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whisperedmeg · 1 month ago

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FLUORESCENT MERCY ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part i

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: spencer reid was never cut out for prison. under the buzz of the fluorescent overheads in the prison infirmary, spencer meets a nurse who sees beyond his inmate number.

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff

w/c: 7.7k (yikes sorry)

tags/warnings: s12 prison arc, mentions of drugs and murder, afab reader goes by she/her pronouns, flirting, banter, probably horribly inaccurate info on medical treatment and prison healthcare, mention of Alzheimer’s/schizophrenia, sadboy spencer, minor sexual tension, fluff, mentions of blood and other injury, spencer gets hurt a few times but he’s okay, reader lowkey kind of cyberstalks spencer but it’s fine she’s sweet

a/n: hello!! first time posting a fic on here eeeep. mostly writing this for myself more than anyone else tbh, but i hope anyone who stumbles upon this mouthful enjoys it. get to know me here. a few disclaimers: I am not a nurse!!! I have never worked in the correctional system or even been inside a prison before!!! there will probably be plenty of inaccuracies as to how that all works, and if that will bother you, this probably isn’t the fic for you and that’s okay. this is just for funsies :-) staying mostly true to the prison arc canon but with some tweaks for the sake of the story. story is told by reader from first person, very very minimal use of y/n (only when it’s absolutely necessary). again, i am very very brand new to posting fics on tumblr (+ writing for criminal minds in general) so I appreciate any and all interactions with this fic and any advice/feedback in my asks is always welcome! if you enjoy, please reblog! there’s really no other way for me to get this thing out there as a brand new blog, so that would mean the world to me 🤍

this is part of a series, but can be read as a stand-alone one shot!

series masterlist

Some days the air inside the infirmary felt heavier than others — thick with stale disinfectant and something harder to qualify. Grief, maybe. Danger, sometimes. Or resignation. Or just the ache of a hundred slow-moving lives, pressed up against metal and concrete.

I’d gotten used to it, mostly. That dull, pulsing ache. But occasionally I still caught myself pausing between tasks and wondering how I’d ended up here. Not in a bad way. Just… reflective. Being a nurse in a prison infirmary wasn’t the kind of job most little girls dreamed about, and it definitely wasn’t the kind of job that made first dates lean in with interest.

But I chose this. On purpose.

I’d seen what broken systems could do. I’d watched people be forgotten because it was easier that way. Being here meant I could be the person who didn’t look away. The person who treated people like people, even when the rest of the world pretended they were less than human.

I never used to picture myself here. Not in a place like this, anyway. But life doesn’t always move in straight lines, and I’ve learned not to fight the curves.

I became a nurse because I wanted to help. Not in some abstract, motivational quote-type of way, but in a way that matters. Out of school, I specialized in trauma for a while. Emergency room work in the city, night shift, a revolving door of chaos. At first, I loved the fast-paced and high-intensity nature of that environment, but I burned out quickly. When the opportunity came up to transfer into the correctional system, most of my colleagues looked at me like I was nuts for even considering it. But I didn’t flinch. People in here deserved care, too. Especially in here. No matter what they’d done to end up in prison.

There’s a different kind of urgency in prison nursing. You see a lot of pain that runs deeper than physical injury — shame, grief, resignation, embarrassment, numbness. Some inmates came in loud, either angry at the world or simply desperate to charm their way into extra pain medication or a reason to sit out of laundry duty. Others were quiet and looked right past you — or through you. Quiet because of shame or misery or as if the simple act of hearing their own voice could beckon danger to their feet. I didn’t blame them. The main goal for most was survival, plain and simple. And sometimes, simply surviving a place like this was hard enough.

—

He came in during the tail end of my shift one Wednesday — tall, hunched a little like he didn’t want to take up any more space than absolutely necessary, with curls still damp from the showers and a bloodied gauze pad pressed sloppily to the side of his left hand. A cut. Not bad, but deep enough to need attention. He sat perched on the edge of the cot like it might vanish under him if he moved too suddenly, his shoulders rounded and his head dipped down.

“Spencer Reid?” I asked to confirm his name, checking the file. He responded with the tiniest nod of acknowledgement, as if he forgot his muscles still worked. I lifted my eyes up from the paperwork to try to meet his, but they remained firmly trained down at his lap.

He was a new inmate, having just arrived at Millburn three days prior. Eerily quiet. Noticeably out of place. Something about his appearance didn’t seem to suit him, either. The patchy stubble peppering his jaw and the unruliness of his hair just looked off, and it was clear that he normally presented himself in a way that was much more cleaned up than this. It took me about 45 seconds to determine that the version of him before me wasn’t an accurate depiction of the man inside the jumpsuit.

My cursory read of his file was littered with red flags. Arrested in Mexico? Immediate FBI involvement? Last-minute switch from protective custody to gen pop upon arrival? Something seemed… strange, even for federal prison, where strangeness and corruption were the norm. I shook my head slightly, as if trying to literally clear my mind. Investigating or even knowing anything about his background at all wasn’t my job: I was here to provide medical care, so I turned off the instinctually curious part of my brain and got to work. “So. You cut your hand?”

He nodded once, barely lifting his eyes. “Library. Book spine split,” he replied. “There was a metal strip inside the binding. I wasn’t paying attention.”

His voice was soft but even, the kind of tone you could almost mistake for calm if you weren’t paying attention. He didn’t flinch when I took his hand, but I felt the muscles in his forearm and wrist pull taut like a wire. Clearly this man was uncomfortable with physical touch. I almost felt bad, but I couldn’t do my job without touching him, so I kept my hold.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said, trying to find that tone that falls somewhere between neutral and kind. “The prison library is supposed to be a safe place amongst all the chaos.”

The corner of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly. Maybe a smile, maybe just a tic.

I cleaned the cut and wrapped it. His tension seemed to fade a bit as I worked, but it was replaced with something sadder — surprise at the genuine care I was showing him.

“Should heal up fine,” I told him. “Just try to keep it clean. If you notice any signs of infection like redness or fever, tell the guards you need to come back. Otherwise, I hope I don’t have to see you back here again. No more cuts, okay?”

He gave a polite nod, still not quite looking at me. “Thank you,” he murmured. He flicked his eyes up to me for a fleeting moment — brown, maybe? Hazel? Somewhere kind of golden in between? Before I could decipher the answer, he dropped his gaze back down to his lap.

And then he was gone, escorted out just as quickly as he’d come in.

It wasn’t anything remarkable. It was the type of patient interaction I’d normally forget before a shift was even over. But something about the way he’d sat so quietly, like he was trying not to leave even a speck of evidence of his existence, stayed with me.

Some inmates at Millburn talked too much. Some didn’t want to talk at all. Spencer Reid was the kind who seemed like he used to talk a lot, but had forgotten how.

—

My apartment was dark and quiet when I got home from work — just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the air vents as they settled into the night. I shrugged out of my scrubs, tossed them into the laundry basket, wrapped my robe around my body, and tied my hair up, my mind in a post-work fog. Some shifts clung to me longer than others. Today hadn’t been particularly bad, but I still felt the weight of it hanging somewhere behind my sternum. The longer I worked at Millburn, the heavier that weight seemed to get.

I microwaved a cup of leftover soup and curled up on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, a blanket over my lap, and the TV playing something I wasn’t watching. My body was home, safe, comfortable. But my mind? My mind was somewhere else entirely.

The quiet, sad patient from the other day. Spencer Reid.

I hadn’t seen him again since I’d cleaned out that cut on his hand a few days ago, but for some unknown reason, he lingered in my head longer than most patients ever did. I’d told myself it was just professional curiosity understandably fueled by glaring abnormalities — that strange patchwork of mystery surrounding his intake file, the dissonance between the man and the setting. But if I was being honest with myself, I knew it was more than that.

It was the way he held himself like he was waiting to be punished for existing. The way his eyes, when they finally lifted, looked out from a place far deeper than the moment called for. The way he thanked me like my ounce of kindness caught him off guard.

One thing seemed clear: he didn’t belong there. I didn’t know what he’d done to end up in a federal penitentiary, but everything about him — the tone he used, the posture, the way he moved like someone used to quieter places — made it feel off. Not in the arrogant way that some white-collar criminals carried themselves, no — there was no smugness, no entitlement. Just… misalignment. Like he’d been suddenly dropped into a life that wasn’t his own.

I reached for my phone before I could talk myself out of it.

The search bar blinked at me, empty and expectant. I hesitated. It was a line I hadn’t crossed yet since I took the job at Millburn, but curiosity had always been a close cousin to empathy, and mine were tightly wound. So I typed his name into the search engine.

I was met with dozens of articles. Some recent — bold headlines about his arrest, drug and murder charges, extradition from Mexico, and a leaked photograph of him looking disoriented and bruised, eyes wide with something between confusion and betrayal. I learned he was awaiting trial, denied bail and remanded to federal custody.

I continued to scroll. Older articles populated the page — articles that painted a very different picture of the man in the photo. An FBI profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit out of Quantico. Over a decade of service. Genius-level IQ. Multiple PhDs. A polymath, one article said. Another quoted a journalist who referred to him as “a human encyclopedia with a badge.” I found footage of him from an old press conference, standing stiffly beside a blonde woman in a blazer, answering questions with a verbosity of language and a voice that sounded steadier, more self-assured than the quiet one I’d heard in the infirmary three days ago. I breezed through a few more articles, then I stopped scrolling.

I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I did know that the story in the recent headlines didn’t seem to line up with the man I’d met, the man who he appeared to have been prior to his arrest. That nagging feeling in my gut, the one I’d felt since his eyes first met mine, was still there.

I closed out of my phone and sat in the quiet a while longer, my vision blurred and out of focus, wondering what it must feel like to go from that kind of life — traveling around the country, solving impossible crimes, saving countless lives — to a place where everything is taken from you. To become the type of man that people only see as the charges on a rap sheet.

Whatever he’d done (or hadn’t done), he was still a person. But it was obvious to me that he no longer really felt like one.

I shut off the TV and let the darkness settle around me. I took a long, warm shower in an attempt to clear my head, but his name and his face still hovered around the hazy edges of my thoughts. I’d met a lot of inmates who wore guilt like a second skin. Spencer Reid didn’t. Whatever his story was, I had a feeling it hadn’t been fully told. And part of me — the quiet, stubborn part — wasn’t quite ready to let that go.

—

The second time I saw him, it was raining. Not the kind of rain that makes people pause at windows, but the kind that soaks the world in gray and turns everything sluggish.

Inside the infirmary, the ceiling buzzed faintly with humidity and fluorescent fatigue, and the consistent pitter-patter of rain against the barred windows made it easy to forget there was any world outside these walls at all. I was restocking gauze when I noticed his name on the intake log, two and a half weeks from his first visit.

Reid, Spencer. Mild cough. Lightheadedness. Possible fever.

My fingers paused over the clipboard, barely grazing the pen. I wasn’t sure what I expected — or why it mattered at all. He was just another patient. Just another inmate. Still, I felt something shift when I walked up to his cot. He was noticeably pale, a little drawn, like the weight of something invisible had pressed down on his bones. The weight of this place, of his situation.

“Hello again,” I said softly. “Guess we’re making this a habit. Thought I told you I didn’t want to see you back here?”

He looked up at that — actually looked up. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes stayed on mine for a beat longer than they had last time.

“I didn’t plan on it,” he said, voice quiet.

“I believe you.”

I moved through the usual steps: gloves on, vitals checked, a listen to his lungs. He wasn’t running a high fever, just something low-grade. His breath hitched slightly on the inhale, but there was no wheeze, no crackle. Probably viral. Should clear itself up in a week at most.

Still, he looked… frayed. Like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. His hands were clean, but his nails were shorter than last time, bitten down. His face appeared sunken and his under eyes had a distinctly purple hue to them.

“Have you been sleeping?” I asked gently.

He tilted his head. “As much as possible. So, no.”

I didn’t push. Sometimes the answer wasn’t what mattered — it was how it was given.

We were quiet for a while as I documented the basics. I could feel his eyes drifting across the room, landing briefly on the supply shelves, the bulletin board, the sink. Avoiding mine, but not out of defiance. Out of caution, maybe. Or simple awkwardness. He coughed, and I handed him a paper cup filled with water.

“I read once,” he said suddenly, “that coughs often get worse when you’re trying not to think about them.”

I offered a small smile. “Sometimes trying not to think about something just leads you to focus on it even more. And thinking about a cough can trigger the reflex, even without physical cause. So I would say try not to think about it, but, you know…vicious cycle.”

His mouth twitched — a shadow of amusement, there and then gone. The air between us felt a little less still.

“You’re not what I would’ve expected from someone who works here,” he said after a moment.

I arched a brow, clipping my pen back onto my clipboard. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged. “Less… human.”

I offered him a small, empathetic smile. “Well,” I said after a beat, “lucky for you, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

I handed him some Tylenol and told him to keep hydrated. As I wrote out the discharge slip, I instructed him to come back if the fever feels like it isn’t breaking, and to try and get as much sleep as is possible in a place like this.

“Thanks,” he said before he left. Just like the time before, the word landed like he really meant it.

He walked up to the guard waiting for him, stepped out into the corridor, and was gone. I found myself wondering, again, who he really was — beneath the headlines, beneath the polyester prison uniform, beneath whatever pain had hollowed him out into a shell of who he used to be.

—

The infirmary was chaos.

Not the full-blown ER chaos of my past — just the slow, stomping, institutional kind. Raised voices, the occasional drop of blood, too many bandages unrolled across the counters. There had been some sort of fight in the cafeteria, supposedly over a stolen piece of cornbread. Or maybe a slur. Or a look. No one ever really knew for sure how these things started. By the time the inmates were dragged in — limping, cursing, sweating, sometimes screaming — it didn’t matter anyways.

I was elbow-deep in a butterfly bandage on one man’s eyebrow when I noticed him: Spencer, sitting quietly near the far wall.

He didn’t look as badly hurt as the others. His posture was too upright to suggest anything broken. He was holding a wad of gauze to his arm.

I clocked him on the low-priority end of the triage sheet: Laceration, superficial. Minor bleeding. Stable.

Sandra, the other nurse on duty, eventually crossed the room to him once we’d worked through the others. I could hear her asking him to remove the gauze.

“Clean cut,” she said. “Might need a few stitches.”

“I’ve had worse,” he replied, voice flat.

I was just finishing with discharge paperwork for a dislocated shoulder when I heard Sandra say, “We’ll get you patched up quick. Hang tight.” I glanced over, and he was already watching me. He quickly flicked his gaze to the floor.

“I’ve got that one Sandra,” I said over my shoulder, peeling off my gloves and tugging on a fresh pair. “Can you finish up this discharge for me?”

She raised a brow but didn’t question it, just nodded and switched places with me.

“Lucky me,” he murmured. It wasn’t quippy or sarcastic. It actually sounded genuine.

“You say that like you’re not sitting on a lumpy cot with your arm bleeding.”

He tilted his head, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Well. Silver linings, I guess.”

I sat on the rolling stool beside him and started cleaning the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it ran a jagged path just beneath the curve of his bicep — a random flying lunch tray, I guessed. Wrong place, wrong time.

“You weren’t involved in the fight,” I said, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question.

“No,” he confirmed quietly. “Just passing by. I ducked too slow.”

I smiled without looking up. “Ah, classic mistake. You’ve got to learn to duck before the tray gets airborne.”

That actually got a laugh out of him — a soft, surprised sound, as if he hadn’t expected it from himself. He blinked down at me, momentarily disarmed. “You make jokes now?”

“Only in life-or-minor-laceration situations.”

The edges of his mouth twitched again. The usual shadow in his eyes was still there, but it seemed to thin out when he looked at me. A veil, instead of a wall.

“You’ve done this before,” he said as I threaded the suture needle.

“Stitches?” I asked. “Well, yeah. Hundreds of times.”

“No. I meant…this. Calming people down.”

I paused for just a second, then resumed. “Part of the job too, I guess.”

He didn’t reply, but his breathing had slowed. I worked quickly, neatly. The room was almost empty now. Just one CO near the door, arms crossed, barely paying attention. When I finished, I handed Spencer some gauze and medical tape. “You’ll want to keep this dry, at least for twenty-four hours. Try not to lift anything heavy. Or start any cafeteria fights.”

He shot me a shy, lopsided smile. “No promises.”

The guard called his name then — sharp, abrupt. Spencer stood, moving more slowly than necessary, tucking the gauze into the pocket of his jumpsuit. He looked down at me one last time, and for a second, neither of us said anything.

“Thanks, y/n.”

It was the first time he’d said my name. He must’ve read it on my badge, clipped to the pocket of my scrubs.

“You’re welcome, Spencer. Try not to need to come back if you can help it.”

He followed the guard out without looking back, but something lingered in the air after he left — the smell of antiseptic mixed with something warmer underneath, just a faint trace of something hard to name.

—

It had been a long morning — nothing dramatic, just a steady stream of minor injuries and chronic complaints. Small cuts that somehow still bled too much, headaches no amount of ibuprofen could touch, an older inmate who claimed chest pain every Tuesday at the same time he knew my shift started like clockwork. I was halfway through restocking the suture tray when a CO came in with another patient. I looked up and fought back a smile at who it was.

The new cut Spencer was sporting wasn’t too bad — a scrape along his forearm, probably from another cafeteria scuffle or a hallway shove — but it was deep enough to bring him back.

Fourth visit to the infirmary in the two months since he first arrived at Millburn. Enough visits that I didn’t need to check the intake clipboard to remember his name, or his face, or his voice.

Spencer sat in the same cot as last time, waiting quietly, hands folded like he was at a lecture instead of a prison clinic. When I walked over, he looked up and nodded in greeting. No smile this time, but not cold either.

“You again,” I said, slipping on gloves.

“Apparently I’m accident-prone.” His tone was deadpan, but there was a flicker of warmth behind it. He offered his arm without being asked.

The scrape was shallow, red around the edges but clean. I could’ve just sent him off with a bandage and a warning, but I didn’t. I pulled over the tray and got to work slowly, methodically cleaning the wound slower than I usually would.

After a moment, I said, “So, Spencer. If you’re going to be a repeat visitor, we might as well get to know one another.”

He looked up at me blankly, blinking.

“Where’d you grow up?” I asked.

He looked back down at his arm while I ran an alcohol pad across it. “Las Vegas.” He winced a little — whether at the words he was saying or the sting of the disinfectant, I wasn’t sure.

I nodded like I didn’t already know. Like I hadn’t read three different articles and an old symposium transcript with his name on it one night after my shift, sitting at my kitchen table in the dark.

“Have you always lived there?”

“No. My mom’s still there, but I moved away when I went to college and left permanently for work. I live here in DC now.”

“What kind of work?” I asked.

He hesitated, just for a second. There weren’t any other inmates in the infirmary, but he dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “I, uh, I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit. Or I was, at least.”

I kept my expression neutral. “That sounds intense.”

“It is.” A pause. “Interesting, though. Never boring. Lots of travel.”

I wiped the scrape clean, letting the silence stretch for a beat before I spoke again. “Do you miss it?”

Another pause, this one a little heavier. “Yeah,” he replied quietly.

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Just taped down the bandage and asked, “What’d you study before the FBI?”

“Mathematics. And chemistry. And engineering.” He paused, then added, “Also psychology. Sociology. And philosophy, more recently.”

I looked up at him, eyes wide. “All of those?”

He gave a tiny shrug, like it wasn’t worth mentioning. “I finished my first PhD when I was seventeen.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Show-off,” I said with a breathy laugh.

That got a smile. A real one this time. He looked almost sheepish. “You?”

“What about me?” I asked, pausing my work on his arm to meet his eyes. Hazel in this light. Golden brown in others, definitely.

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Philadelphia,” I said. “Still have the accent when I’m tired or drunk, I’ve been told.”

He nodded like he could hear it already, even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever let it slip around him. “Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted. “I never knew what I wanted to be when I was growing up. I actually started college as a literature major before I switched to nursing. I worked in the ER for a while before I ended up here. This job just kind of…fit.”

He didn’t ask what I meant by that. Most people didn’t. He just nodded again, like he understood anyway. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Somehow it felt like a bigger question than it was. “Sometimes,” I said with a quiet sigh. “Some days are harder than others.”

He looked at me for a long moment, and it oddly felt like he knew exactly how I was feeling, like he could see the way the job was wearing me down. Now it was my turn to feel intimidated by his gaze. I turned awkwardly to look at the clock then busied myself tidying up the tray, pretending that the eye contact didn’t linger.

“There you go,” I said, gently patting the gauze I’d taped to his arm. “Try to avoid any more cafeteria collisions, please.”

“I’ll do my best,” he murmured with a shy smirk. He stood when the CO came to collect him, but before he turned to go, he paused.

“Thanks. For this,” he said as he tilted his chin to his arm, “and for… treating me like a person. Just…thanks.”

It wasn’t just polite. It sounded like he meant it. Like it mattered to him, that I called him by name and asked about his life. “You’re welcome, Spencer.”

This time, he did smile at me before he left.

And this time, I watched him walk away a second longer than I meant to.

—

I’d barely clocked in when the alert came through: inmate altercation, multiple injuries, possible head trauma, ETA three minutes.

Not exactly an unusual start to a shift. Fights were as common as bad coffee at Millburn, and most days followed the same dull rhythm — triage, patch-up, repeat. But one name on the intake list made my pulse hiccup: Reid, Spencer. Stab wound to the thigh. Suspected concussion.

I barely looked up at first — just long enough to confirm it was him, sitting upright on the cot, jumpsuit leg soaked with blood and torn a little above the knee. He didn’t look scared, but he didn’t look fine, either. Sandra moved toward him with a clipboard, but I touched her arm before she could speak. “I’ve got this one.”

“Of course you want the cute one,” she grumbled under her breath, but then she just nodded and headed over to tend to another waiting inmate.

I crossed the room slowly, cataloging him: alert, steady breathing, pale but not shocky. His gaze wasn’t confused, just… disconnected. Like he’d already run the numbers in his head and decided exactly how bad it was and whether it had been worth it.

He turned his head when I got close. There was blood on his temple — superficial. The leg was worse. Deep, clean. Too clean for it to be the result of a chaotic brawl, which meant it wasn’t chaos. It was personal. And the angle of it appeared to be possibly self-inflicted. I wondered if he’d done it to himself in an attempt to get moved into solitary.

“Hey,” I said. “Rough day?”

Spencer gave me a humorless half-smile. “Story of my life lately.”

I pulled a stool beside his leg, gently peeling back the torn fabric to assess the wound. “You’ll need stitches. At least ten. You take a hit to the head, too?”

He hesitated. “Not really.”

I met his eyes. I hesitated too, then dropped my voice. “But you could say you did.”

He blinked. Just a flicker. I pressed on, quietly. “If you did, I’d have to put you on observation. Infirmary bed. Eight hours minimum. Away from the block.”

A beat of silence. Then a soft, “Yeah. I definitely got hit in the head.”

I nodded once, then clicked my pen and wrote it down. Possible concussion. It wasn’t a complete lie — not exactly. But it wasn’t about the protocol either.

As the infirmary quieted and the other inmates cycled through, I stitched his leg in silence. Sandra kept to the intake desk. I led Spencer to the far corner, away from the fluorescent overhead lights, and dimmed them slightly. I pulled a tray table between us and sat down across from him like we had all the time in the world.

“Brain games,” I said, gesturing to the shelf behind me. “Helps me assess cognitive function.”

“You’re making that up,” he said, almost smiling.

“Of course I am.” I smirked, setting up the chessboard. “You play?”

“I used to. Not as much anymore,” he said quietly.

We played in silence first, but slowly, words started to fill the spaces between our moves. He told me about his eidetic memory and the languages he could speak. I told him about my time working in the ER, about the burnout, about why I took this job. He mentioned someone named Gideon — an old friend, mentor maybe — who taught him to play. I lost three games in a row, and on the final checkmate, I groaned. “Let’s take a break.”

He nodded, then opened his mouth like he might say something else, but he didn’t. I waited. Sandra disappeared into the break room.

After a few seconds, I spoke. “Can I ask how you ended up here?” My voice stayed soft, careful. Not clinical — I wasn’t asking as his nurse.

His whole expression shifted, and he looked guarded. I regretted asking instantly. “Sorry. You don’t have to—”

“No, no. It’s okay. I want to tell you. I just don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” I suggested with a shrug.

He looked away, pausing. He took a long breath, and for a moment before he spoke, I thought maybe he never would. “My mom,” he finally said. “She’s schizophrenic. And… about a year ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

The words knocked something loose in me. I felt it, sharp and instinctive. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

He blinked like he hadn’t expected sympathy. “Thanks. I didn’t really handle the diagnosis well. Started looking into treatments — trials, compounds, oils, anything that might help. I found a woman in Mexico making something that worked. Nothing illegal, but the specific compound isn’t FDA-approved. So I started traveling down there every few months, in secret.”

I watched his leg bounce slightly under the table. Not from pain, but from nerves.

“The last trip… someone drugged me. Planted narcotics in a car and somehow I ended up behind the wheel in the desert. The woman I’d been getting the medication from, Rosa — she was murdered. They blamed me. I was arrested. Framed. I know that probably sounds like what every guy in here says, but…it’s true. My team and I think it was a serial killer we arrested a few years back — he escaped custody last year.”

His voice got quieter as the story stretched out. Thinner, like it was costing him more and more to keep talking. “My team got me extradited back to the U.S. They helped find me a good lawyer. But I was remanded to custody without bail. So… here I am.”

I let it settle, allowing myself to feel the full weight of it. I’d read bits and pieces online, after that first cut I’d stitched months ago. But hearing it like this? It was different. Sadder, somehow. “I believe you,” I said softly.

He blinked. “Why?”

I tilted my head, considering. “Because…well, I’ve seen guilty. This isn’t it. Plus, if your team’s still backing you, that means something.”

He looked down, fiddling with a chess piece. “I think most people want to believe I’m guilty. That I snapped or something. It’s easier than believing the alternative.”

“Easier doesn’t mean truer,” I said simply.

He looked back up and smiled. It was small, but real. “Can we play something else now?”

We pulled out Scrabble, and the conversation drifted with it — books, places, bad camping trips. He laughed at my story about a raccoon stealing my breakfast, and the sound surprised both of us.

“I haven’t laughed in a while,” he said.

I poked the back of his Scrabble tile rack. “You’re welcome.”

Sometime during our third game, he asked: “Why aren’t you married?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t wear a ring. I just assumed.”

I shrugged. “You first.”

He laughed quietly. Told me about his failed attempts at dating. The woman he lost at the hands of her stalker. The job that got in the way.

I gave him my version. How the hours I worked scared people off. How guys never seemed to call back after finding out I worked in a men’s prison. How I’d rather be alone than explain myself yet again to someone who wouldn’t get it.

“Honestly,” I said, “most men want someone who makes their life easier. Not darker.”

“That wouldn’t stop me,” he said quietly.

I stilled, the statement catching me off guard. I waited a moment to process what he’d said, to make sure I’d heard it correctly. “What?”

His cheeks flushed. “I mean, it…it wouldn’t stop me from wanting to know someone. If they worked here. If they were like you.”

“Like me?”

Spencer nodded. “Smart. Honest. Beautiful.” His voice cracked shyly on that last one. “Brave. A little scary.” He chuckled, then took a breath. “If they were you,” he finally clarified softly, his eyes awkwardly flicking down to the board before meeting mine again.

We didn’t move. Didn’t touch. But something shifted — a soft tilt in the air between us.

He swallowed hard. “That was inappropriate. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Technically, yeah, it was inappropriate. But I’m not uncomfortable.” A moment passed. My knee brushed his under the table — light, accidental. “It was an unexpected comment, but it wasn’t unwelcome,” I finally added.

He paused for a few beats, absorbing what I’d said, the way I’d reacted, the brush of my knee. “Hypothetically,” he said, “if I got out of here… would you want to try meeting again? On the outside.”

I let the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding leave me slowly. “Hypothetically… yeah. I’d like that. If you’re talking about a date, that is.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected that answer. “O-okay. Cool,” he stammered. A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Cool.”

I grinned. “So, Spencer. On this hypothetical date, what would we do?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he looked up, very seriously, and asked, “Are we flirting?” It looked as if his brain was mid-calculating risk and probability, like he couldn’t dare answer my question until I answered this one.

I stared back at him. “Do you want to be?”

He coughed, surprised I’d thrown the question back at him. “I…don’t not want to be. I just didn’t think you’d want to flirt with me.”

“I don’t usually flirt with inmates,” I said slowly. “I mean… I don’t ever.” I held his gaze. “You’re a special case.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, watching me like he was trying to decode a particularly complicated puzzle. “Special how?”

I met his gaze, letting the moment stretch between us. “You’re…different. You don’t walk in here full of swagger or venom. You don’t talk down to anyone. You’re very attractive. You’re nice to me even when you don’t have any reason to want to be. You don’t…you don’t belong here.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, then glanced toward Sandra before returning his eyes to mine. “Some days I’m not sure where I belong anymore.” There was a quiet honesty in his voice that hollowed something out inside me. That sharp, aching awareness of how deeply alone someone could feel, even in a room full of people. Especially then.

I reached across the little table and nudged the corner of the Scrabble board closest to him with my fingertips. “Well, for the next few hours, you belong here. With me. Under ‘observation.’” I gave him a tiny, conspiratorial smile.

He smiled back, the edges of his lips tugging up in that crooked way I was beginning to associate with him. “You’re a very thorough observer.”

“It’s in the job description,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, I like to be sure.”

Spencer leaned forward a little, elbows the table, fingers laced together. “What are you sure of?”

I thought for a moment before responding. “I’m sure you didn’t do what they say you did. I’m sure you’re extremely intelligent. I’m sure you care about people more than you let on. And I’m sure that I haven’t looked forward to a shift like this in a very long time.”

Spencer looked down, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, or didn’t know what to do with it. “You’re going to get in trouble for being nice to me.”

“I’m not being nice,” I said. “I’m being… honest. Besides, no one’s listening.”

We sat in silence for a moment, letting that word — honest — hang in the air. It meant something different here at Millburn. It was rare. Sometimes costly. But with Spencer, it didn’t feel dangerous.

Sandra’s voice cut through the stillness, calling out a question to me from the front desk. I stood, my hands brushing the front of my scrubs.

“I’ll be right back,” I told him, heading over to help.

When I returned a few minutes later, Spencer was still seated in the same spot, but his posture had shifted slightly — more relaxed, more open. He’d turned one of the Scrabble tiles over in his fingers, tracing it absently, as if lost in thought.

“You didn’t swap the tiles to cheat while I was gone, did you?” I teased as I sat back down.

He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m too much of a perfectionist. Cheating would ruin the whole point.”

“Good to know,” I murmured, reclaiming my spot across from him. “So. You never answered my question.”

He tilted his head.

“Hypothetical first date. What would we do?”

A small flicker of hesitation crossed his face — maybe uncertainty, maybe just the weight of imagining something he wasn’t sure he should allow himself to hope for. But then, he spoke.

“I’d take you to the planetarium,” he said. “They do these night shows on Thursdays. There’s music — actual curated playlists — and they project constellations onto the dome. You can lean back and look at the stars without all the city lights getting in the way.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how perfect that sounded.

“That’s…actually kind of dreamy,” I said.

He gave a small, bashful shrug. “It’s quiet. We wouldn’t have to talk unless you wanted to. And afterward, there’s a diner around the corner that makes really good pie. We could split a piece or two.”

“Pie and stars,” I said. “I could go for that.”

“I’ll remember,” he said quietly. “For after. If there is one.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted again — still soft, still tentative, but edged now with something more electric. Hope. A thread of connection thick enough to feel, even in a place that was never meant for anything tender.

The game slowed, and we didn’t look at the board as much. Our conversation stretched out between moves. I told him how I like old Hollywood movies and hiking when I could get out of the city. Spencer mentioned classical music, science fiction, the smell of bookstores. We sketched out a series of hypothetical first dates like kids killing time — a Sunday at the museum, a night at a trivia bar, a coffee place with mismatched mugs and not enough chairs.

“Do you always win at Scrabble?” I asked, knowing the hours had dwindled away.

“Almost always,” he said, then added with a smile, “Unless I get distracted.”

I raised a brow but said nothing. I thought for a moment, then carefully placed a series of ten tiles along the edge of the board in front of him — each one selected for the small score number etched into the corner. It spelled out gibberish, but it’s not the letters that mattered. When he looked up, I met his eyes.

“That’s a phone number,” I said softly, “not a word.”

He looked down at the tiles, then back up at me again, a soft smile curling at his lips.

“I figured you could try to remember it for when you get out.”

“I will,” he said, his knee brushing mine under the table again — this time, I knew it hadn’t been accidental.

Suddenly, the loud buzzer of the door cut through the atmosphere we’d been so perfectly curating. A CO walked in, indicating the end of Spencer's observation period. I stood up and walked to him. “I need a minute to finish the assessment, then he’s all yours.” The officer nodded then leaned against Sandra’s desk to make flirty small talk.

I padded back to Spencer and noticed the shift in his demeanor — he was scared. Sad, too, for this to end, but the fear in his eyes at the prospect of going back to his cell was evident.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure the guard was distracted, then placed a hand on his knee under the table. “I think I can help,” I said quietly. I stood and grabbed the assessment sheet, filling in my “findings.”

“Patient remains alert and oriented. Mild fatigue consistent with post-concussive recovery. Observation window uneventful. While current concussion symptoms appear mild and improving, patient is at increased vulnerability for subsequent severe head trauma.”

I paused, then lowered my pen, pressing the tip to the page just a little harder.

“Recommend reevaluation for protective custody placement based on frequency of injury and heightened vulnerability. History of recent trauma and exposure suggests increased risk of harm in general population. Further monitoring advised.”

I stared at the paper for a beat, listening to the low hum of the overhead lights. My eyes flicked up to Spencer, who looked at me with some confusion on his face, then back down to the sheet. The language was clinical, common, nothing dramatic. But I knew what it could do for him.

It wouldn’t get him out. But maybe it would give him a little more space. A little more safety. A little more time.

I signed my name at the bottom and flipped the file closed. I motioned for Spencer to get up. “Stay safe,” I said quietly, giving him a look only he could decipher before I waved to the CO to come over.

“Here’s my assessment for the warden,” I said as I handed the file to the CO. “Make sure he gets it tonight, please.” The officer nodded — I had good rapport with the COs here — and he led Spencer out. Spencer looked over his shoulder at me for just a moment, and I saw something deeper in his expression, something he hadn’t shown since I’d met him.

Hope.

—

A week after his concussion observation period, he came in holding his head like it hurt.

It was the first thing I noticed — the way his fingers pressed into his temple, his expression pulled tight in manufactured pain. I’d seen patients genuinely suffering from migraines, seen them blink and tense and wince and faint. This wasn’t that. This was a performance, and not a very good one. He should stick to his day job, I thought to myself. Not cut out to be an actor.

I stifled a giggle and walked up to his cot, looking up from my paperwork and smiling at him softly. “Hey. Back so soon?”

Spencer lowered himself onto the cot with a dramatic sigh, hand still braced against his forehead. “Migraine,” he said, wincing dramatically. “Started last night. Light sensitivity, nausea… the works.”

“Mmhmm,” I hummed, standing and reaching for the small penlight in my coat pocket. “You want to tell me why your pupils look perfectly normal and your blood pressure’s textbook perfect?”

He smiled, just barely. “I missed your voice.”

That stopped me cold. Just for a second, but long enough that I had to pretend to be very interested in the pulse oximeter in my hand.

“That’s…not usually a billable symptom,” I murmured.

He chuckled softly. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh like that. It was warm.

I stepped closer, wrapping the pulse oximeter around his finger even though I already knew what it would say. The tips of his fingers were cold, but his skin was soft. I held it a second longer than necessary, just watching the numbers rise on the tiny screen.

“Looks like you’ll live,” I said.

He tilted his head, looking at me more closely now, and the moment stretched between us — full of unspoken things that couldn’t be said in a place like this. His eyes scanned my face like he was memorizing it.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he said quietly. “For the report you wrote. The recommendation. I’m not stupid. I know that was you.”

I didn’t answer. I just looked down and reached for the thermometer instead. His hand was still resting on his thigh, twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“It was medically sound,” I said, voice low. “Repeated head trauma and high-stress environments can—”

He interrupted me with my name. Just my name, nothing else.

I swallowed.

I pretended to take his temperature, the plastic probe tucked beneath his tongue as if any of this still resembled medicine. My fingers grazed his jaw. When I pulled it back, I reached for his wrist to take his heart rate again, manually this time. My fingertips slid over his skin too gently, too deliberately.

The CO by the door shifted his weight with a faint grunt, and I blinked, heart jolting back into rhythm. I pulled my hand back and stepped away, jotting something on the clipboard that didn’t matter. “I’m prescribing you sleep. Go take a nap, FBI boy.”

He smirked at the nickname and stood slowly, like he didn’t want to. “Wasn’t really about the migraine,” he admitted, voice low but steady. “I just… I wanted to see you.”

The truth of it landed heavy between us, no performance, no pretending. Just honesty — stark and bare and strangely brave.

I felt the words settle into my chest like a secret I was glad to keep. I nodded, barely. “I know.”

He gave me a small, crooked smile — softer than the last, tinged with that same look in his eyes I saw last week - hope.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part ii.

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glossykissies · 5 months ago

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simon riley being your older bf ૮ ྀི ◞ ◟ ა

simon was private, blunt, quiet — so it always filled you with pride to hear the shock in people’s voices when they found out the two of you were a couple.

“fucking hell, you locked down ghost?”

ghost. you’d only heard of him, never seen him. stories were passed around the office that you’d file paperwork and battle reports in, gossiping about the soldiers like they were your own personal celebrities. you’d heard of how ruthless he was, how merciless and strong. how violent… as sick as it was, that was what drew you to him in the first place.

alas, once you got to know each other — you were rather surprised to find out he wasn’t really like that. there was no trace of ‘ghost’ in simon when he was off duty. big and strong? yes. mysterious and rather quiet? definitely. but there was something you craved from him, something you’d pushed down for months. you wanted to see ghost.

you would never admit it, but it would turn you on when you’d casually mention your relationship to those who mutually know the two of you — all because of that look in their eye. the way they’d widen slightly, giving you a once over before drifting off — like they just can’t help but imagine it. you were all soft and sweet, dwarfed in comparison to him, and simon was well, simon. you wondered what they must picture, how they’d worry for you, dating a man that big and scary, especially when you’re quite the gap younger than him. you wondered if people thought about him intimidating you in the bedroom, forcing your hole open around him. maybe no one was perverse as you.

you were convinced to make him snap tonight. you’d shyly invite him to your small, humble apartment that friday night. already, the thought of him — so big and manly in your little girly bedroom was sending chills down your spine and dampening your panties. you’d slipped on a silk slip dress that was so thin you could plainly see the peaks of your nipples, and slid your damp underwear down your legs all together, chucking them in the hamper. you wanted to push him, you wanted to meet ghost.

it wasn’t to say simon wasn’t great at sex. he was — and wouldn’t let you off the mattress until you’d given him a good few orgasms. but the thing was, you could tell he’d been holding off. he looks unsure sometimes, borderline uncomfortable when your brows would knit together at the stretch of him— occasionally pulling out all together and switching to his fingers instead. you knew he was being extra weary, already feeling like someone like him shouldn’t be with someone like you, and that it was only a matter of time before you got hurt or scared. his gentleness with you did not go under-appreciated, but you’d be damned if you didn’t try and push your luck.

you rush to the door when he arrives from training, still wearing that black balaclava, baggy black hoodie and sweats. his heavy, dark-circled eyes fall on you when you speed up to him, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“alright, love?” it’s so quiet you barely hear it — and then he lifts his hand to lift off his balaclava.

“no.” your voice is all thick with spit when you grab his wrist, fingers not even wrapping round the girth of it entirely. he gives you an odd look, trying again and you let out this pitiful whine that makes him freeze all together.

“wha’s this about?” he breathes, gravel crumbling in his throat like a tire on stones. he can see that you’re worked up, infact you look like any second you’ll burst into hyperventilation or tears. si’s worried.

“keep it on.” you whisper desperately like your life depends on it. there was some natural defiance there, because despite being a soldier — simon didn’t like being told what to do. he tsks quietly, gripping the edge of his mask and this time you whine loudly, foot kicking out frantically like you wanted to stomp, hands still nestled into his hoodie with white knuckles, holding him close. you stare up at him with wide, hazy eyes, your whole plan to calmly seduce him and discuss your needs long gone. the mask, you realised — added to the whole ghost persona.

“use y’words. i don’t know what you’re on about.” he relents, no longer trying to remove his mask and you bury your face into his hoodie, mumbling something as you breathe him in. he pulls you back instantly and flicks you once with the pad of his finger beneath your chin to lift it. “oi. speak up.” he commands. there it is.

“i wan’it.” you breathe, lust dripping from your drooly lips and his cock twitches, yet doesn’t want to jump the gun.

“what do you want?”

you close your eyes, drawing a breath like it would take courage to speak aloud— this was only your deepest fantasies after all. you don’t open your eyes when you mumble the truth.

“cant hear you sweetheart, please.” he shifts on his feet impatiently and you squeeze your eyes harder shut.

“want you to fuck me like you’re angry at me, puh—p-please.” it’s like you’re possessed, his sweet girl nowhere to be found. he squints, the rest of his features obstructed by the black fabric.

“you what?”

“i want ghost.”

it’s like the world stills for a moment, you’re not even sure he breaths. there’s too much silence to bare and you open your eyes, your own chest rising and falling with the adrenaline of admitting such things.

“no y’don’t.” his response is blunt, and he firmly moves you aside as he walks through the house. you note that he doesn’t take his boots off at the door, and still — the mask remains on his face. simon plops down on your couch, legs spread and arms resting along the back, looking so good though he only came back from training. you hover like a fairy, standing near the couch as you stare at him, teary eyed.

“i wanna. i wanna see.”

“you’d fuckin’ piss your pants. there’s a reason i leave that at the door. you know that. would fucking break you.” he lifts his mask only an inch to access his stumble where he roughly scratches and tugs the material back down into place. you feel like you’re going to start dripping down your legs.

“i know but— but i want it. i want it—m’so greedy i know but—” you’re inconsolable now, crawling onto his lap and pressing your body to his, face closed to his all puffy and needy like a baby bunny. he’s staring down, void of emotion like he fucking hates you but that couldn’t be further from the truth, clenching his jaw when you start to frantically rub all on his chest, grinding your hips down into his lap.

as if he has a sixth sense, his hand slides beneath you with the motion of your grind, cupping your glossy cunt firmly as you collapse on his front with a whimper. “you got nothin’ on under this.” he breathes out the statement. “been waiting to ask me that?”

“mm—mhm.” it’s a groan, humping into his hand like you’re in heat. he’s never seen you this worked up.

now it’s simon squeezing his eyes shut, the inner conflict destroying him. of course he wants to rough you up, look at you — but also, look at you. you don’t deserve that.

“y’too little. can’t take that sweetheart. i’ll scare ya.” he grips your hips and grinds you harder down onto him, controlling your body with such little effort that you’re practically already crying.

“not scared. please. please. ruin me.” you beg and now his hand is caressing your throat, testing the water with a squeeze. your own hand flies up, and he thinks you might be panicking, or going to pry his fingers away but you press your palm on top of his knuckles, making him choke you harder.

“take your fuckin’ hand off.” he seethes and you moan in excitement, doing as he says. his rough palm slides to the back of your neck and before you’ve even processed it — he’s flipped the two of you on the couch, with the quickness and precision he’d use on the battlefield. so far, the only person simon was scaring was himself.

he’s got you now, cheek to the couch cushion, ass in the air, slip dress having ridden up around your waist exposing you fully. the two of you breath heavily in silence, both waiting for a reaction, a sign of distress. surprisingly, you’re the first to move— pressing your bare ass and pussy against his crotch.

“please—wantghost—” you hiccup, and simon resigns, starting to yank his pants and boxers down.

“ghost ain’t a very nice man. not gonna treat you very nice.”

that was more than okay with you.

#surprise !!#s.r ♡#simon riley smut #simon riley prompt #ghost prompt #ghost cod prompt

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mismatched-sockss · 1 year ago

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Follow my lead

» Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader » Word count: 5,8k (help, i got a little carried away..) » Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI, squint and you'll miss the plot, established relationship, reader hasn't been able to orgasm from masturbation alone, mentions of using sex toys to cum (f), guided masturbation, masturbation (f and m), praising / praise kink, dirty talk, unintentional edging (f), voyerism, multiple orgasms, some begging, a lot of check ins, unprotected p in v, creampie, i think this already counts as (soft)dom!Spencer, pet names (good girl for reader, baby, love) » A/N: and here we have my first entry for the bingo! it's my first time participating in a bigger challenge, i can't tell you all how excited i am about this whole thing. don't ask me what happend here, i was shocked when i checked the word count... also, this is the first time writing smut again after years, so bare with me please. hope you enjoy!

⚶ bingo masterlist | masterlist ⚶

“Never?”

“Never. I don't know, it just doesn't do it for me.”

“But you are- I mean, when”, Spencer mumbled, waving his hands around and pointing at you then him, back and forth a couple of times. “When we-”, he trailed off, his cheeks blushing as he got shy and a bit insecure.

“Oh? No”, you started but when his eyes slightly widened you realized it came out wrong. You stepped closer to him and took his hands in yours, softly squeezing them as you looked up at him with a reassuring smile. “Yes, it works when we are sleeping with each other. You do make me cum.” He huffed out a small laugh and blushed a bit more, but the insecurity that had bubbled up was leaving him again.

You pulled him in to you and placed his hands on your waist, then leaned against him and rested your chin against his chest, looking up at him. Shrugging, you wrapped your arms around his mid. “I just can't finish from only touching myself. Not without using toys that require batteries at least.”

Spencer softly squeezed your waist and started drawing circles with his thumbs. He slightly squinted his eyes and nodded his head a couple of times in thought; you could practically hear the gears turning as an idea formed in his mind. You raised your chin. “What?”

“Show me.”

“Huh? Show you? You mean, you...”, you trailed off. Now it was your turn to get shy, the heat rising up in your body, creeping higher until your face grew hot. “You want to watch me.. masturbate?”

Spencer nodded, one side of his lips turned up in a teasing half smile. “Yes. You said I make you cum, so there must be something I'm doing right.” Both of you chuckled at that. “You could show me how you touch yourself and I could talk you through it. If you'd like to try, I mean.”

Subconsciously you pressed you thighs together, which Spencer didn't miss. You licked over your bottom lip, then pulled it between your teeth as you thought about what he was saying. Spencer's eyes followed the motion as he was studying your face, studying your reaction to his proposition.

The thought alone made your heart beat faster and it ignited a raging fire in you. The thought of his eyes watching closely as you lie before him, legs spread and with your hands between your thighs. His voice and words guiding and aiding your pleasure, telling you what to do and how to do it...

Your breath hitched and you swallowed hard. He raised one of his hands to cup your cheek, his thumb softly brushed over the corner of your mouth. “Is that a yes?”, he asked, his voice low. Spencer already knew the answer just by watching your reaction, but wanted you to say it out loud. His other hand sneaked under your shirt, his fingertips caressing your skin on their way higher and higher until he stopped at your ribs.

If he would give you a second, just one second without him touching or teasing you in some way, you would be able to form a sentence and answer with more than a nod. As if he had read your mind, Spencer slightly pulled back, giving you space to breathe and without his hands on you.

And even though this was what you had wanted a few seconds ago so you could properly answer him, you immediately missed his touch and a whine escaped you. He just chuckled and raised an eyebrow, encouraging you to speak, still waiting for an answer.

“Okay. Yes”, you breathed out and nodded, “wanna do it.” A desperate plea still on your tongue, he cupped your cheeks and pressed his lips to yours.

You sighed against his mouth, your lips parting. Spencer deepened the kiss and both of you moaned when your tongues met. A shiver ran down your spine when you felt his hands slide down over your neck and collarbones, over your chest where he was careful not to touch your nipples through the fabric and down to your sides, where he pushed them back under the hem of your shirt, slowly making his way up..

The kiss only broke for a moment when he pulled your shirt over your head, his lips instantly reattaching to yours and his hands back on you, now able to roam freely over your skin without any restrictions. You slid your own hands over his chest and started to unbutton his dress shirt. You just undid the last button when you gasped and bunched up the material in your hands; Spencer slowly slid one of his hands under the hem of your panties and groaned against your lips when he felt how wet you were.

His finger slid through your folds, teasing at your entrance before he drew slow and gentle circles on your clit. When your breath hitched and you began to grind your hips against his hand, he stopped and pulled his hand out of your pants

“Nuh-uh, the deal was for you to make yourself cum; with your own hands”, he taunted, as if he hadn't started this himself just now. He lifted your chin and pressed a kiss to your lips. When he leaned back you tried to chase his lips, whining when he left you hanging and took a step back, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders as he did so. Then he took another step. And another. “Take the rest of your clothes off.”

The buckle of his belt rattled as Spencer opened it, your eyes followed his hands. You watched him pull it out of the loops and drop it to the floor next to him before he unbuttoned his pants – but kept them on – and sat down in the armchair. His eyes never left you, following each of your moves. You hooked your thumbs into the hem of your pants and underwear and pulled them down, letting them pool around your ankles.

“Sit down, spread your legs and put your hands on your knees.”

You stepped out of the pile of fabric and kicked them to the side, right onto the rest of your discarded clothes, then you did as he told you and sat down across from him on the sofa, slowly opening your legs.

Being naked in front of Spencer was one thing, but this? It was a totally new feeling for you; a different – a special – kind of vulnerability you had never experienced before, not with him, not with anybody.

You felt like your skin was on fire, inch after inch getting ignited as Spencer's eyes wandered over your naked body, lingering here and there for a moment; on your bottom lip when you licked over it and pulled it between your teeth, the swell of your breasts and your hardening nipples, down over your soft stomach to your glistening pussy, already wet from his teasing, and your hands loosely resting on your knees.

“Like that. Good girl.”

This wasn't the first time he called you a 'good girl', but today... Fuck... A shiver ran down your back and you were barely able to hold back a whimper, the ache in your core getting stronger and you felt yourself clench around nothing. God, you wanted to feel him deep inside you; tongue, fingers, cock. What ever you could get. What ever he would give you. Your hands shook in anticipation and you felt yourself getting wetter and needier.

Spencer's eyes darkened when he saw your intense reaction to the praise and his jaw went slack for a moment before he fixed his gaze back on your face, trying to gain back some composure. His hands held a tight grip on the armrests, his knuckles almost white, as if he had to physically hold himself back from just getting up and ravaging you right then and there.

You loved the effect you had on him, that just seeing you drove him crazy. It made you feel powerful.

He took a deep breath in through his nose and slowly breathed out, calming himself down. His grip on the armrests loosened then and he leaned back. “I want you to start by moving your hands over your thighs”, he instructed, his voice low and raspy. “Slowly.”

Without having to think about it you followed his words and let your hands glide over your soft skin with a gentle pressure; from your knees over the outsides of your thighs until you reached your hips, then you moved them up to slide them back down to your knees again.

“You can touch your inner thighs as well, but don't touch your pussy yet.”

You nodded and took a shaky breath. The insides of your thighs were more sensitive and you shuddered as you got closer and closer to your core and a soft moan escaped your lips. Even though Spencer told you not to, you wanted nothing more than to play with your clit or slide two of your fingers inside, thrusting them in and out.

And when he moved his hand to his bulge, palming himself as he watched you, you thought that maybe, he would let you do it. He didn't give you permission and you didn't ask, but you didn't stop moving your hands further up. But when your fingertips got too close to your folds, he clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Sorry”, you mumbled breathless and pulled your hands back. You slid them back down, closer to your knees, and grabbed your thighs.

“'s okay, baby.” Then Spencer chuckled. “And you can sit more comfortably if you want, by the way. You don't have to sit up with a straight back.”

You pouted with a smile on your lips as you looked beside you and grabbed a pillow to put it behind your back. “I knew that.” You leaned back, testing if the pillow was in a good position and when you where satisfied with the placement you scooted back some more and fully rested your body against it.

“Anything you feel like doing right now?”, Spencer asked. You opened your mouth, but before you could say anything he added with a smirk: “Except for touching your pussy.”

You grinned at him. “What about for you to fuck me?” But he just shook his head, chuckling.

“Patience, love.”

Well, it was still worth a try. You held back the disappointed and needy whine that wanted to come out and for a moment you tried to think about it, you really did. But you made the mistake to look down his torso and Spencer's hand was just too damn distracting. He was still palming himself over his pants, softly squeezing from time to time. And while he was waiting for your answer, he lazily stroked his thumb back and forth over his clothed shaft.

The words came out choked and barely audible when you finally forced yourself to answer, your fingers digging hard in to your flesh. “Don't know...”

“First thing that comes to mind.” His voice was lazed with amusement; Spencer was enjoying this so much and he knew exactly what he was doing to you right now. His tongue darted out to lick over his lip and the softly bit down in the tip.

After a deep breath you made yourself look at his face and softened the grip you had on your thighs. “Maybe... touch my breasts? My nipples?”

He smiled softly. “No wrong answers here.” With a tilt of his head he raised his chin as confirmation. “Go ahead. Keep your hands on your body.”

With a tender touch your moved your hands up your body, softly caressing your skin, up to your tits and cupped them with your hands.

“Gently massage them, play with your nipples.”

You gasped when you followed his instructions and rolled your hard nipples between your fingers, the sensation shooting waves of pleasure down to your core. With every flick and twist you grew needier. Impatient.

"Feels good?", he asked breathy, his voice shaking a bit when he moved his hand faster and with more pressure over his cock.

"Not as good as when you do it”, you whined.

Spencer chuckled again; his tone teasing. "Want me to touch you?"

You nodded your head eagerly, your back slightly arching into your hands. "Mh-hm, please."

"Wanna see you make yourself cum first, okay? You can do it. I'll touch you as much as you want after."

If you wouldn't get some kind of release soon, you would go insane, completely feral. Closing your legs to press your thighs together for some friction wasn't an option and with the way you were sitting you couldn't exactly try and rub yourself against the sofa. And maybe it was written on your face in big, bold letters, because Spencer – finally – gave you the go.

“Slide your hands down your stomach, move your fingertips over your lips and tease yourself for a moment – yes, good, like that. When you are ready, go ahead and touch your clit. Soft circles.”

The first stoke of your fingers over your clit felt like heaven and ecstasy flooded through your whole body. Your head fell back and you moaned loudly; it felt so good to finally be able to feel your fingers where you so desperately had wanted them that your body started to tremble. A string of mashed together words fell from your lips, you didn't even realize you were saying them. ”Thankyouthankyouthankyou-”

You melted back into the pillow, gasping and moaning as the pleasure became more and more; your other hand found its way back to your tits on its own, groping at the soft flesh and teasing your nipple as your fingers between your legs moved in slow, tight circles.

The sound of clothes rustling made you lift your head; Spencer lifted his hips to slip off his pants, letting them pool around his ankles. He adjusted his position and leaned back, his knees slightly falling apart and he wrapped his hand around his hard cock.

The sight made you whimper, the need to taste him and feel him overtaking your whole being. But you knew, even if you would ask – beg – him to fuck you, he wouldn't do it, not now; you hadn't cum yet. So you did the next best thing and pushed two of your fingers into your leaking cunt.

A breathy laugh fell from Spencer's lips as he watched you start to thrust your fingers into yourself as soon as you had seen him. His grip on his cock tightened and he started to pump his fist faster, not holding back his own moans. He so desperately wanted to bury himself in your tight walls and it took everything in him to hold back. “God, you look so perfect right now... So fucking pretty.”

The both of you worked each other up, the pleasure getting more intense with every stroke; hands moving, touching and teasing with more and more want and desperation.

But somehow it still wasn't enough. “Can I go faster?”, you whimpered, your voice wavering.

“Of course, baby. Go as fast or as slow as you want.”

The room filled with both of your moans and panting, and the sounds of skin hitting on skin – Spencer's fist hitting his pelvis and the palm of your hand slapping against your slick cunt – as you gradually picked up the pace until you were franticly fucking yourself with your fingers.

After a while you slowed down your pace again, trying to catch your breath. You felt the familiar knot form in your belly as you pumped your fingers in and out of your heat, your walls fluttering around them.

“Think I'm getting close...”, you breathed out, followed by a high-pitched gasp when your palm rubbed over your clit.

A groan formed in the back of Spencer's throat. “Touch your clit again; you can go slow or fast, in circles or not, however it feels right.”

You pulled your fingers out and swirled them over your clit, your fingertips effortlessly sliding over it. The muscles in your stomach tightened as your orgasm built up. You fought against the urge to thrust your hips up, trying to keep your focus on rubbing your clit. You didn't want to get distracted, this was the closest you had ever gotten yourself and if you had to concentrate on moving your hips as well as your hand and fingers, you wouldn't be able to keep up with both movements.

Your breathing got quicker and heat was rising up in your body. Just when you felt like you would burst – it stopped; instead of falling over the edge your body refused to go further, keeping you right on the ledge. As if it was taunting you, the sensation became weaker, not even leaving you on the edge any more.

It was always like this when you tried to finish without a toy; your managed to make yourself feel good and when you got close – which also felt like it took forever to even get there – your body refused to give you the release you had been chasing.

A whine left your lips, you were borderline sobbing, as you squeezed your eyes shut. The need to cum and the frustration that it wasn't working, together with the unintentionally edging had you close to tears. You slowed your movements, but kept going nonetheless. “I can't. Told you it doesn't work for me.”

“Don't fight it, you almost had it. Let your body take control and let it guide you.”

You nodded eagerly and met his eyes. “Okay, I- I'll try.” You tried to hold his gaze and after a deep breath you slowly pick up the pace again. Spencer matched your pace, the slow lazy strokes getting faster as he pumped his cock with the same speed your fingers were circling your clit. Your eyelids fluttered as your gaze flickered between his face – all flushed, desire burning in his eyes and slack-jawed, with his lips slightly parted – and his hand stroking his erection.

This time when your hips jolted, you let it happen and shifted your focus to what you were feeling instead of what you were doing. It took you a moment or two to fully let go and give into the pleasure, your movements faltering a couple of times until your mind cleared and your hips and fingers synced up to work together in a delicious, steady rhythm.

“That's it, baby. Just like that. You are doing so well.” Spencer's voice was low and his tone had gotten so gravelly, he was almost growling.

You leaned back, your moans getting louder again as heat spread under your skin until your whole body was on fire , the knot in your stomach began to tighten again. It got tighter and tighter until –

“Oh fuck”, you screamed out in between your moans as your legs began to shake, and when the coil in your lower belly snapped your thighs clamped shut. Your hand stilled and your fingers stopped working your clit; instead your hips kept jolting, thrusting up into your fingers and prolonged your orgasm on their own accord. Your back arched off the sofa and you slapped your other hand on the cushion next to you, tightly gripping it in your fist.

When your body finally calmed down you gasped for air and through the foggy haze clouding your mind you vaguely registered moaning and a string of words – probably an array of curses, maybe even some praise about how well you did, how pretty you looked when you came, good girl – but the blood rushing through your ears was too loud, making it hard to make out any words.

As your muscles relaxed more, your body got limb and let yourself slide along the back of the couch until you were lying down; pulling one leg onto the couch, the other still hanging down. The more oxygen you got, the more you came back to. The shaking in your legs had almost stopped, instead your shoulders started to shake as you began to giggle. “Holy shit.”

A low laugh made you turn your head to the side and open your eyes. Your were met with Spencer's face right next to yours, a proud smile on his lips as he took in your blissed out state. He had just knelt down next to you, his hand found its way to your forehead and brushed away a few sweaty strands. “See? Knew you could do it, 'm so proud of you, baby.” He moved his hand to cup your cheeks, then further down to curl it around the back of your neck.

Your smile grew bigger and you took a shaky breath to say something, but before you could Spencer pulled you closer and kissed you desperately; the need to be near you, touch you, feel you, overpowering him. You kissed him back just as feverishly and buried your hands in his hair. Spencer let his hand wander from your neck down to your breasts, his fingers leaving your skin burning up and begging for more. He cupped one of them, gently massaging it and started playing with your nipple, rolling it between his fingertips and pinching it with just the right amount of pressure that made you tremble and arch your back into him.

You whimpered and softly tugged on the strands at the back of his head. He groaned into your mouth in return and you felt him shift his position as he got up, pulling his knee up to hold him self up so he could lean over you. His touch and his lips, finally feeling his hands on your body, made you feel dizzy and reignited the ache in your core, your clit throbbing, desperately waiting for his attention.

The sudden feeling of his hand between your thighs made you jump a little, you broke the kiss and gasped which quickly turned into a high-pitched moan when he slipped one of his fingers in between your slick folds, only grazing your entrance as he collected some of your arousal. You were still sensitive from your orgasm, but the rush of him finally touching you was stronger and you started to move your hips.

He didn't make you wait long and so after a few tight circles over your clit, he slid his fingers down to your entrance and sank two of them into you, filling you up so much better than your own had done and reaching that spot deep inside you that you couldn't quite reach yourself.

The both of you quickly fell in an easy rhythm with each other and he had you a moaning and blabbering mess in a matter of seconds; it would almost be embarrassing if you would care about it. It blew your mind every time – every god damn day – how much power Spencer held over you, both body and mind. And if he would be anybody else, it might even scare you.

“You looked so beautiful, love, you have no idea”, Spencer breathlessly cooed against your delicate skin, kissing and softly nibbling along your neck and throat. “Could watch you play with yourself all day.”

You wouldn't be able to say anything to him even if you wanted, your mind getting blank and fuzzy; all what left your lips where breathy moans and pleas. A whiny gasp left your throat when he curled his fingers, pressing his fingertips against the very spot that made you see stars.

Spencer kissed his way to the sensitive spot under your ear and when he spoke again, whispering into your ear, his lips grazed it. “Can feel how close you are, it's okay, baby. Come for me.”

He asked and your body complied.

With his name on your lips, repeating it over and over like a prayer, your orgasm washed over you. Your eyes rolled back and when your whole body tensed up, you tried to hold on to something to anchor yourself. You blindly reached for his wrist and held it in a tight grip, your other hand curled around his arm, clawing at his biceps. Spencer kept the pace he was circling your clit with his thumb with and pumping his fingers into you as you clenched around them, trying to suck him in deeper.

Your walls were still fluttering around his fingers when you released his wrist from your grip and moved your hand to the back of his head, pulling him even closer to you. The vibrations of him chuckling against your pulse tickled your skin and you whined quietly when he slowly pulled his fingers out of your cunt, leaving you empty. He slightly leaned back and looked at you, a crooked smirk stretched on his lips. “Still want more, huh?”

“Please, baby, need you, please.” You keened, not at all caring how needy you sounded.

He shook his head at you, not to say no, but in a affectionate you are something else kind of way. “Think you got enough strength left to hold yourself up a little?”

“Yes, think so.” You swallowed and breathed deeply, nodding your head as you held his gaze. ”I will.”

“That's my good girl.” Spencer closed the small space between you and kissed you, swallowing the whiny sound you made, his lips lingering on yours for a moment, then he helped you to sit up. You watched him reach for the other pillows that had scattered around the couch and bunch them up, piling them against the back of the seats, right next to you. “C'mere.”

His hands found your hips and you let him guide you in to the position he had wanted you in, right against the pillows. He guided you to sit – kneel really – in front of the piled up pillows, chest facing them and gently pushed your upper body with a hand between your shoulder blades down. You lay against the pile, letting it support your body and after adjusting it a bit, you crossed your arms on top and placed your head down; you were practically hugging the whole thing.

He nudged your leg with his knee to spread your legs more so he could kneel behind you. With a sigh you relaxed your muscles and enjoyed Spencers hands roaming over your back. He planted a couple of kisses on your neck and shoulder, then placed his hand on the backrest behind you to hold himself up and craned his neck to catch your eyes. You shifted the position of your head slightly so you could look at him better.

“Are you comfortable?”

You smiled at him and hummed, nodding your head. Spencer returned the smile and leaned closer, to capture your lips in a kiss. It was supposed to be a quick one, just a small peck, but his front was now flush against your back and his dick had fit so perfectly between you, with his shaft splitting your folds and pressed against your entrance that he couldn't hold back any more.

So instead, he moved his hand from the sofa to the back of your head, holding you close as he slid his tongue into your mouth and deepened the kiss. You moaned into each others mouths, desperately rocking your hips against each other. He pressed himself against you as close as possible, leaving no space between your bodies, as if he wanted to make up for the time he hadn't touched you all evening.

All it took was for him to pull back just a bit more and his cock slipped right into you, bottoming out at once. “Shit”, you hissed at the sudden stretch, directly followed by crying out his name in pleasure when he pulled out just an inch or two and slowly thrust back in, even deeper.

His forehead fell to your shoulder and Spencer let out a long, deep moan. He placed his left hand back on the backrest – closer to your front this time so his arm was circling around you, more like he was holding you in a hug – and his other took a tight hold on your hip. For a long moment neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other and trying to catch your breaths.

Every time you exhaled, a soft whimpering sigh left your lips. You pulled your left arm out from under your body and reached for his hand on the backrest, slotting your fingers between his. He moved his fingers slightly so he could gently squeeze yours.

Spencer was the first to move. You felt him lift his head and press his lips to your shoulder, before he repeated the same slow and deep thrust from before, not moving his body away even an inch from yours. He kept rolling his hips into you in a slow pace, pushing in deep and hard rather than fast.

Your whole body was pushed hard against the pillows in front of you every time he rocked into you, every thrust eliciting a low moan from you. You let your head fall back against him, leaning the side of your face against his. “Fuck, feel so good around me”, he groaned right by your ear, his warm breath hitting your skin.

He kept the slow and hard pace for a while, only moving faster when you pushed back against him, needing to feel more of him. You gasped with every quickening breath, the ache in your stomach was growing again. “'m close”, you breathed out, your hand tightening the hold on his.

With his nose he gently nudged your cheek. “You know what to do”, he said breathless.

You shook your head quickly, whining desperately. “No, no, no, nonono, please, need you to touch me. Please.”

“Aw, but you did so well earlier.” He planted a kiss to your jaw, then moved his lips to your ear and pulled your earlobe between his teeth, gently nibbling on it.

“Promised...Ah... Said 'yd touch me.. all I want...” You got quieter with every word, your voice high-pitched and shaky with need.

Spencer chuckled and leaned his forehead against your temple. “Mmh, I did, didn't I?” All you could do was nod, not trusting your voice any more. But there were no more words needed. He sneaked his free hand between you and the pillows to give you what you wanted, needed.

You hadn't expected to be this sensitive, but when his fingertips slid over your clit you jolted forward, crying out his name. “Fuck...” His chest rumbled with a deep laugh against your back and he pushed your body against the pile of pillows with his own to hold you in place. In sync with the quick flicks of his fingers, he picked up the pace he was thrusting into your pussy, his hips snapping against you faster and faster.

You tried to hold yourself up, leaning your forearms against the backrest, but your arms had gotten too weak so all you could do was hold onto it with your hands in a tight grip, taking what Spencer gave you; your head hung low and nothing more then moans left your lips.

When he felt you clench hard around him, Spencer groaned and leaned his temple against yours, his mouth near your ear. “Such a good girl, taking me so well”, he panted and increased the pressure on your clit; the praise did exactly what he had intended and it sent you over the edge, with a choked out cry your back arched against him and you came, your whole body shaking. He had been close before, but it took him by surprise when you pussy clenched so hard around him that you pulled him right with you, his dick twitching and he spilled himself into you.

Both of you collapsed against the back of the sofa, breathing hard, and you let out an uff when Spencer's weight got too much. “Sorry”, he said breathlessly and immediately pulled back; you hissed when he pulled out in the same move. He moved his arm around your torso and helped you holding yourself up. You tiredly grabbed pillow after pillow and just threw it blindly to the side to let them fall to the floor. The last one was a bit difficult to get out from under you, but after you got it out you moved it to the end of the couch.

You let your body fall into the cushions, ringing for air and with your eyes closed. Next to you, Spencer got up. You reached out to him, alarmed when you heard him stumble; he luckily had regained his balance before he fell over his own feet, but his knees were still a bit wobbly. “Are you okay?”, you asked, your lips stretching into a worried smile. He huffed out a laugh and took the hand you had reached out into his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Yeah, I'm good. Just wanted to get us some water.” He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze before he let go and bend down to get his boxer shorts to put them back on before he slowly walked into the kitchen. Not even a minute later he came back and handed you a glass of cold water, his own already half empty.

When you had finished your water he took your glasses and put them down on the coffee table. You lifted your arms and reached for him, beckoning for him to come back and lay down on the couch with you.

“Five minutes”, you said softly, a wide smile on your lips; you already knew Spencer was about to shoo you up and into the shower.

He huffed, but took your hand and joined you. You made him some space and rested your head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. You hummed content, nuzzling your face deeper into the crook of his neck, closing your eyes. After a short moment you mumbled: “Maybe ten minutes...”

Spencer just laughed and pulled you closer.

#cmkinkbingo2024 #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #ghosts can write #💜 s.r.#--- mismatched🧦

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miedei · 6 months ago

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lol I imagine spencer picking reader up after her first girl's night with the BAU ladies and he's all 'why did you let her get so drunk' but he's so in loveeeeee will let her climb him like a koala and take her home and take off her makeup for her bc she'd forget </3333

omgg anon you read my mind!!

1k, you're drunk and love spencer (he loves you too)

mystery girl!au

He shows up to the bar, calling you, but in your drunken stupor you seem to be struggling to pick up the phone. Elle, much more sober than the others, guides him over to the booth that you've crammed yourselves into. JJ and Garcia are leaned on your shoulders from either side, voices overlapping as they speak incoherently. Spencer can't help but chuckle at the complete 180 your expression makes, however.

Before you catch sight of him, you're frowning down at your phone, your jabbing finger missing the buttons every time you try. Nodding absently at whatever's being said around you, you can't tear your eyes away from it, your knitted brows making affection swell up in Spencer's heart.

But when you do see him?? It's like the clouds have parted. Your eyes light up, straightening up in your seat as you wave happily, not caring that you're jostling JJ and Garcia as you do.

"Spence! You're here! I was trying- trying to call you but," You frown again, "my phone is being weird." The frown can't stay for long, though, as you climb haphazardly over JJ's lap in order to stand in front of Spencer, lauching yourself at him with a giggle.

He can barely keep his balance, widening his stance a little before running a hand up and down your back with an indulgent smile.

"How much have you had, angel?" He stares pointedly at Elle as he speaks to you, who raises her palms in a repentant gesture. You mutter something into his shirt, words muffled as you don't seem willing to take your face out of his chest just yet.

"What was that?" "I dunno, Spence. Can we kiss?"

He flushes, and no matter how drunk they are, JJ and Garcia can always pick up on an instance where they can tease him. They giggle behind their hands, unsubtly whispering about how they've got to tell Morgan about this. Spencer can't bring himself to care, though, not when he's got you in his arms, your chin propped up against his chest as you look up at him pleadingly.

He can't help himself, bending down painfully at the neck to plant a kiss on your lips.

After making sure Elle is alright shepherding the other two home, he sweeps you out of the bar, bundling you up in his cardigan before putting you in the passenger seat of his tiny car. He's not a huge driver, so he has less of his attention on you than he'd like, but you don't seem to notice, chattering away mindlessly in the passenger seat about how the music was sooo good tonight and your friends are so cool spence i might steal them (you have).

Once you make it back to your apartment complex, he half-drags you into the lobby before giving up and hoisting you onto his back piggy-back style. It's surprisingly effective, not only to get you moving faster, but the sight of his brown hair right in front of your face shuts you up real quick.

He doesn't really realise why until he catches a glimpse of you in the elevator mirror, and the view of your eyes trained fixedly on his hair, clumsy hands trying to be gentle as you braid some of it, has his eyes practically turning into hearts.

Once he finally gets the two of you into the apartment, he makes sure you're holding on tight as he undoes your strappy shoes, placing them in the shoe rack overflowing with mismatched pairs. After toeing off his converse with nowhere near as much care, he maneuvers the two of you into the bathroom, depositing you on the bathroom counter. You whine softly at the loss of his hair in your hands, but his tolerant smile has you melting, looking up at him with a dopey smile.

Your adoration nearly has you forgetting to process what he's doing. He's darting around the messy bathroom, grabbing bottle after bottle until his arms are full.

"Spence, what are you doing?" The drinks have clouded your processing skills, and all you want to do his hold him and go to sleep.

He shoots you a small smile, depositing the stuff on the counter next to you before approaching you, cotton pad in hand.

"I've gotta take off your makeup, you know you'll feel uncomfortable tomorrow if you go to sleep with it on," Your eyes are glassy, looking up at him as he swipes at your face with the utmost of care. All the emotions that you harbour for him seem to bubble up inside you, until you can't take it any more.

If you were more lucid, you'd write him a poem. Maybe organise a fireworks show, or buy him a star. But, you're still held in the throes of alcohol, so it's all you can do to blurt out: "You're so so pretty Spence, I love you."

Despite the gesture not being nearly as extravagant as he deserves, blood rushes to his face, and he ducks his head a little as he kisses your forehead wordlessly. He continues to wipe at your face, much gentler than you would, revelling in the feeling of your soft skin under his hand, calloused from his gun.

Finally, once he's done, he helps you out of your dress, handing you one of your pyjama pants and a shirt of his to wear to bed.

As soon as you're dressed, looking achingly cozy perched on the counter, hair mussed and clothes draping over your form, he helps you down to your feet with hands firmly on your waist. He wraps his arms around you from behind, waddling the two of you to the bedroom and tucking you into the covers.

At long last, he slides into bed next to you, giving you some space in case you're overheating still. You can't have that, though, and shuffle along the mattress until you're tucked into his side. Falling asleep almost instantly, you push your head into the crook of his neck, and he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply and whispering into the darkness,

"I love you too"

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #s.r.#asks #requests #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer.r #matthew gray gubler #bau team #criminal minds x you #mystery girl!au #mie chats #mie writes

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fairysongs · 11 months ago

Text

౨ৎ coming home too late﹕spencer reid .ᐟ

summary: based entirely on the song, coming home by beabadoobee. pure fluff.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

includes: soooo much fluff, spencer’s pov, spencer is in love with reader, reader is just as in love with him, very small mention of depression, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader loves to clean, established relationship, derek morgan is spencer and reader's #1 fan, did i mention spencer is in love?

word count: 1.7k

a/n: eeeek my second fic!! i got so happy writing this. maybe the most sickening sweet thing i ever did do. i love beabadoobee's music so much i kinda wanna write a million different things based on her songs. Anyways..!!! as always likes/reblogs/feedback appreciated :3

spencer reid had never felt more relieved to be sitting inside this jet than he was right now.

sure, he’s happy every single time his team is able to wrap up a case. he’s happy every single time they catch the bad guy. he’s happy every single time justice is brought to victims and their families. he’s happy every single time he gets to come home and see you. he’s happy every single time he notices the way your eyes light up when you see him walk through the door. he’s happy every single time you throw your arms around his neck and he gets to pick you up, inhaling your sweet scent as if he’d never be able to embrace you again.

but this time it was a little different. it was currently 6:54pm in california where the latest case was. meaning it was 9:54pm back home. it would take approximately five hours to fly home and another thirty minutes to drive to his apartment. meaning he wouldn’t step through his door until way after three in the morning and he knew you’d be sound asleep by then. and it was saturday, a day that never held much weight to him until he started living with you.

he found out that you grew up with a rather strict routine in your home. your parents deemed every saturday ‘cleaning day’. every saturday you did your weekly chores and that habit stuck with you as you moved on to live with college roommates, on your own and eventually with spencer.

he remembers when he first asked you to move in with him. you’d been dating for about a year and a half at that point. he brought it up in a rather nonchalant way and he was so thankful you were not a profiler and couldn’t tell how hard his heart was beating inside his chest as he started to ask.

“you know… you sleepover here a lot. i mean, you have your own drawer in my dresser, your own space in my closet…” he started one morning, sipping from his mug of sugary sweet coffee. “your skincare stuff in my bathroom, your special shampoos in my shower… your little treats stocked in my fridge…” his lips started twitching, trying to fight the stupid large smile that wanted to show on his face.

you hummed in response, your fingers tapping against your own mug that was full of tea. you hated coffee. when he learned that he bought a box of your favorite tea and kept it stocked in his kitchen. “are you… complaining?” you asked, voice sort of quiet with uncertainty.

he shook his head immediately, realizing he wasn’t being as straightforward as he assumed. “no!” his voice squeaked slightly, causing you to raise your eyebrows. “no… no, i was just… i mean, you spend so much time here and i really love it. i love you being here with me and i… if you wanted to move in i would… i mean, i want you to move in. if you want to. please.”

thankfully your heart was just as pretty as you were and you didn’t let him nervously ramble for too long. instead you walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. you stood on your tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “relax. i’d love to, spencer. but i have to warn you, i’m quite a lot to deal with twenty-four seven…” he would just stare back at you, with nothing but love and admiration pouring from brown hues. he always thought you were so silly when you’d say things like that and he’d spend the rest of the morning telling you that while peppering sweet kisses to every inch of your skin.

he did learn very quickly just how serious you were about your routine. you woke up at six in the morning every saturday. you’d start in the bathroom, then make your way to the kitchen, then collect the dirty laundry from the week, then focus on organizing every little desk and shelf he had in his home. at first you wouldn’t let him help you, explaining that you didn’t want him to feel obligated in helping you with your own crazy little habit. he’d shake his head and just ask you what kind of laundry detergent you liked as he piled clothes into a basket.

“if you keep up with it weekly, then it won’t get out of hand and too big to fix.” you mumbled one time while scrubbing the dishes. “sometimes when the scaries got really bad, i used to forget to keep up with my cleaning. all the mess just made things more unbearable. keeping on top of it makes me feel more in control. even if the ‘cleaning’ one week is just refilling the toilet paper and doing one single load of laundry.”

he nodded his head in response, emptying the trash beneath the sink. spencer was nothing but soft with you, but even more so whenever you mentioned your struggles with depression or ‘the scaries’ as you called it. the two of you quickly fell into a habit every single saturday. you split the work load. you’d do the dishes, he’d carry the trash out, you’d fold the laundry, he’d vacuum the rug. he didn’t have to say it, you’d already know, but he enjoyed the structure of routine just as much as you did. the rest of your saturdays were spent on the sofa, your head in his lap while you forced him to watch your favorite childhood show. takeout food spread across the coffee table in front of you. there was so much comfort the two of you found in the domesticity of it all.

so, yes, he was a little bit upset he missed this saturday and was so ready to get home and pull you into his arms and never let go. he hadn’t noticed him spacing out, eyes focused on the same page of a book he was reading for five minutes, until he heard derek morgan’s voice.

“hey, loverboy!” spencer’s head snapped up, brows furrowing at the man giving him a cheeky smile. “you’ve been staring at that page for an eternity. what’s on your mind, huh?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

you met the whole team ages ago and every one of them adored you but derek especially admired the way you loved spencer. he’d never say it out loud, unless it was in a teasing way to get spencer to blush, but he genuinely believed you were an angel sent to the boy genius. derek noticed how blissful you made him, how gentle you were and how safe he felt with you. how could his heart not swell in appreciation for the love you gave to his brother?

“i missed cleaning day…” spencer spoke, brows pulling together slightly. there was a soft sigh that fell from his lips as he pulled his phone from his pocket. your last text saying you were gonna stay up and wait for him even though you both knew that you’d fall asleep the moment you got comfortable.

“okay… and is that a bad thing?” derek responded, leaning back into his seat with a slightly confused expression.

“well, yeah. she likes cleaning every saturday and we normally split the work between us. that way we have more time to spend together.” spencer huffed and tucked his phone away again. he closed the book he was reading. “it’s more than just the cleaning, derek. i hate being away from her, you know? we never know when we’re gonna get called away on a case like this and i like spending as much time as i can with her. and i hate coming home late. it makes me feel like i’ve missed so much.”

derek breathed out a laugh but nodded, understanding all too well what he meant. emily prentiss came around the corner, one hand holding a cup of coffee and the other resting gently on spencer’s shoulder. “spencer reid, you have become the most smitten, lovestruck man since you met that girl. and it’s the most adorable thing in the world.” everyone on the jet chuckled softly at that, even aaron hotchner, while he blushed and adverted his eye contact towards the shaded window. he knew they weren’t laughing at him, more so showing an expression of how happy they were that he was happy.

he stepped into the dimly lit living room of his apartment at exactly 3:26am. the tv glowed over your sleeping body on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed red panda he gifted you a few birthdays ago. the netflix screen asking ‘are you still watching avatar: the last airbender?’ shined in his face as he leaned in to shut the machine off. he walked over to your sleepy state, a tiny smile growing on his lips as he leaned in to brush some of your hair from your face. he tucked one arm beneath your knees and held the other one to your arm as he carried you to the bedroom.

you stirred, humming softly as he quietly shushed you. “shh, hi baby. i’m home now. go back to bed, yeah?”

“how was the flight?” you asked in a soft whisper, ignoring his requests. he chuckled, shaking his head and he set you gently on the cushion of his mattress.

“it was fine. too long. i’m sorry i’m home late.” he was just as quiet as you, pulling the duvet over your body and tucking it at your shoulders. he picked up the stuffed animal that had fallen beside the bed and tucked it next to you as well.

“it’s okay. we always have tomorrow.” with your eyes still closed, you smiled as he kissed your forehead.

“yes, my love. we do, don’t we? i’m gonna get changed okay? go back to bed.”

“i’ll wait for you.”

when he was changed out of his work clothes and into his pajamas, he turned back and found you soundly asleep again. he let out a quiet laugh, got into bed and pulled you right to his chest. he played with your hair until he fell asleep too, no longer upset about the day he missed with you because you were right.

he always had tomorrow.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #౨ৎ ﹕mazzy’s fics ( s.r x reader. ) .ᐟ #<3 #Gonna be so real i rushed to post this before work and didnt rly proofread #if theres any mistakes or mishaps i will fix when i get back home

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