“No, you don’t need to do that…” he swallows.

Your eyes are like stars. So welcoming. Your presence - not just here, but in his life - is like the answer to a prayer; or, more likely, nature's way of righting some utter wrong.

And you've gotta know.

“Okay… so…”

Spencer has never told anybody this.

He decides, however, that you should know – that he’d feel safe with you knowing.

After all, you’re kind and warm and looking at him so fondly, like nobody else ever has. You’ve put yourself in uncomfortable positions in the name of truth countless times.

The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.

“I started high school early – I graduated at age twelve – and… and I wasn’t exactly – uh – popular or even sociable, I…” he licks between his lips as he searches for words, voice raspy and delicate, and you stay very still like you might frighten him off, “I was the... weird kid, and... well, one day, Harper Hillman… approaches me in the library, and… she says… Alexa Lisbon… easily the prettiest girl in school… wants to meet me behind the field house."

"I'm gonna fight her." you mumble.

He scoffs, head shaking at you.

"Be serious." his eyes flick between yours and you nod in agreement, settling your fire for now, "But, for the record, there is no fight needed..."

You beam.

"And… and so, I don’t know, I feel silly now… but… I went, obviously, and… she was there, and… so was the entire football team.”

Your heart plummets.

He looks so embarrassed. Like it’s all his fault.

“They – uh-,” he scratches the back of his neck, “tied me to a goal post naked, and… everybody stood and watched and laughed, and… I begged them – I begged them – to... let me go and take me down, and… they didn't..."

Your throat tightens in realising such a young Spencer had gone through something so horrible at the mercy and amusement of his older peers.

You think some of the worst things happen in the confines of the education system. You wonder if it's the same all over the world.

You ponder if, at the same time you held your breath and tightened your stomach and swallowed air as the rumour mill worked like a charm, Spencer's skin tore raw against skipping rope and his cheeks burnt red and his throat ran dry.

"Anyway..." he murmurs, like that's it, and it's over, and it's done.

You realise the shame of it all must be catastrophic – he’s remorseful he’d fallen for it in the first place, and embarrassed and self-conscious of how he looks - what was everybody laughing at if not that, right?

And his sweet, torturous memory. His whole life is a film reel always rolling behind his eyes. Even when it's played a million times. Even when the projector burns.

Spencer avoids your gaze, opting to watch how your fingers lace around his. One hand abandons this tangle to hold his face and stroke his cheek, as though the gesture might remind him people can be kind - can be gentle.

“That must’ve been so horrible, Spence…” your voice cracks as you watch his features, desperately contained like his feelings are radioactive and might contaminate you if he lets them out, "I'm so sorry..."

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. You were so young.”

Spencer’s throat tightens around sounds he’d rather not let out.

He does, however, lean into you, resting his forehead on your shoulder and ignoring how it crushes his glasses, and you tug him in close, combing through his hair, one arm stretching over the expanse of his back to hold him as near as he’ll let you.

It’s the kind of thing that ruins lives.

That sends you one way or the other – toward terror and violence, or invisibility. Spencer had chosen the latter – it was already built into his nature – but, God, is there any consolation in that at all?

To rot with it?

So, you hold him, because you are not magic, and Spencer – despite his brilliance – has not yet navigated the complexities of time travel. There is no backward. There is no rewind. So, you hold him.

Eventually, Spencer pulls away, and excuses himself to pour you both a fresh cup of coffee. You remain on the kitchen counter, peering over your shoulder at him, ready for when he needs embracing again.

“So, you think that’s why you – uh – struggle with that kind of intimacy?”

Spencer swallows.

“If – uh – if we were profiling somebody else, I’d say… it’s a… pretty big – uh – trigger for something like that.” he admits quietly, sliding your coffee over, and finding warmth in his mug that he’d usually find from you.

He uses the counter as a blockade, staying on the other side of it.

“Spence…” you murmur, “I’m… I’m never gonna laugh at you or… make you feel like that… and I know that’s not – like – the point, I know that’s not a cure-all, I’m not looking for a cure-all, I just… want you to know that… what they did was completely and entirely wrong, and… not fucking normal. That is not a normal thing to do to a kid.”

Spencer blinks the way he does when he’s nervous.

“I know, I mean… I don’t know, but I know…” he says.

“Yeah, I get it… sometimes it’s not about what the head says but how the head feels. It takes more than knowledge and common sense to overcome scars like that, it takes… reworking…” you gulp, “like… when you’re making a vase on a pottery wheel… and it… tips over… you… you can’t just know that it wasn’t supposed to be like that, you have to… reshape it yourself… even if it’s not your fault that it tipped.”

Spencer meets your gaze across the short distance.

A smile perks at the corners of his lips, but then he looks away again.

“That’s not my of way of trying to get you to sleep with me-,” you firmly add, a little ashamed that it might've come across like that.

“No, I know, you’re…” he scoffs, “you’re wise. Wiser than you give yourself credit for.”

You shake your head and don’t believe him.

“Well, ‘m glad you think so…”

“I know so.”

"It wasn't your fault, Spence..."

"Yeah..."

"You were a kid." there's a beat of quiet, "It's not your fault."

Spencer sighs and wanders to you, standing between your legs once more, ready for your love again.

“So… is it a complete no-go… or… teeny-tiny, baby steps?” you ask, “’m fine either way, I just need to know what’s going on up there, Doctor Genius.”

“You know I don’t like the whole genius thing.” his eyes roll.

“I do know, that’s why I say it. I can always call you something else… Doctor Spectacles-,” your finger swipes over the bridge of his glasses and you both laugh.

“Stop it.”

“Doctor – uh – Sexy-,”

“Doctor Sexy?” he grins.

“I don’t know,” your cheeks burn, “I couldn’t think of anything not including ‘grandpa sweaters’-,” you’re interrupted when he kisses your forehead and you cave into your inner teenage girl who’d be just as bashful, “stop, oh my god, I take it back.”

“No, you’ve said it now – you have to be held accountable, it’s what we do.”

“I’ll quit my job.”

He kisses your temples and your cheeks, and your eyes pinch shut as though seeing it will only worsen your humility tenfold.

“I think I can persuade you to stay. After all, what’s the BAU without you?”

“Probably more productive.”

“And a lot less interesting.”

His hand strokes your head and then makes its way to your cheek, and he’s smiling away as though you hadn’t discussed something completely fucking sad just a minute or two ago.

Spencer sighs. His brows pinch.

“Baby steps.” he says.

“You sure? You don’t have to say anything for my sake, Doc, I… I’m perfectly happy…”

“I’m sure, I…” he nervously smiles, avoiding your eyes again, “just need you to be patient with me, if you can do that.”

You grin.

“Do you have any idea how long I had a crush on you before you figured it out? You’re right, you’re not a genius. Doctor Slow. Doctor Turtle.”

“You can’t be serious for more than five minutes, can you?” his head cocks, “It’s like you have a limited supply of it in your brain,” he kisses your forehead again, “and the second it runs out, you’re back to being… you.”

“I thought you liked me!”

“I do, I love you.” Spencer grins, “Serious and unserious.”

He regards you fondly, still happy on the kitchen counter, gazing at him with stars and sweetness speckling your eyes. He never thought anybody would look at him that way. Now that he knows what that looks means, he’s aware of how he’d been on the receiving end of it for a lot longer than he first realised.

So much lost time.

He tries not to mourn it. The mourning doesn’t change it.

“I’m sorry I – uh – inadvertently referred to you as promiscuous.” he adds to ensure he's out of the doghouse.

“It was inadvertent? What about when you mentioned how you’re from Las Vegas?” he cringes at himself, “All those strippers and dancers, must make you real comfortable with a whore like me, right?”

You’re half-joking.

And Spencer knows you’re half-joking.

“I… didn’t mean any of that, I was trying to express the difference between how we operate around the subject of sex. I…” he swallows, “I mean, we do… feel differently… we have… different experiences.”

Spencer hopes his gentle coaxing will pull some truths from you this time. There is still so much to learn about you, and he intends on understanding you completely, even if it takes him his whole life.

You’re comfortable with the act of having sex but are fast to find offence around it, as though – like him – the light can get too bright, too fast, and you have to retreat. You find your safety in thorns. You always have. You know how they prick your skin and how they make you bleed – you like it – so using them for shelter is comfortable enough for you. It’s to keep everybody else far away.

Your head softly shakes, not that you know what you mean.

“I – um – well…” you scoff, “sex is… sex, you know, it’s… it’s weird, it’s…”

"You said horrible."

"I-," your eyes roll, "I was maybe a little theatrical... it's just- I don't... uh..."

“I know…” Spencer soothes, stroking over your thighs as you bring your coffee to your lips, “but… it’s like you said, if… if there’s things I need to know to keep you safe, I… I need to know them.”

And his tone is all apologetic, wishing there wasn’t something he had to know.

The problem is as it always is; he’s a profiler, and he knows under your ‘mystique’ and ‘nerve’ and ‘nonchalance’ that… there’s something else you’d rather not talk about – rather forget. The building blocks of sexuality are laid recklessly and absent-mindedly, without you really looking – he knows how easily words and glances and actions change the way you understand yourself forever.

You shrug.

“There’s nothing to know, nothing happened…”

He’s not sure he believes you.

“You called yourself a harlot.”

“I-,” you stammer, “I call myself a lot of things.”

“And a whore.”

You chuckle, all self-effacing, but Spencer doesn’t, and never has, found that sort of humour from you funny.

He wages that you’re the first to place unkind words and criticism and shortcomings upon yourself so that it’s not news if somebody else ever does. It doesn’t matter if someone says you’re an unimportant, good-for-nothing, emotionally-constipated slut if you already think that about yourself.

Right?

The problem is that Spencer is far too knowledgeable in sociology and the idea of self-fulfilling prophecies. He sees your unkind words aimed at yourself as the epitome of symbolic interactionism - you will be who you say you'll be, and what others say you'll be. You'll recite your cruelty over and over again until it becomes you. Becomes fate. It's safe.

Spencer wonders if it was someone else who said all these horrible things to you - or made you feel that way - or if you designed your prophecy to submit to.

You break under destiny's moonlight. You beg for another chance - another way to be - not sure if you really want one.

“I do not like that you do that.” Spencer’s surprisingly firm in his chastisement, but you bite your wit and let him have it.

He caresses your jaw, eyes tender behind his glasses, expression soft and ready for you to open up.

You lean into his touch – always searching for it, always praying for it – and he smiles at your gentleness. You have this secret softness that you only confess to having around him. You’re a little like a cat in that way, Spencer thinks.

“Open up to me, baby…” Spencer rasps, “let me know you.”

“Mm… no, thanks…” you’re smirking still, “what was it you said that one time? I’m anomalous, that means you don’t know me and I’m all the hotter for it.”

You are Alaska.

In the winter season - when things get dark and unyielding and cold - the northernmost city, Utqiagvik, has twenty-four hours of constant night.

It doesn't matter what time it is. Only that the sun doesn't shine.

That's what occurs to Spencer every time things get a little too much for you.

Alaska.

Spencer sighs, shaking his head at how impossible you are, toying with your fingers, lifting them from your leg as if to demonstrate some point.

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” he recites, a slight hoarseness to his voice, still quiet in the morning light.

Your brow raises.

“Who said that?”

“Carl Jung.”

“Jung? I thought we – like – disproved all those weird sexual-psychologists-,”

“That’s Freud you’re thinking of,” he smiles, “Jung has his merits, still. My point… is that… it’s important for me to know who you are and what you’re talking about when you talk about yourself like that…" he smiles, "because knowing each other and understanding one another is… what some philosophers theorise is the purpose of all existence.”

Spencer’s always dug for hidden meanings.

It’s what you love so much about him.

“Maybe I’m just funny.” you reply.

“You are funny, but I love you too much to let you get away with distractions and obscenities like that.” he sighs, growing a little frustrated but devling deep into his love to find patience, “Talk to me, honey…”

You’re all out of witty phrases and diversions.

“It’s nothing…” you tell him, “just… you know… doing it for the wrong reasons, ‘nd… I mean, I’m just a girl, you know, I’m not – uh-,”

You hoped you’d be somewhat better at articulating your darkest shame.

“Not what?” he persists.

“Not… the best decision maker in the world, I... accept bad things… get all surprised when it turns out badly.” you scoff, shrugging, not looking at him, “everybody does, no big deal.”

“Angel…” he calls, “it is a big deal.”

But you're on lockdown. You're running whilst standing still.

“Everybody goes through shitty things, Spence, you can’t spend your life moaning about them – gotta just… move on… trudge forward…”

“Well, you did not say that five minutes ago when I told you what happened to me.”

Check-fucking-mate.

If you weren’t read to filth, you’d have been impressed.

There is no easily presentable defence, your honour, and the worst part is he knows it. Brows raised slightly as he expects some snarky response, you’re horrified to find you have none.

“But that’s different.” You trial.

“Hm?”

“What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

“And what happened to you was?”

“Nothing did happen to me, nothing, I’m fine, I-, look, I’m not as bright as you seem to think I am,” you untangle your hand from his and, despite his instinct, when you shift on the counter to slide away from him, Spencer steps back and lets you go.

He remains by the counter so that, when you step into the light of the living room, he doesn’t chase you away.

You are like a cat, after all.

You hover, all shadowy in nature, as you always have been, as if waiting for him to make you scurry away.

Spencer just smiles at you.

It’s sad. All sympathy. You deserve it after all.

“Can we not talk about our – like – weird traumas on a Sunday morning, please? That’s like the worst time to discuss them.” you say.

“When’s a good time?”

“Thursday evenings.”

“I think we’ve gotta have it out now,” Spencer replies, “but I value your tenacity.”

In truth, you think, you are two shipwrecks of shame. It’s not your fault you crashed, but it is still your wreck to deal with. You know what happens if you don’t. You know the Titanic never came up from the depths. It decays and flourishes with things it shouldn’t; cold-water corals, anemones, and amphipods, growing and living on what was once a peaceful venture out to sea.

You sigh.

“I just make all the wrong choices… and… pick all the wrong people, o-or the wrong people pick me, and… I jump the gun on that kind of stuff and it never ends well, and... things happen when all that wrongness collides. It’s messy, it’s sad, it’s… people don’t listen to each other o-or themselves.”

Your voice cracks. You swallow your emotions.

“And you can’t make people listen sometimes… they don’t always listen…”

Spencer appreciates how much strength even your vagueness entails, and so offers you solace in not pushing anymore.

“Okay.” Spencer relents, “Well… I promise to always listen to you… if you can always promise to listen to you.”

Your eyes burn into his.

“I… I mean, I don’t really know what I’m always thinking-,” you stutter.

“If you don’t know, then the answer is no, angel.” Spencer tests his fortune and leaves the kitchen to approach you, and when he reaches you without issue, his knuckles caress your cheek, “And I’m always going to listen to that no, okay?”

The sparks that once burned have now soothed to a cool flame, and you nod rather than snap back with something dismissive.

Spencer smiles, because he knows how hard that must have been for you.

“Good.” He hums, “Because… I would never want to make you believe any of those things – that… there’s any kind of wrongness or messiness or sadness... for you or around you… that you've gotta push yourself into something you don't want because you're scared or... you think it'll prove something, I..."

His lips press into a fine line, a commiserating smile, and his gaze traces your features.

“And that bad feeling?" His head softly shakes, brows pinching, voice quiet and raspy against the morning air, “We’re gonna make that go away.”

Your brows knit – the tenderness is too painful to bear – and you’re unsure what to do with it all.

A breath leaves you, lips parting like you might speak, but you have nothing to say.

Spencer clasps your face in his hands, every finger perfectly placed to support you in one way or another, and he kisses the space right between your brows in hopes to fade the wrinkle forming.

“You’re important to me, you know that?” he adds.

“You’re important to me, too.”

Your hands come to his wrists as he holds you, searching for your guile and wit, your conviction and your stubbornness, tired now of feeling this way.

On life's cliff edge, you close your eyes and feel.

"Don't ever leave me."

Your quiet proclamation tightens his chest - the sheer vulnerability of it unlike anything he's heard from you before. He kisses your forehead again, like a reward, and lingers for longer than he needs to.

"I'm never gonna leave you, angel, I love you."

Your eyes screw shut for a moment, as though the only way for you to survive such bitter sweetness is to block your senses to not overwhelm them.

“So… baby steps?” you ask, softly.

Spencer scoffs as you return to the simplest statement of them all.

"Baby steps..."

You smile.

You break in a different way.

Not at fate's edge but right in the middle of your warm present day.

Despite the eternal night granted in that large city on the coast, when the cold is brutal and the snow is unforgiving, on the other side of the year, during the height of summer, Utqiagvik is offered the glow of the midnight sun for eighty-five days straight. It never gets dark. It stays constantly in a state of golden, infinite daylight.

Spencer is prepared, every day, to meet you in Alaska.

MASTERLIST

for more tramp reader, please find the parts here: PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE if you like your sexual-themed comfort fics, then dysphoria and tsunami (18+) explore these. if you enjoy spencer being soft and helping reader navigate her feelings then you might enjoy stardust and cannibal. and if you like 'omg our relationship hangs in the balance' (you masochist) then serendipity is a very sweet angst-to-comfort pipeline fic.

Youth - Daughter Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby - Cigarettes After Sex Sour Grapes - John The Ghost

#spencer reid #criminal minds #wtf help #fanfic

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