trampleddoves

[trampleddoves]

FLOW STATE ➻ spencer reid

➻ You make water droplets race down Spencer's back. He makes your heart race in return.

cw: 18+ MDNI spencer reid x gf!reader. smut (fingering, unprotected p-in-v [wrap it before you tap it guys] and I think thats it i don’t know i’ve literally never had to tag smut before kinda nervous) fluff!!! if you really squint i think this constitutes as softdom spence a/n: first smut post here what. this has been sitting in my drafts for SO long because I was really nervous about posting it but here we are. also discovered my biggest enemy is pace. like i couldn't for the life of me figure out if this was too long, or too short, or whatever so bish bash bosh this is the finished product it is what it is. my requests are always open and you can ask for them here :) I promise i’m getting through them (just at a snail’s pace) w/c: 3.3k

‘My droplet is winning,’ you murmur, nudging a tiny bead of water just a fraction ahead of the others as it slides down Spencer’s damp back. It sparkles in the warm bathroom light, racing along the smooth curve of his spine.

From in front of you, he gives a breathy little laugh.

‘Pretty sure you just moved it,’ he says, his voice low, still drowsy from the shower’s warmth. ‘That’s cheating.’

‘I didn’t cheat,’ you whisper dramatically, tracing the water’s path with your finger. ‘I guided it. There’s a difference.’

‘Mmm, sounds like cheating to me.’

The droplet you’re watching collides with another, ending that trail. You hum softly, dragging your eyes back up to the smooth line of his shoulder, and follow the path of another droplet as it curves around the subtle dips of his muscles, racing to catch up with the one just ahead.

Spencer’s eyes close, breathing even and calm. His hair, damp and tousled, clings to his forehead and the nape of his neck in messy strands. You wring out a small section in your hand, coaxing more water onto his skin.

‘It’s strangely hypnotic,’ you say, tracing a streak down his back.

He shivers where your touch reaches the small of his back, but stays still. Relaxed. Letting you explore.

‘You’re paying very close attention,’ he says.

‘I have to. This competition is serious.’

You hook your chin over his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to his jaw. Your eyes catch the path of a lone droplet sliding slowly down his chest, starting near his collarbone.

‘Oh,’ you say softly, tapping his side. ‘This one’s trying to win now.’

Spencer glances down, brows raised slightly, watching the bead of water crawl toward the center of his chest.

‘Decent form,’ he says, voice hushed and amused. ‘Confident start.’

You smile, unhooking your chin to find another bead just beginning its journey down the slope of his back. Resting your finger between his shoulder blades, you say, ‘Okay. Mine’s going from here. Same rules: no guiding, no cheating.’

He huffs a quiet laugh. ‘So you admit you cheated before?’

‘I admit nothing.’

You tilt your head, watching the droplet inch lower, catching on a dip in his spine before picking up speed again.

‘Is yours winning?’ he asks after a moment, eyes still following the one on his chest as it meanders past his sternum.

You compare their positions.

‘No way. Yours is practically halfway down. Mine’s being a slacker,’ you mumble.

Spencer tilts his head, stealing a glance at you over his shoulder.

‘Should we… cheer them on?’ he asks, lips twitching into a tiny, crooked smile.

You laugh softly, considering it. ‘It might distract them.’

‘Oh. Well we can’t have that.’

Pressing your forehead to his shoulder, you watch silently as your droplet reaches the small of his back, just about to slip beneath the towel wrapped low on his hips. Both of you are still, neither speaking – just breathing and listening to the soft hush of water in the pipes.

You look at his front to see the position of his droplet, palm splayed across his back as your thumb lazily brushes over a ridge in his spine.

‘I think they tied,’ you conclude.

Spencer hums. ‘A diplomatic outcome.’

Something about the moment feels suspended. You don’t want to speak too loudly. Don’t want to shatter the bubble of comfort surrounding you. You’re not even sure how long you’ve been doing this – tracking droplets, touching, breathing him in.

‘I was supposed to be cutting your hair,’ you say, reminding yourself and sitting up straight on the counter.

Spencer smiles, unconcerned. ‘That you were.’

You smile back, hand still tracing the curve of his spine. ‘You distracted me. Being all quiet and sweet. Indulging me in my water races. And… well.’ You gesture as if to say here we are.

‘Well,’ he echoes, soft and fond, not moving.

A pair of scissors sit on the edge of the bathroom counter. You glance at them briefly, then back at his hair. The curls cling damp at the nape of his neck, still too long – the very reason you brought him here – but suddenly, you don’t want to cut a thing.

You run your fingers through the strands, mussing them up further.

‘I can finish another time,’ you say, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. ‘You’re too pretty like this.’

‘Too pretty?’ His voice is teasing.

You smile, brushing your fingers lightly through his damp curls again. ‘Yeah. Way too pretty to mess up with scissors right now.’

He chuckles softly, a small laugh vibrating through his chest. ‘Is that so?’

‘Definitely,’ you confirm, wrapping your arms around him from behind, thumbs rubbing warm skin. You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Spencer’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. ‘You’re being too nice to me.’

‘Somebody has to be.’

He turns in your arms, looking at you with a soft pout. ‘Does this mean I don’t get my haircut?’

‘No,’ you say, laughing quietly. You lift your hands and playfully curl your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to pull him closer. He shifts, resting his hands on your waist as he stands between your legs. ‘Can I offer you a different service instead?’

He pretends to think it over, letting out a faint hum.  ‘…Kisses?’

You sigh, as if he’s massively inconvenienced you, then smile and nod.

‘I think that can be arranged,’ you say.

Spencer’s lips quirk into another crooked smile, then part as you press gentle kisses to his nose, his forehead, then down to the curve of his neck. His skin is warm beneath your lips, water droplets still clinging to him like tiny jewels.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. He tits his head, chasing your lips, and you giggle when his catch yours in a careful kiss – slow, at first, then deepening as you surrender to the warmth between you.

He shifts, trying to get even closer, and his towel slips a fraction lower. Instinctively, he reaches to pull it back up, nearly knocking you off the bathroom counter in the process. His laugh is a quiet, delighted sound against your mouth, breath mingling with yours in the shower-steamed air.

‘Was that an invitation?’ you tease, pulling away just enough to flick your eyes down to the now slightly lower towel.

Spencer laughs again. ‘I wasn’t trying to—’

You cut him off with a sweet kiss to his jaw, then trail your lips back down the other side of his neck. His breath catches, and he lets out a contented sound.

‘—But it can be an invitation, if you want it to be.’

You confirm that yes, you do want it to be an invitation, pressing your lips to his again, kissing until his tongue traces softly against your lips in his typical exploratory fashion. Always careful, but unmistakably eager.

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and he murmurs, ‘Off?’

You nod, and he helps you lift it over your head, his hands trailing reverent paths along your sides, fingertips brushing lightly against your ribs as he goes. The shirt drops somewhere on the floor, forgotten.

‘You’re pretty—’ he starts to say, but you kiss the words right off his mouth.

One hand slides into his damp curls, keeping him against you, while the other rests against his chest – right over the steady thrum of his heart. You shift slightly, drawing him in, and when your thighs tighten around his waist, he exhales a low, unguarded sound that sends a hot ripple through your stomach.

‘These too?’ he asks quietly, between kisses that have now migrated down to your collarbone, hands tracing the waistband of your shorts.

You nod again.

He adjusts your position with measured movements, guiding you forward to ease the fabric over your hips. He kneels slightly, just enough to help get them off your legs, fingers brushing reverent lines along your thighs, then your calves, as he slips them off.

You nod before he can ask about your underwear. They go next.

When you’re bare in front of him, he stands again, looking at you like you’ve just undone him.

You hook your ankles behind his back, drawing him close, grounding yourself in the heat of his body. Your arms loop around his neck again as his hands settle on your thighs.

‘Okay?’ he whispers, brushing his nose gently against your cheek.

‘Very okay,’ you murmur, turning your head just enough to catch his mouth again.

His hips shift forward, and when he presses against your center, the contact makes you gasp quietly against his lips.

He laughs softly, pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath is shallower now, voice barely above a whisper. ‘What do you need?’

‘You,’ you say quietly. ‘Whatever you’re willing to give.’

In Spencer’s mind, that equates to everything.

His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding you slick and warm.

He makes a pleased sound. You bite your lip. Eyes flutter closed as you rest your forehead against his shoulder.

His breath brushes your ear, steady and warm, anchoring you as heat starts to coil lower in your belly.

His fingers move slowly at first – lazy circles that coax soft gasps from your mouth. The warmth spreads, thick and dizzying, curling through your body until your breath is hitching against his skin. You feel his nose nudge your cheek again, encouraging you to look at him.

When you lift your head, his gaze is already waiting – unbearably soft eyes and a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Completely enchanted.

You shift your hips instinctively, pressing into his hand, wordlessly asking for more.

He listens, as always, pressing harder, fingers gliding over sensitive skin. Each stroke draws a soft, involuntary moan from your lips, and you don’t even try to hold them back.

‘Feeling good?’ he murmurs.

‘Mmh… better than good,’ you breathe.

He adjusts the angle of his hand, just enough to slide two fingers inside you, curling perfectly – and your breath stutters. A full-body shiver ripples down your spine.

He watches, making sure you’re okay, taking the way your fingers dig lightly into his shoulders as a sign to continue.

His fingers move in a careful rhythm, curling with intention, each motion precise and devastating.

‘You’re so, so perfect,’ he says.

The words seep into your skin. You giggle breathlessly, voice fluttering out in shaky little gasps. ‘Feel—feel like I’m gonna melt…’

‘Oh no,’ he whispers with mock concern, unoccupied hand sliding up your side. It’s as if he’s taking your words seriously, arm wrapping around your body and holding you close – keeping you together so you don’t completely dissolve.

‘I won’t let you melt all the way,’ he says. Grins. ‘Not just yet.’

Your hips press against his hand again, chasing the warmth that’s building fast and sweet. The bathroom feels far away now – everything narrowed down to him: his hands, the soft rasp of his voice in your ear, and the care woven through every movement.

The air is thick with steam and the quiet sounds of your breathing, punctuated by his low hums of encouragement. When his fingers find that perfect spot, you gasp, a helpless little sound that spills from your lips before it can be caught.

Every movement winds the tension tighter, fanning the flames inside you. Your thighs tremble around his waist.

‘Almost there?’ he asks, and your body’s clench around his fingers already tells him the answer.

You nod, one hand fisting gently in the damp curls at his neck. The world narrows to his hand, the pulse of his thumb, and the heat rising inside you.

A moan slips free, low and breathy, as your body tenses, the wave building fast and bright in your core. You lean forward instinctively, hips stuttering into his touch – and your whole body shudders forward with the force of it.

He catches you immediately, using the arm wrapped around you to guide you back onto the counter. He keeps you steady. Held.

‘Easy,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve got you.’

You shiver, letting the tension crest – sweet and full and flooding through you in trembling waves. You melt against him, the warmth of your climax leaving you loose and shaking, lingering in every shudder and sigh.

He keeps his hand between your legs a moment longer, gentle through the aftershocks, before slowly easing it away. His fingers brush along your thigh as they withdraw, reluctant to leave.

Quiet reassurances are whispered against your temple, a kiss pressed to your forehead as your body slowly settles.

‘You should see how beautiful you look right now,’ he murmurs, voice low and full of quiet awe.

You smile, eyes still heavy-lidded.

‘Can’t,’ you say, still breathless. ‘Mirror’s fogged up.’

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, his smile curling against your temple.

‘Guess I’ll just have to describe it to you.’

He shifts a little closer, his fingers drawing absent, soothing patterns along your skin.

‘You’re flushed right here,’ he says, brushing a knuckle over your cheek. ‘And your lips are a little swollen from kissing me too much. And I believe the scientific description for your eyes is completely blissed out. It’s very beautiful.’

‘You’re being too nice to me.’

‘Somebody has to,’ he says, and your chest aches just a little. He gives you a soft smile, before his expression shifts back to teasing, and he lightly taps your nose. ‘Seriously: blissed out.’

‘If I am,’ you murmur. ‘You’re the reason.’

Something flickers in Spencer’s eyes – warm and unguarded and particularly reverent. His hand stills on your thigh, stroking gently against your skin. Thoughtful.

You shift slightly on the counter, your legs still wrapped around him, and the movement draws a soft inhale from both of you. The air thickens, already warm with steam and affection and the pulse of what’s still lingering.

Your body still trembles faintly, the aftershocks of your climax making every touch feel sharper, every sensation more intense.

‘We can keep going,’ you say. ‘If you want.’

‘You sure?’ he asks softly, lifting a hand to gently cup your cheek. ‘Not feeling too overwhelmed?’

‘No, I want to,’ you say, firm but tender. ‘I want you.’

His eyes soften. He leans in, brushing his lips against yours in a light kiss that deepens just enough to make you sigh softly. He guides you closer to the edge of the surface, both hands settling on your hips.

His towel is gone – somewhere without your notice – leaving him entirely bare against you. Your eyes remain on his face, pushing back his hair as one of his hands slides down, steady and sure, guiding himself to you.

The first press is careful. His thumb strokes your hip as he sinks into you, inch by inch, giving you time and anchoring himself in the soft give of your body and the trust in your (still blissed out) eyes.

You gasp – pure breath – as he fills you completely. Your hands move to tighten lightly on his arms, every inch felt more acutely than ever after the high he just gave you. It borders on overwhelming. But it’s perfect. It’s him.

He pauses when he’s fully seated inside you, and it’s all he can do to breath.

‘God—’ he exhales, voice rough, almost startled by how good it feels. You can feel his body trembling slightly with the effort of restraint. ‘Alright?’

‘Uh-huh. Please—you can move.’

His eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, and you catch what is a whispered swear leaving his lips. He begins to move then, slow and deep, his breath stuttering in rhythm with each roll of his hips.

He tries to talk, to say how it feels, but can’t to find the words that do it justice.

Every thrust is deliberate. Unhurried. Not frantic. Just full feeling and the quietly overwhelming Spencer Reid kind of intensity. Like he’s feeling everything all at once and is trying to give it all back to you in return.

Your name falls from his lips like it’s sacred. You answer with a breathless moan, wrapping yourself tighter around him, and the look he gives you then – half undone, wholly in love – makes your heart pound.

The rhythm builds, each thrust a little deeper, a little more desperate in the way it seeks closeness, rather than friction. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours, his eyes never straying far from your face – even when they threaten to roll back from the way you clench around him.

Every sound he makes – soft, stuttered gasps and half-formed praises – settles deep inside you.

The heat swells again in your core, overwhelming and steady, coaxed further by every deep press of his hips and the whispered “you feel so good”s that fall from his mouth like he can’t stop them.

You try to tell him that you’re close. All that comes out is a quiet, high-pitched whimper, and he knows. He feels it too.

He shifts his hand between your bodies, fingers slipping deftly to where you need them most, drawing slow, perfect circles that push you right to the edge.

‘’S okay,’ he whispers, so gentle. ‘I’ve got you.’

And then you’re unravelling, clinging to him like he might float away. Your release rushes through you again, more full-bodied this time, thighs tightening around his hips as the wave rolls through, leaving you gasping.

The way you pulse around him pushes Spencer right over the edge. His rhythm falters, and a low, broken sound tears from his throat as he spills into you, his whole body tightening with the force of it. He buries his face against your neck, breath hitching with each soft aftershock, holding you like he never wants to let go.

Eventually he does move, oncee your breaths have synced into something more steady, slowly easing out of you with reluctance.

You shiver at the absence, at the lingering sensitivity.

Without a word, he leans down and retrieves the towel, unfolding the fabric in his hands. He steps in close, wrapping it around both of you in a shared bundle, tucking you to his chest as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

He pats gently at the sheen of sweat on your shoulder, down your arm, over the dip of your back. Tender, almost methodical. His fingertips are warm, but his touch is cooler than your skin, making you twitch and sigh in little, overstimulated flutters.

For a moment, you both simply exist in the steamy bathroom – relishing in the lingering heat, the feeling of his body against yours.

Then, he lifts a hand and points to the streak of water trailing down one of the tiles just beside the mirror. ‘That one,’ he says softly, tapping just beside it, the action a little languid. ‘That’s mine.’

You blink, then laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. ‘Oh, we’re doing this again?’

‘I take droplet racing very seriously now,’ he says, feigning gravity.

You tilt your head, peering at the tile beside his. Another droplet forms near the top and begins a slow descent down the fogged porcelain. You point to it. ‘Mine.’

You both go quiet for a moment, watching them drip side by side – slow and unbothered, weaving slightly as they trail down the tile wall.

Spencer shifts closer, nudging his nose against your cheek. ‘No guiding, no cheatig,’ he whispers.

Your laugh is a soft puff of air against his skin. You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed as you watch the droplets chase each other down the smooth, misted wall.

Yours gets caught on a ridge of grout. His slides ahead.

‘Unbelievable,’ you murmur. ‘Yours has an unfair advantage.’

Spencer, looking at you like he can’t believe he gets to have this at all, murmurs one last thing as his lips find the edge of your smile:

‘Pretty sure I win.’

You hum, nose brushing his.

‘Yeah,’ you whisper. ‘Me too.’

[cobbled-peach's masterlist]

[trampleddoves]

𝐔𝐩 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Category: Hurt/comfort, smut 18+ MDNI Summary: After a few near death experiences during a case, Spencer muses on your mortality, and decides to take advantage of everyone’s state of unconsciousness by showing his love for you right there on the jet. Content: 3.4k words, established relationship, they're sooo in love, mentions of alcohol, talk of death, addiction and typical CM violence, s3 post addiction Spencer, reader wears a skirt and is described as shorter than Spencer, semi-public unprotected p in v (in the jet bathroom), crying during sex, creampie.  a/n: I’m back :> Spencer Reid girlies ik ur still here, please move the ouija board!!!!!! Proofread by my love @mggslover. Thanks for the request anon, I’m sorry I missed your ovulation period but I think this can be enjoyed at any point in time.

You’re not one to believe in miracles, but even this disbelief is not immune to contention. Events from the most recently wrapped case has made you rethink your stance on miracles—your plummet down an unseen ravine resulted in no broken bones (simply a split lip and a handful of nasty bruises blooming across your skin), a bullet narrowly missed your temple because of a coincidental, life altering head turn (Spencer had called for you in an attempt to stop your headfirst pursuit of the armed unsub),  and, arguably the most miraculous of all, Spencer isn’t rambling in your ear and saying I told you to be careful.

(Perhaps to most people, one of these things is not like the other, but if you’re being honest, you weigh Spencer’s concern—and Spencer’s opinions, Spencer’s love, Spencer’s everything, really—with as much value as your own life. Maybe you should talk to someone about that.)

The silence is perplexing. Your boyfriend is known for his non stop rambling. Even the incident with Tobias Hankel had done nothing to stop it, only momentarily soured his words and his tone, diluted the vivacity in his amber eyes without ever extinguishing the spark. But tonight, on the flight back to Quantico, his silence persists, mingling with the remnants of Hotch and Gideon’s whiskey as it evaporates and colors the air inside the jet with something smoky and vinous. 

He leaves for the bathroom. You follow when nine minutes pass, too much time for regular bathroom activities, especially for Spencer. With the door slightly ajar, the sounds of running water drift to your ears. Spencer’s bent over the sink when you open the door, shoulders slumped in a way that suggests defeat, hands steady under the spray.

You push the door open, uninvited.

“Baby, I know you’re a germaphobe, but isn’t this a little bit of an overkill?” you approach the way you’re used to, mild jokes unrelated to the issue. Something frilly, harmless. “You know you’ve probably used up half of this jet’s water supply, right?”

He doesn’t respond, only closes the tap. You never thought silence could feel oppressive until right now.

“Talk to me,” it’s not a plea. Not yet—you’d do that too, if that’s what it takes to break this impassive facade he’s erected between the two of you. “I already apologized earlier, Spence, you can’t keep holding me at arms length like this.” Not again. Not after everything. Not when the thing I need is to be in your arms. 

Is it unfair to expect immediate forgiveness? Is it unreasonable to expect him to assuage the weight of those near death experiences instead of ignoring you?

He angles his body to you, head cocked in a way that shows off the perfect planes of his face. The air seems to shift, as if the very oxygen you breathe is lighter, brightened by the mere fact that he’s occupying a space closer to you. It’s fine. You’ll take what you can get. Even the slightest hint of acknowledgement gives you enough to persist. 

“Are you mad?” The words slip out soft as a feather and drift the same way, aimless and unhurried, stilling in the air and fizzling out into a silence that stretches so long you’re afraid he hadn’t heard. Or worse, is still pointedly ignoring you. “Spence…”

“I'm not,” he replies finally, two simple words that ease the painful clenching in your chest. “I couldn't be, not really. Frustrated, maybe. Everything in his profile pointed to violence when provoked and you still—” he shakes his head, “But that's done now.”

“You're frustrated,” You repeat, mind already turning over and attempting to find solutions to this. Part of you knows you can't force that feeling away, can't bulldoze his very valid reaction with the sheer weight of your love and will. But you crave some form of comfort, not this stoic introspection. The words feel useless, but you say them anyway, “I'm sorry.”

He turns to look at you, face warm and vulnerable and sad. 

“Stop. You already said that,” He murmurs, “There's nothing to forgive, angel, but it's—I was terrified. You were a few meters ahead of me and then you were gone, falling, you could've broken your neck—”

“I didn't.” Your insistence feels childish, insignificant against the magnitude of his fear. His concern. His love. 

“I know,” the distance between you dissipates with one long stride. He joins you right at the threshold of the bathroom, and pulls you into him. You thank whatever gods are listening for the miracle that is being in his arms, “I know, it just seemed too close, too out of my control—” 

“Too reckless.” You finish for him.

“Don’t—I don’t want to reprimand you.”

“You should,” You mumble, words muffled by his suit as you bury your face in his chest, “Maybe you need to get it out of your system and we’ll be okay again.”

“Do you think we’re not okay?” there's a rising panic in his voice.

“Well, you have been shutting me out.”

“I’m sorry.”

You laugh. “I’m supposed to be the one apologizing.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for. I, however, wasn’t intending to shut you out, and I’m sorry that I inadvertently did.” He replies, hands slipping under your blouse, palm spread on the expanse of your back to remind himself that you’re here, you’re fine, you’re his. “I was—I thought I lost you, angel. It felt like I did, for a brief moment, and that’s the most terrifying thought to cross my mind.”

“You can’t mean that.” With the amount of horror you face on the daily, you could imagine so much worse things.

“Oh, I do.” His breath ruffles your hair, warm and shaky, “I absolutely do. I wouldn’t know what to do if you had—” he chokes, and it rumbles deep in his chest, his body rejecting even the mere idea of losing you.

You feel his lips on your temple. Firm kisses from soft lips, a contradiction just like him. His arms tighten, and your body slots into his with ease that came from practice, from learning after hundreds of trial and error. Everything about your relationship had taken work, incessant effort from two individuals intent on making their differences be a source for more empathy and love, rather than becoming a breeding ground for resentment.

“I don’t want you to think I’m being overprotective,” he continues, trying a different angle. A hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, keeps you safe and tucked in his arms, “You’re an amazing agent, but we can’t take chances like that, just going off on your own. You remember what happened when JJ and I split up.”

Your stomach churns at the reminder, that dark traumatic spot that had put a strain on certain relationships. You’d gotten resentful with JJ, an admittedly unfair projection of blame. Your mind had been consumed by anger, eager to point fingers when you found out about Spencer’s abduction, and then again at his subsequent addiction. JJ had been your unlucky target, although you’ve all resolved it now.

However, those feelings come rushing back—the fear, the inexplicable hollow in your chest when you found out. Spencer’s going through those motions right now, and guilt sinks its ugly claws in the pit of your stomach. 

“I know. God, Spencer, I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time,” you whisper into his shoulder. A vow spoken in the skies has to mean something, right? It’s resolute, sober, “I won’t run after unsubs by myself when we’re in unfamiliar terrain anymore.”

“You promise?” his breath is right at your ear, warm, tingly.

“I promise.” 

He hums, kissing your temple again, one kiss for each eye, your nose, and you giggle, looking up at him with hopeful, honeyed eyes. 

“So we’re okay?” you ask, fingers clutching the collar of his blazer.

“We weren’t fighting,” he chuckles, bending down to kiss your jaw, “I was, admittedly, having a moment, but yes, we’re okay.”

“Okay.” your brain is empty, save for the sweet familiarity of relief, “We—oh!”

Teeth find the soft skin of your neck and you have just enough wherewithal to clamp your mouth shut. On the seat just a few paces away, Emily snores loud enough to fill the jet, stirs to a more comfortable position, ultimately remains asleep, but Spencer does not give you any chance for relief. Tongue replaces teeth, drawing a sodden line down your throat, along your exposed collarbone, where his teeth once again make contact with your skin.

“Spence,” half hiss, half moan, volume low, restrained, but it does nothing to disguise the desire in your voice. Pinched and pitiful, you whisper, “Don’t.”

His stop is immediate. “Sorry.” He rests his head on your shoulder, body contorted and tucked to fit your shorter frame. He respects your wishes, but every singular cell in his body is incapable of leaving your space at this moment.  

“No, don’t apologize.” you manage a shaky laugh, running your thumb over his cheekbone, “I just don’t want to get worked up.”

“Were you?”

“What?”

“Getting worked up?” he sounds smug and you almost want to kiss it away. It’d be easy; you’d done it countless times prior (it isn’t countless—Spencer knows the exact amount of times you’ve weaponized the softness of your lips against his incessant rambling. It’s exactly two hundred and thirty nine times, eighty two of which had led to more.) “Over a few kisses?”

“Shut up.” You squirm in his arms, a complete contradiction to your denial. 

He notices, pounces on it the same way he does when you play chess and he sees a weak spot. “Don’t deny it.”

“It’s—I just don’t want to be, you know, indecent. They’re right there.” you tilt your head to the rest of the jet, the distance between you and the closest person (Emily, in this case) could be crossed by a few footsteps.

“Yeah… But they’re asleep.”

“Spence.”

His laughter is music to your ears. “Sorry,” he holds his lips to your jaw, not initiating anything further and you relish his warmth like a cat on a sunny day. 

“You’re apologizing again.” You grumble, fingers tangling into his hair. Nails drag through his scalp, second nature at this point. “We both have to work on that.”

“Mhm,” he nods in response, winding his arms tight around your waist. With your face pressed into his sweater, your senses are flooded with the earthy, warm scent of his cologne. It sends a shudder through you, unsuppressed.

He notices. Of course he does. Nothing you do escapes him. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Angel,” he murmurs, “Let me take care of you.”

You still in his arms, feeling lightheaded and unearthed. “But the team—”

“Are asleep.” he reminds you, “And we have an empty bathroom all to ourselves; I say the more you protest,” his teeth sink into your earlobe playfully, “The less time we have to take advantage of this.”

He’s right, of course he’s right. And you’re well past the point of being able to ignore the burning in your belly; your fingers are shaking from holding back. So you nod, looking up at Spencer with a small smile, and he backs the two of you into the bathroom.

The door closes with a click louder than you would have liked, but there had been no way to gauge the volume because Spencer had been the one to pin you to the door and cause the sound. His lips run over your neck again, one hand hiking up your skirt, the other fumbling with the lock on the door. The team may be asleep, but neither of you are taking any chances. 

It’s messy, graceless. You’re half convinced Spencer is too tall to be doing this in such a limited space, limbs bent awkwardly as he kisses you fervently while trying to find that scrap of fabric beneath your skirt. Your boyfriend isn’t known for his multitasking or his physical prowess, but somehow he manages to do both with enough skill to elicit soft whimpers from your mouth. 

It turns into a low, indulgent moan when you feel fingers slip past lace and run over your core.

“Shush, angel,” he chuckles, a gentle reproach, but two fingers slide into your entrance and you’re decidedly unable to shush. 

“Mhm, more,” you gasp, hips canting forward, walls squeezing his fingers desperately. Your own hands are lost in his hair, tangled deep in the strands and tugging as you whine, “Please, Spencer.”

“Baby, you have to be quiet,” He sucks at your bottom lip, and you can’t fathom why he keeps telling you to be quiet while committing acts that he knows are bound to make you mewl. His fingers curl, withdraw, before plunging back in at a better angle, knuckle deep and soaked with your arousal. Spencer anticipates your next moan and swallows it with a deep kiss, tongue pushing past your lips to explore your mouth. He groans at the taste of you, kissing to pour out his love, his relief that his time with you isn’t yet cut short.

You melt, white-hot and velvet soft, into his body as he works both fingers and tongue at opposite ends, the combination leaving you reeling. 

Spencer fingers you like he’s trying to commit the very shape of your walls to the skin of his fingers, reaching deep inside you to eliminate any edges of him and you as individual entities. 

You almost collapse from the intensity, knees buckling. You don’t even get the chance—his arm is wound tightly around your waist, his body pinning you to the door. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he says like it’s a thing of marvel, and not a normal biological reaction to the heat knotting low in your belly from his ministrations, “God, I love you so much.”

He withdraws his fingers. Your whine of protest is free to tumble from your lips now that he’s pulled away slightly. “If you love me so much, then won't stop.” you pout.

As a response, Spencer hoists you up and settles you precariously on the sink. His voice is low, ragged with desire when he replies, “Oh, I’m not stopping, angel.” 

Your panties are pulled off with deft fingers, disappearing into one of the pockets of his slacks. Under normal circumstances, you’d tease him for that and watch with pride as his cheeks bloom pink. Right now, you’re too busy trying to take those pants off, or at least enough to free him. 

“Need you,” you gasp as he’s finally exposed to your sight, a hand wrapping around his base and squeezing lightly. The familiar girth has you nearly drooling, breaths shaky as you stroke through his length once, twice, each movement pulling the prettiest, neediest whimpers from his lips. Eyes glinting with mischief peek up from long lashes, meeting his own honeyed ones. You grin, saccharine and mocking, “Shush, Spencer.”

He glares, but it’s so half hearted you can’t help but laugh. “We’re gonna get in trouble.” he murmurs, angling himself to line up the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

“If they find out,” you reply, “Besides, I almost died, remember, I think Hotch would be a bit more—agh!” the sentence dies, morphs into something more raw and unrestrained, as he stretches your slick entrance. “Oh, god.”

“I know, I know,” his thumb finds your clit, drawing soft circles onto the sensitive bud to help lessen your tension, “You have to relax, baby.”

Truthfully, the semi-public tryst has you feeling anxious, tensing more than usual as he pushes inch after slow inch. But with the stimulation to your clit, you ease up enough until he’s sheathed to the hilt. A pause. Your walls flutter and adjust as he rains kisses along your jaw and neck, patient and gentle even though you can feel every needy throb of his shaft inside you. 

“You can move.” you say, the words featherlight. You’re dizzy from the fullness, but hungry for more. For everything. 

He nods, placing both hands on your hips to anchor himself. Your softness is familiar beneath his palms, and he squeezes hard, wanting to commit every inch of you to his memory. Every inch etched into his very being, your sweet sounds and expressions tucked in his brain and the exquisite feel of you imprinted on his skin. 

His pace is slow, shallow, barely pulling out, before slamming back into you, like he’s his goal is simply to be inside you for the most possible amount of time and nothing would stop him, not even a good rhythm. Any apprehension you may have of this lacking any real pleasure for him is silenced by the look on his face—bottom lip ravaged by his own teeth as he tries to contain every potential sound, brows furrowed, eyes burning into yours with an intensity that steals your breath. 

“Feels so good,” he groans, forehead dropping to yours, his pace growing rapid, more desperate, “Can’t believe I almost lost you.” Every word is punctuated by a grind of his hips, and another whimper escapes your lips, fills the cramped space, the reality of your very close call with death dawning upon you the moment he thrusts and hits that sensitive spot deep inside your body.

You wrap your arms around his neck, urging him as close as he can get, legs haphazardly thrown around his hips and locked right above his ass. An irrational part of you is completely unwilling to let go, not after your very real escape from death. “I’m here,” you gasp, voice wavering with overwhelming emotion, “I’m here, Spencer, I’m okay.”

 He can barely move now, bound to your body like something cursed. “I love you,” one hand cups your face, thumb catching the tear that slips from your eye, “I love you so much, angel, don’t cry.”

The sincerity in his voice brings another wave of tears, and he leans in to kiss them away, lips gently running over your cheeks as he continues to roll his hips against yours. “I love you,” Spencer repeats, kissing down until he finds your lips. 

You taste your tears on him, salt on plush lips, and you push yourself further into his arms, on the precipice of something he’s all too acquainted with. He kisses you harder, leans his body over yours until your back presses up against the smooth glass behind you, and then begins to move. The sudden rapidity has you groaning, squeezing around his length as he pistons in and out with singleminded, relentless focus.

“Come on,” he groans, stifled by your lips and your teeth which are currently clamped on his bottom lip, “That’s it, you’re close, baby, I can feel you, please, please, come for me.”

“I love you,” you sob, thighs quivering around his hips. He hoists your legs up higher, finding an angle that hits you perfectly, and you’re burying your face into his shoulder with a cry, walls tightening around him as your orgasm ripples through your limbs. “I love you, Spencer—”

It’s broken by a gasp as he continues to rock into you, his lips on your temple and blowing heavy puffs of warm air against your skin. “I know, you’re all mine, you’re all mine, I love you so much.” he repeats the sentiment like prayers on rosary beads, lulling into a soft chant dedicated only for your ears. I love you. 

You feel it everywhere, his love. In the slickness of the sweat you’ve exchanged, in the ache between your thighs, the tacky warmth that fills your body and seeps out of your slit as he slowly pulls out. He takes you in, so beautiful even in ruin, and smiles. 

“You okay?” he smooths down your hair, tucks a wayward strand behind your ear, before his hands rest on your waist.

You nod, returning his soft smile with one of your own, teeth bared, lips stretched so comically wide it makes him chuckle. 

“Can’t talk?” soft, balmy lips land on your forehead, “Was it that good?”

“Don’t get smug,” you grumble, before nuzzling into his neck. 

He holds you tightly for a moment, and allows himself to relish the afterglow. “You love it,” he murmurs, “You love me.”

“That I do. Very much.”

thank you for reading!!! pls reblog or i'll cry jk

[trampleddoves]

FOR YOUR LOVE (i’ll do whatever you want) — spencer reid

In which Spencer begs for your forgiveness.

genre smut (18+) cw dacryphilia, pathetic love and touch starved spence, worship and praise, begging, crawling, marking his back with your heels, oral (f receiving), p in v, mirror sex, some discussion/fighting, established relationship, mention of r having a mom, r wearing a dress and heels wc 4,1k a/n race against the clock to post this on the kinkfest date. literally going on vacation in a couple of hours and yes i used my precious sleeping time writing this. you cant tell me i don’t have my priorities straight /jk

Spencer: We delivered a wrong profile Spencer: I can’t make it tonight Spencer: I’m so sorry Spencer: ❤️

You didn’t have to check your purse when the notifications chimed in, already knowing the messenger and the context. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had cancelled on you: lunches, dates, holidays, vacations… To be honest, you had stopped trying. Had stopped planning anything in advance and telling yourself that spontaneous activities were more fun. But right now, sitting in a restaurant with your family as you were celebrating your mother’s birthday that you had been planning for weeks, it was a harsh reminder that this lifestyle wasn’t fun. Not at all.

The one-year mark of your relationship was coming up, and you finally felt stable enough to introduce your boyfriend to your family. It wasn’t a thing you often or easily did, the gesture meaning a big deal to you. And Spencer had known that and had promised you that he would show up at all costs. But he didn’t, leaving you embarrassed as your family laughed and joked about the actual existence of this mystery man that you had been so infatuated with.

The dinner started in longing, wishing you had Spencer’s warm hand to hold in yours underneath the table when the conversations got too loud, or wishing for one of his intricate analyses on which dessert you should choose when you got handed the menu. But every time his name got mentioned, your frustrations began to grow.

“Thanks,” you mutter to your Uber driver while handing him twenty bucks for your ride home. Wrapping your arms around yourself (while thinking of Spencer, who always takes your jacket with him or gives you his when you refuse to take one with you, like now), you walk up to your apartment. 

In your periphery, you notice a soft, dim light shining through the curtains of your living room, the sound of clicking heels against pavement halting abruptly. The latter texts you’ve received must’ve been him asking you if he could come over to your place while probably standing in front of your doorstep already. It had been raining earlier, so you can’t blame him for using the spare key you handed him after the four months you’d been dating. You gave him the excuse that you were too sleepy to open the door for him when he’d come home from a case in the middle of the night, and when he suggested that he could sleep at his place on those days, you had come up with another excuse while placing the key in his palm and closing his fingers around it. He had smiled goofily at you, had seen right through the act, obviously. But he didn’t comment on it, besides pressing a gentle kiss to your hand that was wrapped around his fist. 

You never imagined a day to come where you’d feel sad and annoyed about the prospect of him sitting on your couch, able to envision the way he’s shaking his knees as he’s trying to come up with a new way to apologize for this repeated conflict.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your mind, you unlock the door and open it with a soft creak. The hallway gives a panoramic view of the open living room, and like a deer caught in flashlights, Spencer’s head whips around to face you, those big brown bambi eyes searching for yours despite the few feet of distance. 

He catches on to your mood as you silently place your purse on the dresser. The pillows on the couch ruffle as he sits up straighter, bending his body to face you.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t show up today,” his voice cracks, and you hate the way the small sound pulls on your heartstrings. “I– I don’t know what went wrong with the profile. We established it was a white male, but then—”

“Then it turned out to be a woman, and everyone was thrown off guard,” you finish with a jab. “I know how it goes, Spencer. A simple apology isn’t going to do it anymore.” 

A sigh escapes you. “God, you don’t know how many times I had to reschedule things so that it fit into your schedule. This isn’t going to work if you can’t understand that.”

Desperation laced the soft tone of his whisper. “Then what do I do?”

You raise your hands in the air in question before they fall back on your thighs with a thud. “Well, I don’t know. Beg on your knees for forgiveness?” 

The harsh sarcasm slithered off of your tongue. It’s the classic image of mercy: hands clasped together, pleading on your knees with tear-streaked cheeks. There was no way he didn’t understand that. Still, the despair must have been bigger than his ego, because when you looked at him again, he had fallen to the ground, legs resting on the carpet.

“Spencer,” you start in a warning, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Don’t be mad at me, please?” 

Next were his hands. His long, delicate fingers made contact with the floor. And then his back: arching it like the pose came naturally to him.

“Spencer, please,” you try again, embarrassed by the way your skin heats at the act when you’re supposed to be mad at him.

With the way he’s bent down, you’re able to take a peek into his dress shirt and see the soft reddened skin of his neck and upper chest, decorated in some faded freckles you could blindly point out by now. It was only emphasized by the way his tie was sweeping over the floor with every hypnotizing sway of his hips as he crawled his way over to you.

There was no space to back away, feeling the cold wood of the dresser hit the back of your bare legs as you stumbled back. And truly, you were too curious to see how far he was planning on taking this in an attempt to win your forgiveness.

Kneeling in front of you, you could make out the faded red spots creased under his eyes, indicating that he’s probably cried before — beating himself up over not being able to make it. Those eyes were dangerous, you’ve always said it, big and glassy as they blink up at you, the green hints visible that you weren’t always able to see.

“You look so beautiful, I didn’t tell you that.”

He hadn’t. 

You’d sent him a picture of the dress you were wearing when you were getting ready, him still at Quantico. When you first started dating, you quickly learned that Spencer wasn’t a good texter — far from it — but over time, he’d learned to text you back right away. On days when he wasn’t busy then. If you didn’t get a response back in the next two minutes, it was a sign for you to cancel whatever you had planned, knowing it would take at least hours for him to get home. Today was a day like that.

Spencer let his hand trail over your calf and up to the inside of your knee, goosebumps erupting at the gentle caress of his fingers. 

He inches closer toward you, messy locks tickling as his eyes flit over your legs that are at eye-level with him. “Heels give the illusion that your legs are longer,” he explains, pressing a chaste kiss to the bare skin, testing the waters. “It all has to do with gravity,” another kiss, “you shift the center of it, which changes the body’s proportions,” kiss. 

Every word he spoke, and every moment you stayed silent in anticipation, he took as an opportunity to take it a step further. Sweet pecks turned into longer presses of his lips, wetting them with his tongue to a dark pink hue before kissing you again. Occasionally giving a lick before wrapping his mouth around the muscle, sucking a mark. 

It was a distraction. He was playing exactly into the need he knew you always had for him. It was a new tactic, and you had to give it to him; it was starting to work.

“Stop,” you announced, your voice stern as you used the tip of your shoe to press against his chest, pushing him slightly back.

His brows furrowed, mouth dropping open in dissatisfaction. “Why?”

The way he says it makes him sound like a small child, not understanding the concept of not being able to get anything they want. And whatever nurturing qualities you have in you cause you to feel guilty. The clear, watery drops forming at the corners of his eyes don’t help with that either.

You cross your arms, assembling defiance. “Seducing me is fucking low, Spencer,” you scoff. 

“I— I wasn’t—“ he panics. “I just missed you. I needed to touch you.” 

“Well, I missed you too, Spencer! You were supposed to be there,” you groan out in frustration.

“I know, and I’m so sorry! I mean it.” He quickly apologizes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, burying his face back into your thigh. 

The wet stains of his tears transferred to your inner thighs, making his lashes stick messily together when he looked up at you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you? Please?”

Reaching out, you wrap his tie around your fingers, making him groan as you tug him up on his feet.

Instinctively, he reaches out to place his big palms on either side of your waist, pulling you close.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” you tsk. “Help me up here.” You nod to the dresser you’re leaning against.

He blinks his confusion away, lowering his hands and bending through his knees to lift you up. You’re gently placed on the hardwood, dress lifted up in a bunch at your waist.

Maneuvering his body between yours, he’s ready to cup your cheek and envelop you in a kiss when you place your finger to his lips. 

“Come on, angel,” he cries as you deny him again.

“You’re such a crybaby, Spence,” you huff. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

With his impatience igniting yours, you decide to not wait any longer and spread your legs. 

Spencer’s gulp is visible, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes drift to the lace between your thighs. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Want to make it up to me?”

“Yes,” he answers breathlessly and nods. “I’ll do anything.”

“Kiss me, then,” you dare, fighting a sly smile as his pupils widen in awe.

Spencer drops himself to his knees, fitting his frame in between your legs as he spreads them open wider, the cold whoosh of wind that comes with the movement tickling your sensitive, covered folds.

He held you by your hips, scooting you forward so that his mouth was aligned with your cunt. “Smell so good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose over your inner thighs. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

With that, he used the tip of his button nose to draw a line up your folds, his tongue following behind as it lapped up a wet stripe. You shivered at the touch, abdomen flexing as the thin lacy fabric pressed against you with the power of his tongue.

“Gonna get you so wet for me, going to make you feel so good,” he breathed against you, not sure if he intended for you to hear or if it was a promise to himself. 

He repeated the motion, humming as his tongue came across your clit, feeling it swell under the tip of his tongue as he expertly flicked the little bud. 

The barrier of underwear was starting to bother him, wanting — no, needing — to hear more of the beautiful, soft moans you were trying to hold back.

Carefully, he curved his finger into the fabric, pulling it aside so that it rested in the place where your thigh met your puffy lips. Then he dove back in.

“Yeah,” you moaned, leaning your head back. You could practically feel yourself dripping at this point, though you had to concentrate on it, because the second a stream flooded out of you, Spencer was there to lap it up.

Spencer was a loud lover: moaning and humming as he nibbled on your labia and circled your needy hole, getting immense pleasure from the way you squirmed or gasped when he hit the spot, from being the one to make you feel good. 

You locked your legs around his back. With your heels still on, you dragged the sharp red points across his skin, pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, Spence, that’s it, right there—“ you whimpered, hands reaching out to lock in his hair.

His cock twitched up in his pants, rubbing against the pre-cum-stained spot that had been accumulating from the moment he went down on you. 

Nothing spurred him on more than seeing you be so eager as you finally touched him, reaching out to him willingly. 

On a mission to earn your love and release, he started sucking on your sweet spots with all his might. He hummed against the delicate pearl that was situated between his lips, keeping your hips steady, almost bruising you as he held you in place while you shook as your orgasm came down.

He continued to lick you clean while avoiding your sensitive clit. Reaching out with his thumb, he gathered the last of your wetness before pushing it back into you. 

“Fuck,” you softly cry when his thumb enters you.

He hummed in observation. “You came without me using my fingers.”

A hoarse chuckle escaped your throat. “So what? You decided to finger-fuck me now?”

“I’d rather fuck you with my cock,” he states, the dirty words a sharp contrast to the sweet, boyishness of his voice. 

Taking his words in, you decide to give him what he wants. Albeit on your terms. 

“Stand up and turn around.”

It was fun ordering him around. Especially when he actually listened because his pulsing cock drove him desperate enough.

His knees cracked a little when he stood up, holding your gaze for as long as he could before he turned around, his back facing you.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in closer until you were able to let your hands slide over his shoulders. You rested your head on them, breath fanning across his neck. “Did I hurt you with my heels?”

“N-no,” he swallowed at the proximity. “It felt good.”

You laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest, freeing a swarm of butterflies. “Of course you enjoyed it. You’re being such a good boy for me.”

The tips of your fingers moved down until they were splayed across his chest. Batting his tie away, you started opening up the buttons on his shirt — a skill you had grown quite expert in since dating Spencer Reid.

He breathed out a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly as more of his skin got exposed to the tension-filled air. 

Knowing you weren’t able to reach the lower buttons (or maybe it was an act of haste), Spencer lent you a hand in taking the shirt off.

With a soft thud, the white fabric fell to the ground, and you hummed in pride as you spotted two pairs of red lines over his back.

Using your nails, you traced the pattern that you had created. 

“Feels good, baby,” Spencer panted. His own hand has found its way to his bulge, squeezing the throbbing length in search of relief.

“Don’t know why you’re even trying,” you comment in a silken purr as you spot Spencer’s actions. “You know my hands feel better than yours.”

Despite not being able to see his face, you could tell a rouge blush had found its way to his cheeks by now. His voice sounded hopeful. “Would you touch me?”

You responded with a hum and a gentle squeeze of his slender waist. “You’ve been doing a very good job at listening. I think you deserve a reward. What do you think?”

He quickly nods. “Yeah. I’ve been good to you.”

It’s almost like he needs to remind himself, still feeling guilty of not showing up this evening when he had promised you so.

Still, he saw your words as an invitation to turn back around. He had his bottom lip trapped in between his teeth, watching you watch him.

“Looks pretty painful,” you remark as you let your fingers graze over his bulge. 

Spencer bucks his hips up into you, cursing at his bodily functions as you take your hand away. 

“Now you have to keep being patient, or I can put a stop to this right now.” 

He didn’t know when he had subconsciously handed the reins back to you, you now in power when he had believed he’d found your salvation in between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”

With a trusting nod, you moved to the button on his pants, undoing it with ease, and the zipper followed swiftly along.

You had to wrap your fingers around his shaft to pull him out, his cock having filled the fabric to the point where it was a struggle to just tug the material down his legs. 

A sound in between a gasp and a moan left your lips at the sight of him. No matter how many times you’d seen him like this, it never failed to amaze you.

“You’re so pretty, Spence.”

His eyes were focused on the way your manicured nails tapped along his length. “Thank you.”

You used your thumb to paint his tip in sticky pre-cum, prepping him for what might come, as Spencer fought the urge to hiss in delight. 

“You want more than just my hands, though.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours. He tried to read you, but it wasn’t as easy as it was on the job, distracted both by your beauty and by your warm touch as you played with him.

“If I’m allowed to,” he responded in perfect politeness. 

You didn’t smile, solely shrugged. “I’m still pretty pissed at you,” you squeezed him in your palm. “Don’t know if I’ll allow you the pleasure.”

“But you deserve the pleasure,” he quickly intervened. “I’m not doing it for me,” lie, “you deserve to feel good.”

The wheels were turning in your head, and he used the chance to convince you more, adding some oil to the rusty mechanics. “You don’t even have to look at me. I’ll— I’ll turn you around. You can just focus on you. On feeling good.”

“Alright.”

He could cry in relief, his balls straining at the prospect. If there’s one situation he’s been most grateful he’s learned negotiation for at the academy, it might be this. 

Gently, he helped you off the dresser, only to turn you around and attentively bend you over it. It was only then that he noticed the large round mirror on the wall above. He didn’t say any of it. Praying desire has clouded your mind as well.

After becoming aware of the mirror’s presence, he seemed to not be able to look away. It was a picture-perfect image, after all. Your face scrunched in pleasure as he held you by your hips and entered you in one smooth, long stroke.

Spencer sucked in a breath. “So warm, baby.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the skin to soften his whines as he started moving into you.

Your hands were gripping the sides of the dresser, nails biting into the wood as he stretched out your walls. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into your shoulder, his breath starting to heave as he picked up his pace. 

He was absolutely enamored by the way your breasts bounced, having asked you to pull the straps of your dress and bra down, your dress now bunched around your waist as Spencer used it as extra grip to slap his hips against you.

“Can you squeeze them for me, please?”

Catching his expression in the mirror, you couldn’t even try to hide your amusement at the question. Spencer held you steadily enough to let your hands roam to your tits, cupping the soft flesh before pressing them together.

An actual cry came out of his mouth, absolutely lovestruck with you as he fastened his speed. 

“Mmhm,” he moans in a muffled tone, lips pressed against your hair, unapologetically taking whiffs of the sweet scent. 

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he praises as he picks up his speed, heavy balls slapping against you as his hot body is hovering over you. 

The heat of his skin warming yours and the weight of the words he speaks engulf the entirety of your body in tingling sparks. 

“So nice, Spence,” you softly whine as he presses into you deeper, leaving a mark inside that was only for him to feel.

“I know, baby. It’s so nice for me too,” he hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against your back.

The sensations were overwhelming, Spencer having his cock nuzzled inside of you, gratefully accepting him with every flutter of your cunt. 

“So pretty. So messy, baby,” Spencer whines as he covers your shoulder in wet kisses, matching the sounds of skin against skin. 

Through the reflection in front of you, you could see his face shining in what you first thought was sweat — but upon another look, realized were tears streaming down his face.

In concern, you commented on it. “Spencer, are you crying?”

“I— I’m sorry. You just feel so good, angel. I can’t help it.” He squeaked, not stopping the steady and deep rhythm that he had created. 

You laughed, but the sound turned into a loud moan when his hand ghosted over your stomach and found its way to your clit. 

“Can I make you come?”

“Yes!” You whine, teeth sinking into your lip. “Yes, please, Spencer.”

“Oh god, baby,” Spencer groans back. Hearing you be the one to beg him drove him crazy. He positioned you on his cock with his free hand, finding a new angle that made his eyes roll back in delight. 

Sweat dripped down his face to his jaw, mixing with yours. His chest heaved against your back while he pinned you down against the dresser. His lips were on your shoulder and neck, sucking marks without any precision or care, just need. And two of his fingers moved against your clit at a speed that continued to fasten. You felt him everywhere. 

A desperate sound filled the room. “I’m gonna come, baby, I can’t hold it anymore.” Spencer panted. “You feel so good. Jesus, so fucking good, angel.”

“Mmh,” you nod. “Want to feel you come inside of me, Spence. Fill me up.”

Your request was immediately answered. With a deep groan, followed by smaller moans and cries, he spilled into you. 

He doesn’t stop like he usually would because of the sensitivity but instead prolongs the moment as long as he can — most of all, because he needs you to come too.

“Almost there,” you gasp in a breath as his fingertips are pulling you under.

Just a moment later, you’re shaking. Hands patting the dresser and reaching out to grab his arms in an effort to ground yourself as he makes you come. 

You thought you saw it wrong when you looked at him in the mirror, seeing his mouth form the O-shape you knew all too well. But then his cock twitched inside of you, never having softened, and warm drops of his seed filled you again. 

“Oh, angel,” he cried, his arms moving up to wrap around your waist. 

“I know,” you reassure him. “You did so good, Spence. Made me feel so good.”

His hips shake and twitch until he’s given you his all.

He presses another kiss to the side of your forehead. “‘M sorry for today.”

Reaching your hand behind you, you cupped the other side of his face, forcing him to look at your reflection in front of him.

“It’s okay. You made it up to me,” you gently smiled.

“Should’ve just left work,” he sniffled, his grip around you lessening.

“Hey,” your tone takes him out of his thoughts, and you place your hand atop his to strengthen his hold on you. “She’ll still be in town. Why don’t we visit tomorrow morning? It’s on the way to Quantico, so worst case scenario, you drop me off and take the subway.”

A smile creeps onto his face, accepting your touch when you intertwine your fingers with his on your stomach. “That sounds good.”

[trampleddoves]

COUNTER SERVICE ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x gf!reader

summary: spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him.

genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, kitchen counter sex, teensy bit of praise kink/soft dom spencer, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader sweetheart/angel/good girl, established relationship, they drink a lil wine, lovey dovey spencer, unrealistic risotto recipe (def would’ve burned in real life but just pretend ok), no use of y/n

a/n: personally I was envisioning later seasons spencer as I wrote this but could also see early seasons spencer so imagine what you wish 🙂‍↕️

The moment you saw the glint in Spencer’s eye, you knew you were in trouble.

He appeared in the doorway holding a folded sheet of printer paper like it was a briefing file, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a kind of casual precision that made it very difficult to focus.

“I’ve made a decision,” he announced.

You looked up from the couch, where you’d been reading a book with a cup of tea balanced precariously on your thigh. “Should I be nervous?”

“Definitely,” he said. “We’re making lemon risotto for dinner.”

“We?” you echoed, setting the book aside. “Spencer, you know I’m a terrible cook. And risotto is an hour-long, elbow-grease, constant-stirring kind of situation.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “It’s the culinary equivalent of an FBI stakeout. I thought you’d enjoy the teamwork.”

You stared at him. “You planned a date night that involves fifteen minutes of zesting?”

He shrugged. “The recipe says the aromatics really come out if you’re patient.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned and extended a hand to pull you off the couch. “Come on. I already started getting out the ingredients.”

—

Twenty minutes later, you were in full prep mode: barefoot, stirring lazily while Spencer hummed Debussy and lined up lemons like surgical tools. He measured everything with the precision of a neurosurgeon while you chopped shallots by feel, refusing to follow any of the instructions he kept reading aloud.

“The recipe says to use only the outermost zest,” he said.

“It also says to stir clockwise, which is insane. I’m winging it.”

“Winging it? While making something as delicate as risotto?!” he asked, clearly a little horrified.

“You knew what you signed up for.”

He passed you a glass of white wine. “True.”

You argued over whether the wine should go into the pot or your mouths first. He poured a little into the rice; you poured more into your glass. And somewhere in the middle of Spencer’s incessant reading of the recipe instructions, you managed to flick a bit of zest in his direction. It landed on his lower cheek.

“You’ve been tagged,” you said.

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “That’s food-grade sabotage.”

He stepped closer as you reached up to brush it away. Your fingertips grazed the soft skin beneath his cheekbone, and for a moment, everything else faded.

His eyes caught yours.

“Think you missed it,” he said quietly.

The air shifted. Something unspoken and familiar threaded between you, slow and deliberate. The kitchen wasn’t quiet — the stove was still bubbling — but it felt like the world had narrowed to this: you, him, the warmth between your bodies and the lemon-scented air.

He moved first, turning the burner down to low heat. One step, then another, until your back hit the counter and his hands found your hips.

“This feels like a dangerous way to cook,” you murmured, breath hitching.

“Who said we’re still cooking?”

His mouth met yours before you could answer — slow at first, exploratory. Then hungrier.

You reached up, fingers threading through his hair as he deepened the kiss. The countertop pressed into your back, cool against your overheated skin, and Spencer’s body curved in close, bracketing you in with careful hands and a hunger that was anything but cautious.

He tasted like citrus and something warmer underneath, and his mouth moved like he was trying to memorize you. His hands slid beneath the hem of your top, reverent and warm, fingers spreading across your waist like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

“Can I…?” he murmured, already kissing along your jaw as he tugged at your shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “All of it.”

Clothes came off piece by piece. Your shirt first, then his, then the rest of your clothes. He stepped between your legs and lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands never leaving your body. Your thighs parted for him instinctively, knees hooking around his hips, and he settled there like he belonged.

“You’re so soft here,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers just beneath your breasts. “Every time I touch you, I forget how to think.”

“Lucky for you, I like the rare occasions when you forget things.”

He smiled and bent to mouth at your collarbone. “Dinner can wait.”

“Mhm. Until much later,” you breathed, tugging him even closer by the waistband of his pants. “Much, much later.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Spencer looked up at you like you were a miracle. Like he had all the time in the world. His hands curled beneath your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the counter, his thumbs brushing soft, dizzying circles into your skin. You were already wet, aching, trembling — and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“God, look at you,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

“Spence—”

“I know.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His mouth met you slow and steady, the first broad lick making you shudder. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, hypnotic patterns that made your spine arch and your hands fight for purchase in his hair. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. He devoured you like he was studying the effect of every single flick and swirl, listening for the change in your breathing, waiting for the exact sound you made when he—

“Oh—fuck, right there, don’t stop,” you whined.

He groaned into you, the vibration ricocheting through your whole body. One hand tightened on your hip while the other slipped lower — fingers teasing at your entrance, then easing inside, slick and perfect and deep.

“Spence,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it.”

That was all you needed to hear. You came hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath catching on his name like a prayer. He worked you through it and didn’t stop until you tugged at his hair, until you were too sensitive to bear it, until you gasped his name again.

When he stood, his face was flushed, mouth slick, eyes blown wide with want. You pulled him in and kissed him — messy, grateful, open-mouthed, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Need you,” you said against his lips. “Now.”

He helped you unbutton his pants, pulling them down just enough, and you reached for his cock the second you could. It was already hard and leaking, flushed red at the tip, thick in your palm.

“Jesus,” you whispered, stroking him once. “All this, just from going down on me?”

He moaned, twitching into your grip. “You have no idea.”

You stroked again, a little firmer, thumb circling the head. “I think I do.”

He cursed softly, pulling your hand away and nudging your thighs apart. “Need to be inside you.” He pressed himself forward teasingly against your entrance, dragging the tip of his cock through the mess he’d made of you.

“Let me see you,” he said. “Look at me.”

You did. Eyes locked, he slid into you in one long, slow thrust, filling you so deeply it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, clinging to his shoulders.

“Shit, you’re so tight—so warm.” His head dropped forward, forehead resting against yours. “You always take me so perfectly, angel.”

He stayed there for a beat — buried to the hilt, breathing hard, like he was trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. You curled your legs around his waist and rocked your hips, coaxing him into motion.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please. I need you to move.”

He did — Spencer always did exactly as you asked, especially when it came to this.

The first few thrusts were slow, exploratory. Deep. He rolled his hips like he wanted to find every new angle that could make you fall apart, and god, did he find them. He gripped your hips tighter, anchoring you to the edge of the counter, and started to fuck you in a rhythm that was steady and filthy and simultaneously so fucking tender it made your chest ache.

You felt every inch of him — every drag, every push — and you moaned into the open space between you as he pulled back almost entirely before sliding in again, harder this time.

“You feel so good like this,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His lips brushed yours between words — a soft kiss, then a firmer one, then a pause where you just breathed each other in. You could feel him everywhere. The stretch. The weight. The press of his body into yours, solid and overwhelming in the best way possible.

You slid a hand between you and traced your fingers across his chest, over the rapid beat of his heart. “You always fuck me like you love me.”

He stilled for a moment — just to get a good look at you — and then his mouth was on yours, kissing you like a promise, like that was the answer.

“I do,” he murmured into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

Then he thrust into you harder, deeper, making you cry out. His rhythm picked up — more urgent now, more desperate, hips snapping forward in a way that made you clutch at him, panting into his neck.

“Tell me what you need,” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint.

“You,” you gasped. “Just like this. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He groaned — a raw, helpless sound — and adjusted his angle, shifting his hips just enough to brush something deep inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh god—fuck. Spencer, I—”

“Right there?”

“Right there.”

His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, the pressure just right, the rhythm relentless. Pleasure climbed fast and hot, coiling tight in your belly, stealing your breath.

Spencer kissed you deeply then pulled back to watch the way your expression was twisting. “That’s it, angel. Good girl. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

Your climax crashed through you harder than the last, raw and overwhelming, your body tightening around him in waves you couldn’t stop. You were still coming when he groaned and fucked into you deeper, faster, chasing his own high through the pulse of yours.

“Fuck, you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

You were. Still trembling, still squeezing around him when his rhythm broke. You managed a nod in response.

“Come with me then,” he gasped, fucking you through it. “Please, sweetheart—oh, fuck.”

And you did.

Your orgasms crested over each other like lightning striking twice — sharp and hot and completely blinding. You held his face in your hands and kissed him as you both fell, his hips grinding into you, cock pulsing deep inside as he came with a groan that sounded like surrender.

And when it was over, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other, shaking and breathless, his chest heaving against yours.

—

Somewhere during the haze of afterglow, the pan on the stove let out a loud, angry hiss.

Spencer’s eyes flew open. “The risotto!”

You burst into laughter, still wrapped around him. “Oh no.”

He gently lowered you off the counter, half-dressed and glowing, and the two of you stumbled over each other trying to get to the stove. He grabbed a spoon and stirred furiously while you added a splash of broth, then another.

Miraculously, the rice hadn’t burned. Browned a little — okay, maybe a lot — but not beyond saving.

“I think we stirred just enough before we got distracted,” he said, a little breathless, still flushed from everything that just happened.

You leaned against the counter beside him, giggling. “Are you saying we successfully had kitchen counter sex without totally ruining dinner?”

He grinned, nodding. “We’re a statistical anomaly.”

Spencer helped clean you up before you both redressed in scattered pieces of clothing, keeping close watch on the pot and on each other. Spencer stayed barefoot in his dress pants, and you pulled on his button-down, which hung past your hips and still smelled like him.

He stirred the rice while you read aloud from the recipe, skipping half the steps and adding your own commentary.

“‘Let simmer on medium-low until the remaining liquid is absorbed,’” you said, voice exaggerated. “Or until one of us gets impatient and turns up the heat.”

“Do not mess with the starch development, woman.”

You laughed, stealing a spoonful when his back was turned.

—

When it was finally done, you both sat on the floor with the pan between you, backs against the cabinets, legs tangled, sharing bites straight from the wooden spoon. The risotto was shockingly good despite the way it had nearly burned — creamy and bright, with just the right amount of lemon.

“I hate that you were right about this,” you mumbled around a mouthful.

“Victory tastes like Meyer citrus,” he said smugly.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wiped a bit of risotto from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, then kissed the same spot. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re still here.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I’d cook with you again,” you said quietly. “Even if you do read recipe blogs like crime scene notes.”

“That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given me.”

He rested his cheek against your hair. Around you, the kitchen smelled like butter and lemons and wine and something warmer you couldn’t quite name. The dishes could wait. The future could wait.

Tonight, you had warmth, and starch and citrus, and even better — each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[trampleddoves]

⋆˚࿔ the whisperedmeg masterlist ࿔˚⋆

all work is spencer reid x some variation of fem!reader

SERIES

soft animal ⟢ series masterlist

⤷ spencer reid never expected to end up in prison. even more unexpected than that was finding her there. in the shadow of his darkest days incarcerated at millburn correctional facility, a nurse in the infirmary became his lifeline — a steady presence in a world unraveling around him. after his release, what began as survival turned into something deeper — a life built slowly, unevenly, through grief and grace and the kind of love that learns to stay. completed

greenaway!reader universe ✃ masterlist

⤷ you’re elle greenaway’s little sister — not that you ever let anyone say that like it defines you. sarcasm is your first language; emotional detachment is your second. empathy? well, that’s a language you speak fluently, but only when no one’s watching. somehow, spencer reid sees all the barbed wire you’ve got wrapped around yourself and still isn’t afraid to reach. he’s not what you expected. but maybe — just maybe — he’s exactly what you need. in progress

ONE SHOTS

꩜ = smut | ❀ = fluff | ⚡︎ = angst | ᢉ𐭩 = hurt/comfort

counter service | ꩜ ❀

⤷ spencer kissed you like a promise and fucked you like a prayer — right there on the kitchen counter, while dinner nearly burned behind him. 18+, MDNI

echo chamber | ꩜ ᢉ𐭩

⤷ spencer doesn’t talk after his last case. doesn’t sleep, either. just echoes, until he finds his way back to you — the only place it ever goes quiet. 18+, MDNI

elephant bones | ⚡︎

⤷ he loved someone once. and the bones of that love still live here — in the way he holds you, in the things he never says. this is what happens when you try to love someone haunted by the elephant in the room.

aftershock | ꩜ ᢉ𐭩

⤷ you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — your best friend, sitting outside the shower whispering sea otter facts; touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. 18+, MDNI.

library rules | ❀

⤷ you went to the library to escape the solitude of your apartment. but the last thing you were expecting was to spend the afternoon flirting over Foucault with a sweater vest-clad FBI agent who talks philosophy like it’s a love language.

adjoining rooms | ⚡︎ ꩜

⤷ you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t. 18+, MDNI

nailed it | ꩜ ❀

⤷ spencer’s been away too long, your nails are too long, and you’re getting a little desperate. good thing he’s always happy to lend a helping hand. 18+, MDNI

the law of truly large numbers | ❀

⤷ the law of truly large numbers says coincidences are inevitable. but somehow, running into spencer reid never stops feeling like fate.

some protector | ⚡︎

⤷ it’s been 313 days. spencer still remembers the last thing you said to him. you still mean it. he’s been holding on from a distance ever since. 18+, MDNI

breakfast in bed | ꩜ ❀

⤷ you’re sore. spencer is smug. apparently, breakfast is best served between your thighs. 18+, MDNI.

the crossword pact | ❀

⤷ sunday mornings are for pastries, jazz, and crossword puzzles — a ritual you and spencer never break. but one morning, the clues feel a little too familiar… coming soon

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[trampleddoves]

my dash is bombarded with Clark Kent, how cute.

[trampleddoves]

hi dove i love you are you ok you have been inactive so i wanted to check in love youuuu ok bye

I'm all right! Life just hit rather hard recently. Your concern is appreciated (and it's very sweet). I hope you're doing well too, anon.

[trampleddoves]

hope you’re doing okay!!

You're so kind. I am; life has just been hectic, but we should be back to the weekly schedule this Friday.

[trampleddoves]

— Nikita Gill

[trampleddoves]

look im not saying that reid would definitely love getting messy during sex and definitely have a thing for blood and id love to read all about your ideas of reid and the reader getting bloody but im also not not saying that

s.r. blurb 14

contents: afab!reader, enemies with benefits, rough post prison Spencer, equally rough reader, DDDNE: blood kink, MDNI

Neither of you know how your relationship went from I can’t stand to be in the same space as this person to I still can’t stand to be in the same space with this person, unless we’re locked together like lovers.

Make no mistake—you’re not lovers. 

To even insinuate this even feels like an insult to people who celebrate love and tenderness through acts of intimacy. Your trysts with Spencer Reid is passion incarnate. A wildfire fueled by mutual hatred—of his unwavering brilliance he likes to rub in your face, of your smug obstinacy, of this indescribable, undeniable attraction that draws you together and resists control, or logic, or even simple professionalism.

Because you seem to find each other at the most inappropriate times—the jet while everyone’s asleep after a case, a nearly abandoned storage room in the basement on slow days at the office, a public bathroom in a police station—and somehow give in. It’s temporal relief, fleeting and secret, a chance to forget the brutal reality of your job, and simply exist and relish in pleasure. 

His thrusts are always quick, deep, taking you in whatever way he can. Bent over a desk with your pants tugged to your knees, or against the wall, skirt bunched up around your hips, panties pulled to one side to allow him easy access to your warm cunt. Even the way you kiss him is rough. Sloppy and ungraceful, teeth biting down and drawing blood—the first occurrence had been an accident. 

Frustrated at all the bureaucratic red tape you can’t get past to move forward with the case, you’d bitten his shoulder in an attempt to take out your anger. And, admittedly, to keep yourself from screaming as he fucked you hard and fast on the bathroom sink. The taste of iron flooded your mouth, and even though you’ve sworn not to do it, you immediately apologized. 

“Sorry, shit, you’re bleeding.”

His cock twitched inside you, before he slammed his hips harder in response. “What do you think you’re doing? D’you know how hard that’ll be to hide?” He punctuated every word with a rough thrust.

Despite his words, the next time you find each other in a shadowy hallway, he finds himself whispering the request into your hair, almost shyly, “Bite me again.”

You could hear his unspoken plea: make me bleed.

You have theories as to why he finds this arousing. Some form of self-flagellation for succumbing to the heat of your body without fail, maybe something deeper, something more related to desensitization brought by the job and the bloody sights you have to deal with day by day. 

You have theories why you comply as well—hurting him gives you power, and the sight of his blood is a tangible reminder of you and your lips. He’s yours in these moments, and even though he’s the one controlling the pace, the rhythm, you have ways of getting him to whimper and shudder. Ways to make him bleed. Sometimes you’ll do it to his lower lip, sucking it harshly into your mouth before biting until the taste of blood fills your mouth and he’s fucking you harder in retaliation, cock twitching from the sting of your teeth. You’ll watch as the soft, salmon pink becomes streaked with crimson, dripping down his chin, grinning at the thought of him having to explain to the team why his lip has randomly split and bled. 

Perhaps you should worry that the sight of him with your marks and bloodied lips is the thing that pushes you to the brink, coming so hard around his cock you lose your breath. Perhaps he should worry about how much he enjoys the pain you inflict upon him.

It’s not something you linger on; you aren’t eager to profile and psychoanalyze this twisted dance. That’s not part of this. Maybe if you were lovers, you’d talk it through. Communicate. Learn what else makes the other tick.

But you’re not.

[trampleddoves]

Would you be willing to write a consensual somnophilia blurb with Spencer receiving? Maybe Reader taking advantage of his morning wood? 🫣

Loved the last one you wrote!

s.r. blurb 13

contents: gn!reader, consensual somnophilia (Spencer’s version), male receiving oral, MDNI

You think it’s a little unfair that your boyfriend, on top of being a genius, a decorated academic, and a successful FBI agent, also happens to be one of the prettiest human beings to ever grace the face of the earth.

You think it’s a little crazy that he’s yours. Unsure of what you did in your past life and this one to deserve him, all you know is you’re crazy about him and he’s crazy about you. 

Case in point, right now. Tucked to his chest even in his sleep, you stir in his arms as the room gets a little too warm. Courtesy of his arms and the thick blanket draped over you. So you shift, gently untangle your legs from his spindly ones, and feel the unmistakable press of his bulge against your ass. Two am and he has an erection, all for you.

You turn, gazing at his face, shadowy angles and stressed lines all erased in this relaxed state. Your fingers trail over his jaw carefully, phantom touches he mistakes for a dream, nose twitching in surprise. He presses closer to you as a soft, nearly imperceptible whimper leaves his pretty lips.

So very needy, even in his sleep. 

He’s crazy about you, you’re sure of it.

Fortunately, you’re just as crazy for him. Enough to agree to this—having complete access to his body—because, really, on what earth would you say no to that? 

So when your stressed out, genius boyfriend is having erections in the middle of the night, you help him out. Palm him through his pajamas, fingers intently working him until you feel his breath hitch against your neck. 

At that, you wiggle out of his grasp, slowly, afraid to wake him. He needs his rest, after all, although seeing his pretty eyes while you take care of his needs is always an extra treat. But not tonight. So, with great regret, you leave his embrace and roll him so he’s on his back. Curls tousled over his forehead, the planes of his face striking, looking, for all your uninformed mind, like a statue carved by a sculptor he’d told you about some time ago. You’re too sleepy, too horny to recall who.

It doesn’t matter. Right now, what’s important is the red cock that’s begging for your attention when you roll down his pajamas. Taking it gently in your hand, you swipe your thumb over the leaking tip, circling it over and over as you watch his hands subconsciously clenching at the sheets. 

Still watching him, you lick a slow stripe up the underside of his shaft, before wrapping your lips over the head. When you begin sucking, Spencer’s eyes flutter open, dreamy and unfocused.

“A-angel?”

You hum around his length as an answer, sending vibrations that lick at his limbs with pleasure. He groans, fighting the pull of sleep to continue watching the way your lips wrap around his length and your eyes glinting in the dimness of your shared bedroom. 

It’ll be seared in his memory, you’ll be seared in his memory, this contradiction. 

His angel with the most sinful mouth, taking his cock all the way down your tight throat. It’s easy to make him come undone in this half asleep state, where everything is at once fuzzy and heightened, dreams and reality blurring to a single point—the warmth of your mouth around him. 

In the morning, he’s unsure if last night had been a simple conjuration of his mind, but then you’ll kiss him good morning, whisper, “My pretty baby.” into his lips, and he swears there’s a lingering taste of his spend on your tongue.

[trampleddoves]

Hello hello!

Can I please request Spencer and reader just having a hot and heavy make out session?

s.r. blurb 12

contents: gn!reader and you have impeccable lip care, references to addiction, making out, MDNI

He’s not quite sure how you manage to taste so sweet.

Always, without failure, he could come to you and frame his cold, trembling hands around your beautiful face to pull you in for a kiss, and every time, it meant getting another dose of your delightfully honeyed lips. What makes him marvel even more is the fact that it never seems to leave, despite how long he’s been kissing you. Kiss swollen and slick with his own saliva, the hint of sweetness somehow still lingers upon your lips, as though your very essence is suffused with it. 

It’s dizzying. Addictive. And Spencer Reid knows a thing or two about addiction—the insatiable need, the thrilling highs, the slow descent and inevitable creep of self hatred and guilt. But your lips. They carry a similar temptation, one that threatens to consume every waking moment of his day, and elicits the very same responses in his brain. Euphoria. Desire. All consuming need. But kissing you is all the more sweeter because when he succumbs to his baser instincts, it's only followed by joy and love. A gooey warmth that makes him feel good long past the high. 

He likes taking your bottom lip between his own lips, teeth descending over the plump flesh, softly at first, before boring down until he hears you moan and feels your body squirming in his grasp, supple and lovely and all his. He sucks on your bottom lip then, groaning as the sugary sweetness meets his tongue. Discussions about sugar as an addictive substance have long been circulating in health and academic circles, and he’d never truly had an opinion on the matter. 

But now, with every glide of your lips against his, the insistent movement of your tongue in his own mouth, and the unmistakable sweetness flood his brain, every single limb of his body, leaving him light headed and happy. Dopamine being released in overloads as you moan softly into the kiss and your nails scrape against his scalp. Now, he’s a little more convinced that, yes, maybe sugar is addictive.

Or maybe it’s just you. You and your sweet mouth, and his addiction is on you. 

Either way, he’s not complaining.

[trampleddoves]

hope you feel better soon!

Thank you darling, I am! A few blurbs should be posted this Friday night/Saturday morning.

[trampleddoves]

I'm still here, just been a bit sick this week and regrettably didn't have that much time to write. I shall post a new batch of blurbs again next weekend.

[trampleddoves]

𝗖𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗦𝗲𝗲 𝗜 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗔𝘁 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁?- 𝗦.𝗥. [𝗽𝘁. 𝟭]

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer x Bombshell!Reader

WC- 5k and this is only pt 1 belle shut up challenge

Summary- The BAU receives an invitation to the annual FBI gala. Spencer can't seem to handle the amount of attention you get.

Contains- icky men flirting a lot with reader, avoidant attachment!Spencer, spencer low-key gets in a cockfight with another guy at the event, fight, angsty, fluff in pt 2, reader's dress is inspired by sabrina's grammy dress, only kind of proof read, ending heavily inspired by ness in the new girl ep where cece almost marries shivrang

A/N- first time doing a multi-parter Spence fic in so long!!! I hope everyone likes!! I once again cannot find where I got this divider from I'm so sorry everyone

Part Two

Your fingers delicately grasp your pink perfume bottle, the floral scent falling over you like fresh rainfall. The scent ends up mixing with all the others taking space in Emily's expansive apartment. Your coworkers whiz past you in all directions, J.J., Tara, Penelope, and Emily scattering to get ready. Emily's kitchen island and master bathroom are now transformed into a provisional beauty parlor, endless arrays of lipsticks, eyeliners, and mascaras littering every inch of counter space.

The infectious beat of ABBA's Dancing Queen floats through the room, seeping its way into your veins. You can't not dance along as you aimlessly finagle your gold hoop into your earlobe. Penelope catches you, moving swiftly into your stride as she dances alongside you. Her own wine glass is perched in her right hand as her left offers you a fresh one. You gladly accept, toasting Penelope's glass before taking a sip.

The acidity tickles your throat, the alcohol oozing into your bloodstream in record time. You make your way to the kitchen island in search of your favorite lip gloss, settling on a stool. You study the rest of the group in your moment of solitude. They're all still frantically puzzling each piece of their intricate looks into place. You've already accomplished your hair, makeup, and now accessories- a routine that's as easy for you as the ABC's. So, you're left alone to revel in the chaos that is the BAU's first annual FBI charity gala.

You're not alone for long, of course, as Emily and Penelope quickly find you, taking their own breaks in your makeshift reprieve. You can tell exactly what's on their minds by the sinister smiles stretching their lips.

"Sooo..." Penelope drags out, taking another generous sip of wine. "How are things going with The Good Doctor?" Emily can't help but nod, enthusiastically supporting Garcia's question.

They're the only ones who know you've been seeing Spencer. Well, if you'd consider three dates and an absolutely incredible kiss seeing each other. You hope he does, though he's still a bit standoffish. You've been telling yourself that he's just readjusting to life outside of prison, but you can't help the small, petrified feeling resting in the pit of your stomach.

"Good, I think..." you snap out of your daze, cheeks heating to an uncomfortable temperature. Your eyes dart anywhere but the women in front of you, and you know it's a dead giveaway, but you can't seem to care.

They squeal, and you self consciously hush them, cheeks now ablaze. Your eyes dart to the other two ladies on the other side of the room, seemingly unphased by the shrill giggles emanating from the kitchen.

They only screech higher, louder, when you smile like an idiot. You can't help it when it comes to Spencer. Your forefinger and thumb find your temples as you hide your face with your hand.

"Oh, you like him!" Emily scoffs, lightly shoving your arm. Penelope nods emphatically, gulping down the rest of her drink.

"It's still so new, I'm not quite sure what I feel yet." It's not totally a lie. You're completely head over heels. You're just not sure he feels the same.

Emily's brow raises, immediately clocking the way your face falls. "But...?" She questions, and you roll your eyes at her all-knowing gaze.

"I'mjustnotsurehowhefeelsaboutme."

It jumbles together on its way out of your mouth, clouded by a deep sigh.

"What?!" Both women exclaim at the same time. Your stomach sinks, and you bury your face in both hands with a dramatic groan.

"He's just so...closed off. Like, when I try to get to know him more, he shuts down. It's like he wants to open up, but all of a sudden can't at the last minute. I just don't know if things are moving too quickly since his release," you confess, biting your lip. You're shocked by how much lighter you feel getting it off your chest.

You were hired on the team while he was behind bars. You served as an extra set of analytical eyes as the team worked night and day to free him, along with any other cases that came across Emily's desk. You remember the moment you first saw him, could never forget it, really.

He was dysregulated, almost unengaged from the world around him as he walked into the BAU for the first time post-prison. You remember the peculiar, distrusting look in his big, gorgeous eyes. The fear in them, the hurt. It took him a few weeks to warm up to you, a new member of the team disjointing the routine he knew prior.

Once he did, though, one of many doors opened in The Mystical World of Spencer Reid. You'd gotten to know each other slow but sure, Chinese takeout in the break room, hunching over case files until early morning. Each time, you fell harder for Spencer Reid.

It's a delicate situation, not only his emotional state, but yours as well. You like him, more than you've ever liked anyone. You will not let yourself throw it all away by being too bold, too brass. Though you know he'd never say that, you'd been told that too many times by too many men. It lives within you like a bad habit.

"Oh!" Penelope lilts. "Well...maybe you can put some feelers out tonight, y'know? See if he wants anything more than just casual dates?" Her brows raise inquisitively, and you sigh.

"I don't know, I'm not sure if tonight is the most appropriate night for that..." you trail off, but you know it's a crock of shit. The proof is hanging on the door directly parallel to you.

As if on cue, Emily furrows her brow, her classic 'yeah right' face penetrating through each one of your walls. "Uh-huh..." she trails, her tongue tapping the roof of her mouth. "So that gold, sparkly number is, what, for fun?" Her gaze is pointed, cocking her head towards the long golden dress that hangs from her closet door.

Your spine straightens, eyes flitting to the fridge behind the interrogating women. Yet, there's that smile again. It's impossible to keep it at bay when it comes to Spencer.

"Is a lady not allowed to look like a smoke show at a work event?" you're sly, slinking off the bar stool with your glass perched in your fingers. You reach for the dress, sauntering into the bathroom, fully aware of the show you're putting on for your friends.

It took a total of four women to help you get into the dress that now adorns your figure. Glittery gold fabric cinches and flows around your waist and hips, a tight corseted bust accentuating your chest.

You're no stranger to having all eyes on you, and tonight is no different as you enter the dimly lit ballroom. Round tables with black cloths take up most of the space, with a dance floor at the front. Men from other units scan your frame as you walk through the space towards your team. You ignore them, the only eyes you care about are the brown ones you found the second you entered the room.

Spencer stands slightly off to the side, his free hand shoved into his pocket as he watches you greet the rest of the team. You feel his eyes on you the entire time, the heat of his gaze searing right through you. When you finally turn to him, those godforsaken doe eyes light up. It's like your eyes make him feel whole again. A soft smile spreads across your lips as you finally greet him. You take him in, a black suit fitting him snugly. You can't help but swoon. It's not often you get to see him in such formal regalia, and you're going to soak up every second you can,

He opens his arms to you, pulling you in for a sweet hug. His hand splays across the expanse of your back, his fingers lightly grazing your exposed skin.

"Hi," he whispers in your ear, his lips barely grazing the skin there. You shiver at the slight contact.

"Hi," you respond, tightening your grip around his broad shoulders.

The hug lingers just a bit longer than what is deemed professional, but you can't seem to care. His cologne is intoxicating, infiltrating your brain at a rapid speed. You stay in his arms even when you pull out of the hug, resting in the crook of his elbow.

His large hands find your waist, splaying over the fabric covering it. His fingers dig in ever so slightly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles where it rests. You settle into his even further, ignoring the knowing glances and smirks Penelope and Emily wear.

"It's good to see you," he mutters, lips now pressed to your temple. "You look phenomenal," he punctuates with the softest kiss to your hairline.

"Thank you," you turn in his arms, hands fastening on his bow tie. "You don't look so bad yourself."

You shoot him a siren's gaze, hooded eyes peering up through thick lashes. He avoids eye contact almost immediately, a telltale sign you've already gotten under his skin. It's only 7:15. A glimmer of satisfaction beams in your stomach. You're only getting started.

"May I say, you ladies look phenomenal," Luke lifts his glass in salute that makes you playfully roll your eyes. "Where did you get this?" He turns to you, referring to the gold dress that has already drawn the eyes of half the people in the crowded room.

You flip your hair over your shoulder, confidence on full display. "Just something I had lying around in my closet, y'know?" You respond playfully, receiving a mix of chuckles from your team.

"Well, you look incredible," he says, and it's not creepy or forward, just kind. It doesn't stop Penelope, though.

"Stop trying to get us to fall in love with you, Alvez, and get me a drink," she quips, turning him by the shoulders towards the bar.

You chuckle at the scene, but a peculiar feeling strikes your chest when you feel Spencer tense behind you. His hand freezes where it rests, his spine straightening. His hand now hovers over your back now, and the break in contact makes you ache.

"Do you want to go with them? I can come with you to get a drink?" he clears his throat as he speaks, another giveaway. This time, of discomfort, uncertain. You haven't been seeing each other for long, but you've made it a habit to memorize him a long time ago,. His ticks, quirks, the cadence of his voice. They all tell you something new about the elusive man before you.

"Yeah!" You say, your mood perking up ever so slightly. "That's a great idea."

You link your arm through his as you make your way to the bar, a clear sign to anyone- any man- whose eyes tend to linger.

You lean your elbows on the bar as you wait for the bartender, eyes scanning over the menu on the screen above.  Spencer’s beside you, facing away from the bar, though his body turns into you all the same. You’re contemplating whether or not you’re in the mood for a dirty martini or a cosmopolitan, when another black suit saddles up on the other side of you. You can tell, just from the acrid stench of his cologne, that it’s nobody that could possibly interest you. 

“What’re you drinking tonight, gorgeous?” the man next to you crooned, and you can barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“Nothing you need to know about, thanks,” you’re polite, but firm all the same. This isn’t your first rodeo. 

“Playing hard to get, I see,” the man chuckles as he waves two fingers at the bartender, almost like he’s calling a dog. It makes your stomach turn. 

You feel Spencer tense beside you, much like he did when Luke complimented you. You rest a delicate hand on top of his. The thought of this absolute fool making Spencer upset shakes you more than anything. 

“Yeah, definitely,” you respond, a sugary sweet cadence lacing your tone, “because when women show you clearly that they’re not interested, as they’re standing with someone else, that obviously means they’re playing hard to get. You nailed it! It’s no wonder you made it to the FBI!” Sarcasm pokes through as the bartender finally comes over to you. You hear a small chuckle from Spencer behind you, and you stand five feet taller

“I’ll take a cosmopolitan. He’ll take nothing,” you smile as if you’re Medusa, and could turn him to stone with just one look. “There’s plenty of girls here tonight. Try it on them.” You pat his bicep in a placating manner, and he walks off before you can shame him even more. You hear him scoff, muttering a low ‘bitch’ under his breath. You roll your eyes, placing a soothing hand on Spencer’s forearm as he stands taller, away from the bar.

You can tell by the wild look in his eye that he's not happy. His lips are pressed in a straight line. He creates another inch of space between you two. Your heart cracks ever so slightly.

"I'm okay, just let him go," you croon, a desperate attempt to calm him.

His muscles relax only slightly. He rests against the bar once more, tension now thick in the air.

 You give a polite smile to the bartender, now offering your drink. You accept gleefully, your glossy lips wrapping around the edge of the glass and taking the first sip. The acidic, fruity flavor coats your tongue, tickling your throat on the way down. 

You turn, mirroring Spencer as you now lean back on the bar. You rest your head against his shoulder, a bold move given his rigidity. Each of you taking frequent sips from your respective drinks as you silently people watch. You both know you should be networking, but you can’t seem to care that much. Not when he’s in such a fantastic suit. Soft jazz music floats through the dimly lit hall, mixing with clinking glasses and rich laughter. 

“Do you want to dance with me, Spencer?” You ask, and he looks at you, almost surprised. 

“Yeah,” he answers, a sly smile painting his lips, “yeah, that sounds nice.” 

He leads you to the floor, and your hand finds his shoulder, your free one lacing with his. He sways you to the soft, lucrative beat, and you settle into a familiar rhythm, like you’ve done this a hundred times. Really, though, it’s the first time you’ve held each other like this, so intimate in a room full of people.  

“You really do look incredible,” Spencer mutters, before spinning you out and pulling you back in. You smile up at him and he chuckles, his eyes flitting to the floor, the disco ball, anywhere but you. It kills you now, when he’s so close. You can see the small freckles painting his nose, the various scars he’s collected from over a decade on the job. From prison. You see all of him, even in the low light of the ballroom. But he can’t see you. He’s choosing not to, and you don’t know why. 

Your heart drops at his avoidance, sinking slowly into your stomach like a rock in the ocean. You have an idea of what might be going on, considering the context of both times he’s tensed up on you. You’re desperate for it to be untrue, though, so you continue to sway with him, squeezing lightly on his bicep to redirect his eyes back to you. 

It works, his honey brown irises piercing straight into yours. His gaze is different now, though. Intense and fervent, almost possessive. It makes the hairs on your arms stand, a shiver unzipping your spine. He feels it, you can tell by the way his eyes immediately soften, the comfort of his hand splayed against your back. His fingers rub soothing patterns along the bare skin left by the scooped back of your dress. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his regard for you gentle now, as if he could read what’s been on your mind in the past two minutes. “You look so beautiful. C’mere.” His voice is nearly strained as he pulls you even closer to him, now chest to chest. 

Your chin rests on his shoulder, your temple meeting his jaw as you continue to sway to the music. He leaves the most delicate kiss to your temple, and you close your eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. Your heart beats impeccably fast, and you know he can feel it against him. He spares you some dignity in not mentioning it. You bury your face ever so slightly in the crook of his neck, a pathetic attempt to ingest more of the woodsy cologne he put on for tonight. You can just feel the smirk on his lips, though the soft chuckle shaking his chest gives him away regardless. 

The intensity of the moment is broken by the end of the song, a brief moment of silence cutting through. It’s probably a good thing. The things you want to do to him in this suit are…unprofessional to say the least. He pulls back, holding you at arm’s length so he can look at you again. Your face heats under his pointed gaze, like he’s inspecting every part of you, committing it to memory. Not that it’s hard for him to do, anyway. 

The band shuffles off the stage as a stuffy looking man in a tailored black suit takes their place. You recognize him, just briefly though, from similar events to this. The head of the bureau itself, someone so high up the ladder you couldn’t reach him in six inch heels. You don’t move from Spencer’s arms as the man begins to speak, oblivious to the other people staggering off the dance floor. 

“Good evening, everyone,” he begins. “My name is Benedict Carter. Thank you all for joining us tonight in the name of Care For All. This is an organization that speaks deeply to me, and I hope it reaches all of you as well,” his voice is low, sharp, and succinct. It cuts through the room like glass, and you can’t help but let out the smallest scoff at his clearly scripted words. 

You regret it almost instantly, though, and not for the fact that this man is a mere five feet away. No, you regret that it calls attention to your position with Spencer, attention he skirts away from almost immediately. He nearly jumps from you, as if you’re repelling magnets. You can’t really blame him too much for it. You’re the only people left on the dance floor. Still, it doesn’t ease the dull ache in your chest from the sudden release of contact. He does gently take your hand as he leads you back to the table, where you’re greeted by the knowing eyes of your team. 

You lock eyes with Emily and Penelope, once again regretting your choices immediately. They’re staring daggers at you, playful ones, but daggers all the same. Daggers that say ‘oh my God, tell us everything ASAP’. You shyly tuck your hair behind your ears as you get comfortable in your seat. 

“Dinner tonight is provided by La Città. Please give them a round of applause for their gratitude,” Mr. Carter continues, and a scattered applause responds to him. 

His voice drags you from your addled mind, so induced in the mere idea of Spencer that you hadn’t realized he was still speaking. You flinch ever so slightly, the dose of reality splashing you like cold water. Cream colored plates fill the table, the steaming smell of various entrees filling the air, beef, chicken, fish. 

The clinking of silverware fills the room shortly after, and it’s not long before plates are empty, with multiple glasses of wine consumed. You’re the perfect amount of tipsy, now waiting at the bar in hopes of prolonging that feeling. Your face heats when you feel a large hand on your back, a familiar warmth enveloping you from behind. 

“I think you owe me at least one more dance,” Spencer whispers, his lips pressed against your temple.

It’s flirty, makes your brows raise. You squeeze his hand before nodding. “Let me get a drink first?” You’re not asking permission, more so making him aware of your plans. He nods, of course he does, moving to wait for you at the team’s table. You fiddle with your hands as you wander towards the bar, wringing them together in anticipation. 

Nerves bubble in your gut like a witch’s brew, popping and simmering until your insides are singed. The mere thought of Spencer, waiting there, to dance with you, it makes your heart skip a beat. You rest your chin in your palm, gold nails tapping lightly on the bar as you order another glass of the delicious wine you consumed at dinner. 

You wait for a moment, caught off guard when you feel another figure in your close proximity. It’s foreign, that much you know. Definitely not Spencer. You sneak the smallest peek through your peripheral to find a man with blonde shaggy hair. His suit is tailored to perfection, you can tell that much even from the limited view you have. He’s way too close for your liking, so you inch away ever so slightly, desperate for him to get the hint. 

He just slides closer. Whether he didn’t pick up on the boundary or he just didn’t care, you’re not sure. You straighten your spine all the same, undeterred by the strange presence. You know how to handle yourself. 

“What’re you drinking tonight?” he asks, a pathetic attempt to appear nonchalant as he trains his gaze on the bar menu. 

You roll your eyes. Of course he doesn’t have the audacity to look you in the eye. 

“Is that the only line men have?” you scoff, rolling your eyes before moving away from the bar completely. 

You're completely shell shocked when this man’s arm wraps around your waist, spinning you back to face him. You waste no time ducking out of his arms, appalled at the sheer gall of this man. 

“Leave me alone.” You’re firm, not an ounce of playfulness in your tone or gaze. You leave no wiggle room for interpretation. He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s potent, musky in a way that has you turning away from him on instinct. 

“Look, I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch-”

He doesn’t get much further than that before you’re shoving him off completely. If he wants to get physical, you can too. 

“Back up,”calls  a voice from behind you, one you know immediately to be Spencer’s. He wedges his way between the two of you, your brows knitting in confusion at the scene unfolding in front of you. “Back up before I have my entire team here with me. I’d rather not ruin this entire night, though. So, if we’re in agreement, you’re going to turn around, leave, and not bother her for the rest of the night.” 

Your stomach sinks at the sheer brutishness on display before you, eyes going wide at a side of Spencer you’d never seen before. Your insides twist when a sickly smile forms on the blonde man’s face. 

“Aren’t you the one who just got out of jail? Spencer Reid, right? The ‘genius’?” Air quotes surround that last word, and your heart sinks even further, your temples resting between your forefinger and thumb. “I’ve heard some things, so I guess I’ll try my luck elsewhere.”

He finally saunters off, not before shooting you a long, slimy glance before fully turning away. Spencer doesn’t even look at you before he gears toward the exit. You’re hot on his heels, thankful the spat didn’t draw too many eyes. The ones from your team follow you out, staring in shock at the altercation. Your face burns as you catch up to him in the ballroom lobby, a cool draft coming in from outside. 

You shiver, whether from the breeze or from the sheer anger radiating through your veins, you’re not sure. 

“Spencer!” You exclaim, turning him to face you. “What was that? Are you a caveman?” Your voice is hushed, though your tone is sharp as a blade. “I can handle myself!”

Your blood is boiling, your nostrils flared as you breathe heavily through them. Your chest heaves up and down, and you have half a mind to slap him right across the face when his eyes flit down to your cleavage. 

“You clearly couldn’t. He was huge, and continuously overstepped your boundaries,” he spit, his voice a harsh whisper, fire in his eyes. 

“Do you think that’s the first man who’s ever flirted with me?” you throw a hand out in frustration, your other hand resting on your popped hip. 

He flinches at that, and you roll your eyes. 

“Spencer, you’ve been shoving me back and forth all night. You dance with me, then you avoid me. You take me out on dates, yet you can’t seem to ever open up to me. And now this,” your lip wobbles ever so slightly, your teeth sinking in so hard you’re afraid you’ll draw blood. 

Spencer runs a hand down his face, an exasperated look dancing across it. He shakes his head, and the bitter look in his eye makes your stomach sink. 

“I just-” he starts, “Admit that part of you thinks this is a mistake. You and me.”

The statement tilts your world on its axis. Your vision goes fuzzy for a moment, and your eyes drop to the floor. Bile creeps up in the back of your throat. The fear that you’ve so desperately tried to repress springing to the surface, exploding like a pipe bomb. 

“Yes,” you murmur, “part of me does.”

His face falls even more, the confirmation of your fears the final nail in the coffin. A single tear rolls down your cheek. You’re unable to stop it. You swipe it away with a manicured finger, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Then, let’s call it,” his voice is high, almost like he doesn’t mean it. You can’t get your hopes up when it comes to Spencer, though. You’re learning that the hard way. “Y’know, we had a few nights. Maybe that’s all it should be.”

“Great, that feels great. Do you feel great about that?” your voice is shaky, almost sarcastic. He nods, and it’s firm, matter of fact. 

“Great,” you whisper, turning to make your way back to the ballroom. You brush a tear from your cheek as you walk away.

That sickly feeling boils in the pit of your gut. You surrender to the funny, familiar chord you’ve been fighting all night. You know it all too well from boyfriends past. He is jealous. Jealous of the attention you’re getting, of the stares, the whispers, and just like everyone else before, he's punishing you.

[trampleddoves]

𝗖𝗮𝗻'𝘁 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗦𝗲𝗲 𝗜 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗔𝘁 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁?- 𝗦.𝗥. [𝗽𝘁.𝟮]

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer x Bombshell!Reader

WC- 5.6k somebody sedate me

Summary- The BAU receives an invitation to the annual FBI gala. Spencer can't seem to handle the amount of attention you get.

Contains- the fallout from part 1, brief Spencer POV, reader gets sad and tipsy, a little proofread but not fully, Spencer is hot and insecure, Penelope is the best always

A/N- part one here! Thank you to everyone who is enjoying this <3

Spencer's eyes never leave the sparkle and shine of that godforsaken gold dress. The dress that'll give him an aneurysm eventually, a fate he's already accepted. He can't help but take in her beauty, but the longer he looks at her, the stronger the guilt creeping up his spine. He rubs the back of his neck with his palm, his heart constricting even tighter at the sight of her. She's all the way across the room, resting against the bar while he resides in the corner. Her back arches as she adjusts her weight to the other foot. It's just as she had done earlier in the night with him right next to her. This time, she's solo. It won't be for long.

He knows that's not fair, but he can't help it. The way nearly every man has sized her up like a piece of prime beef is enough to make him sick and self conscious all at once. He glances briefly at his stomach, poking out slightly from his suit jacket. He's still not used to the way his body changed in prison. It's a despicable combination wrapped up neatly in a bowtie. He studies her, the way her brows furrow, the small downward tilt of her lips as she waits for her drink. There's that guilt again. He wants to kiss off the pout. Knowing he's the cause of it, though, he stays put.

It takes nearly everything in him to stay that way, especially when yet another Ken doll in a professionally tailored suit finds his way to her. Heat burrows deep in his belly as he watches her swing her hair over one shoulder, plastering her best smile. He's the only one who should be on the receiving end of such a flirtatious smile. But, once again, he's the one who put himself in this situation- ruminating alone in the corner. He knows he can't complain, though seeing the man fiddle with her dress strap renders that point moot. Fire burns within him anyway.

He's white knuckling his glass so tightly, he's surprised it hasn't shattered. His free hand is curled into a ball at his side, his fingernails leaving crescent moons in his palm. He leans his head back, hitting, the floral wallpaper behind him, sinking into self pity like quicksand. His eyes aim toward the ceiling, studying the intricate pattern adorning it. All night, he hadn't realized there was an entire mural up there. Probably because he had his own work of art, up until 20 minutes and 17 seconds ago.

He smells Rossi before he sees him, his expensive, smokey cologne announcing his presence. Spencer tilts his head down, meeting Rossi's eyes. His brow is quirked, a knowing look lacing his gaze. It's pitying, a stare that indicates just how badly he's fucked up tonight.

"I'm not going to tell you anything you don't already know," he begins, and it takes everything within Spencer not to roll his eyes. He knows it's petulant, sue him. "What I will say, is if you are not going to make things right with a sweet, intelligent, beautiful woman that looks at you as if you've hung the moon and stars..." he trails off, shaking his head and chuckling in disbelief. "Then you're not that much of a genius, after all." He claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder before walking off, as if he'd never been there at all.

Spencer's standing straight now, his own brows nearly at his hairline. His face is white, as if he'd just seen a ghost. He hadn't realized how much of the team had picked up on his relationship with her. Now, as he watches Rossi walk back to the team's table, he realizes all of them know. He's right, Spencer isn't that much of a genius.

You're approached by a man at the bar. Again. Each time is like a crack to your chest. You smile anyway. If nothing else, out of pure politeness. You know none of these men deserve it, though it turns out the one man you thought did, doesn't either. Who are you to judge who's worthy of your time?

You face the newest man who's decided to take on the challenge of flirting with you. He's not bad, when you look at him. He's tall and lean, muscular, but not too buff. You almost forget about Spencer. Almost. You turn to face him, leaning your elbow against the bar.

"Hi," you bat your lashes at him, a movement so perfected, it's near robotic. Not that any of these men would care regardless.

"Hello," he croons, eyes scanning your frame in a way that twists your stomach. "How's tonight been treatin' ya so far?" He takes a sip of his beer, his lips ghost over the bottle in a desperate act of nonchalance.

You chuckle, imagining giving him a truthful answer. "I'm awful. My workplace situationship basically called me a slut and told me he doesn't want me even though I'm practically in love with him. You?"

"Fine," you say instead.

"Just fine?" he responds, and his sinister smile makes you regret giving him the time of day. "With a dress like that, I thought you'd be doing more than fine." He inches closer to you, the sleeve of his suit jacket now brushing up against your arm.

In a moment of divine intervention, the bartender cuts through the two of you with your drink. You accept gleefully, chugging the contents of the glass in record time. The man's eyes widen the more you drink, your neck flexing as you gulp down the remains. The empty glass hits the bar with a delicate clink. Your gaze meets the stranger's, his one of horror. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb, eyebrows raising in an expression that says 'try me'.

"I'm just fine. Have a nice night!" You chirp, patting his shoulder with your hand before walking off.

You're lightheaded now, each step like you're walking on cotton candy clouds. You whisk a champagne flute from a server's tray on your way back to the table, dramatically falling in the seat. You throw your head back, finishing your drink in time to snag another. Each sip rids any thought of professionalism. If the bureau wants to provide an open bar, they should expect such results.

A profound sadness washes over you once you finish the drinks. A pout laces your lips as your eyes find the floor, your matching pumps sparkling in the light. You wiggle your foot back and forth, happy to concentrate on something, anything other than Spencer. A pink stiletto comes into view, opposite your shoe. You whip your head up to find Penelope, the movement causing your vision to blur.

"Ooh!" You softly squeal, bringing two fingers to your temple in order to steady the spinning room.

"You're okay, my dear," Penelope says, her own hand resting on the back of yours. It steadies you in a way you didn't expect. Leave it to Penelope to know. "Want to take a stroll with me, sweetheart?" You swoon at the pet name, instantly full of adoration for your friend. So much, adoration, that you don't even care that she wants to talk about Spencer. You can tell from the pitying look in her eye. You suppose a change of scenery can't hurt.

You hold your hand out for her to take, and she pulls you to stand. It takes a moment for you to find your bearings, swaying slightly as you rise. Penelope's hands clutch your elbows, once again steadying you.

"My hero," you coo, batting your eyelashes at the most deserving person in the whole room.

"You're drunk," she assesses. "Let's go."

"Wow! Look at those analytical skills! It's like you're in the FBI or something!" Your comment is playful, not a bit of malice as you let Penelope lead you outside.

Fresh air hits your lungs, clearing them of the ailments of tonight. You take as many deep breaths as you can, savoring the floral smell of the gardens you walk past. Roses, lilies, and tulips align the shrubbery. It provides a beautiful view as you walk through the complex pathway. You walk in silence for the first few minutes. The only sound accompanying you are the splashes of water coming from the large fountain in the middle of the garden.

It’s large, so much so that you have to crane your neck up to see its entirety. It’s a stone carving of a woman, catching a falling man in her arms. Their faces are those of despair, though they’re united. Your heart squeezes at the sight, your eyes glossing over until the view is blurry. Your focus pulls back to Penelope, thanks to the soft tug she gave your bicep. You continue walking. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened, sweet girl?” She asks, and it’s so gentle that you just break. 

Tears flow over your lash line, your pouting lip wobbling as the droplets fall. Penelope immediately pulls you into a hug, shuffling the two of you towards a stone bench tucked away in the garden. You never leave her arms, blubbery words spilling from your lips

“I’m in love with him,” you wail. Penelope rests her head atop yours. 

“Isn’t that a good thing, though?” She inquires. Another sob wracks your chest. 

“He called it off,” it’s meek as it leaves your lips, a direct contradiction of the sob that came before. 

“He did what?” She holds you out in front of her, taking a good, long look at you. 

“He called it off. Said there’s a part of him that thinks we won’t work, I said I thought the same, because it is true…you remember what I told you earlier tonight, right?” Penelope nods her head, and you can only be thankful for her understanding as you blabber. “The second things get hard, he calls it. I mean, is that a sign?” Your elbows rest on your thighs as you look toward Penelope, eyes glistened with tears. 

She takes in the crushed look on your face before pulling out her phone and sending a text. “I’m calling in reinforcement. This is a job for all the ladies.”

You rest your head on her shoulder as you shake with more sobs. You’re so grateful for Penelope Garcia. 

You haven’t been this anxious to step into the BAU since your first day on the job. Your spine tingles in anticipation, clammy palms rolled together in little fists as you make your way to the bullpen. Spencer’s already here. You spotted the mop of brown curls the moment you walked through the door. You keep your head down, praying he doesn’t see you, hear you. 

The ruffly sleeves bunch around your bicep as you juggle your coffee and purse. You set them down at your desk, dread pooling in your stomach at the stack of case files on your desk. You thank whatever deity above convinced you to get a cold coffee this morning, given the air conditioning had blown out the night before. It was great news to wake up to- a mass text sent by Emily in warning. A paperwork day, on one of the hottest days of the year, with no AC. Perfect.

You fan yourself with a manila folder as you settle in at your desk, kitty-corner from Spencer’s. You used to celebrate the fact that you had a direct view of him from your seat. You never imagined you’d one day resent it the way you do now, every sight of him a flash of lightning in your heart. 

You see his head pick up ever so slightly as you set your items down on your desk. It’s a subtle lift, unnoticeable to an untrained eye. Unfortunately for you, your eyes are trained specialists in all things Spencer Reid. You see his head swivel ever so slightly, his chin resting on his shoulder. He stops it before his gaze meets yours. The air is stolen from your lungs. If you could zoom in, you would. He has dark circles under his eye, his pink lips pouty and droopy. You shake the thought of kissing them from your head. 

You hear footsteps approaching and you dart your gaze back to your desk, an infinitely less attractive view awaiting you. You open a manila folder, grabbing your coffee and favorite pen- a light pink one with a fuzzy top, like Cher’s. You begin to sift through your first file, seemingly needing a sip of coffee every time you read a new sentence. By the time you’re on your third case, you’re already standing to go make a new cup. Hot or cold, you need some more caffeine. 

You’re not the only one needing more coffee, it seems. You stop, cold in your tracks seeing Spencer in the kitchen, resting against the counter by the percolating coffee pot. The way he leans on his elbows mirror Saturday night, and a chill unzips your spine at the deja vu. You take slow steps into the kitchen, realizing it’d look worse to turn around and leave than to just stay. Plus, you really needed more coffee. Your stomach sinks when you realize Spencer is immediately below the cupboard residing your favorite mug. 

You straighten your spine, puffing your chest in a show of faux-confidence before walking over there. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon your approach, an unintentional flinch reverberating between the two of you. You briefly pause, momentarily shocked at his reaction to seeing you for the first time since Saturday. Since he called things off. You don’t say anything, can’t say anything. Not now. If you say something now, you’re sure you’ll get fired for workplace misconduct. Though, the fact that Spencer Reid kissed you like he’s starved and you’re his only life source, and now is treating you like a complete stranger should be considered workplace misconduct in and of itself. 

“Excuse me, I need my mug,” your voice is soft, raspy, almost a whisper. As if too much noise would shatter the glass wall built between you two. It takes him a minute to react, like he wasn’t expecting you to talk to him. He nods, almost dumbly, before moving away. 

Your dress swishes past him, the chiffon lightly grazing his forearm as you wiggle your way in the space. You reach up for on your tip toes for your pink, sparkly mug that reads ‘Being Kind Is Free, Unless I Don’t Like You.’ A gag gift from Penelope that makes the whole office laugh every time. You stick it under the Keurig machine, popping in a French vanilla pod before clicking start. 

The rumble of the coffee makers is the only noise taking up the dense air. Your eyes flit everywhere but to Spencer. His do the same. 

His coffee is done before yours, and he’s speedy with his cream and sugar, frantically stirring them in before leaving the room. You didn’t even notice Emily was in there until he squeezed past her to get out the door. Your cheeks heat up, your heart racing not knowing what she saw, what she heard. Though it was virtually nothing, to you, any moment with him was everything. After this weekend, that couldn’t feel more pathetic. 

“Jesus, it’s like the Treaty of Versailles is happening in here,” her sarcasm rings through the room like a bell. 

Your cheeks heat at the comment, now fully aware of how awkward this interaction might look to outsiders. You turn from her, grabbing your mug in a weak attempt to get out of the conversation. You even consider foregoing cream and sugar just to get out of there. That’s how you know something is really wrong. It would only look worse to Emily. 

“You don’t think everyone sees the way he looks at you?” Emily’s voice is quiet, gentle but firm. You close your eyes, a shuddering breath raking through your lungs. You pinch the bridge of your nose, letting out a deep exhale. 

“He didn’t look at me at all. I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you mutter, preparing your coffee the way you like it- cream and sugar in abundance. 

Your voice is clipped, and you feel bad for speaking to her this way. You know she’s only trying to help, but you can’t have this conversation at work. You simply can’t. This conversation needs to happen where tears and bottles of wine can flow freely. Mostly, it needs to happen somewhere that Spencer Reid isn’t. When you’re done making your coffee, you turn to face Emily, plastering a smile on your lips that doesn’t meet your eyes. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, ‘m tough. I can handle it. Promise,” the last word is breathy as it escapes your lips. Your heart sinks, knowing that Emily will likely call you on that. 

Mercifully, she spares you, probably noticing how badly you want to talk about any other possible topic. She nods, it’s curt and disbelieving, almost like she doesn’t want to do it at all. You nod back in the same manner before your kitten heels click back to your desk. You stop once again when you find Spencer standing at your desk. His brow is furrowed, annoyance lacing his gaze. He taps a case file on your desk, as if waiting for you is the most tedious task he’s ever been put through. You roll your eyes before approaching. 

“Can I help you?” You don’t mean for it to sound so snarky, but it seems you simply can’t help yourself when it comes to him. What right does he have to look so irritated? Especially when he knows where you were, and why you’re not talking. 

“Yeah.” His answer is short, gruff. He avoids eye contact with you again. You roll your eyes, since he can’t see them anyways. You pop a hand on your hip, a brow raised in question. 

He looks over at you then, your silence prompting the movement. It’s electric, the way your stomach sparks when he looks at you. It’s like being electrocuted, now, nothing akin to the fireworks you felt before. You stand there for a minute, a silent standoff while you fully take each other in for the first time since Saturday night. His eyes eventually find your collarbone, moving down slightly towards your chest. He takes in your dress, the airy fabric flowing around your hips in a way that has him ticking his jaw. Your heart can’t help but pick up speed as you clock the movement, a clear tell that he’s still thinking about you the same way you’re still thinking about him. 

“What do you want?” You snap, and he flinches back to reality. He clears his throat before talking. 

“You have a case file I need.”

You wave your hand around in a gesture that says ‘...and?’ He continues without further prompting. 

“The 2013 Carrigan family case,” he mutters. You brush past him to get to the other side of your desk, and you’re not prepared for the proximity. Twice now, you’ve felt the soft linen of his button down shirt, the tickle of his tie against your arm. Twice now, Spencer’s felt the light graze of your dress, caught the scent of your perfume as you passed. You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to search. 

Your fingers clutch onto the file named ‘2013 C. Family’, desperate to give it to him so he can finally go. You hand it out to him, and when he reaches to take it, your fingers brush. It’s another electrocution, the hair on your arms standing, goosebumps rising to the skin. His hand lingers there for a moment, long, deft fingers briefly squeezing tighter around yours before he pulls away. Once he does, the case file finds his other hand, the one that was touching yours flexing ever so slightly. It makes your heart boil. 

“Thanks,” he nods. You nod back. Then, he’s gone. 

You’re taking a much needed break for lunch, holed up in Penelope’s cave while you eat Chinese takeout. You grasp a noodle with your chopsticks, lifting it to your mouth in a way you’d only do in front of your closest friend. You watch her momentarily as she finishes filling out a document on one of her many screens. She punctuates her last letter with a perfunctory click, then promptly turns to you. 

“So. What is going on with The Good Doctor?” Penelope asks, picking up her own container of noodles. You adjust in your seat. Alright, getting right to the point. You see how it is. You avoid looking at her while you think of how to respond. You purse your lips, which quickly turns into a wobble as tears well in your eyes. She sets her food down, moving to hug you in record speed.

“Oh, honey, c’mere,” she coos, stroking your hair.

“I-it’s been awful!” You confess, small little cries racking your body. “It’s like he’s a stranger, like I’ve never met him before in my entire life. It sucks.”

“I know, I know,” she rocks you back and forth slightly, the gesture bringing a smile to your face. “Have you thought about maybe talking to him? You both seem out of sorts today.”

You pull your head from her arms almost immediately, a bewildered look on your face. Penelope holds her hands up in surrender, plopping back on her chair and resuming her meal. 

“I’m just saying,” she begins, around a mouth full of noodles. “You both seem kind of miserable, and have since Saturday night. Think of the common denominator here.” She raises her brow, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“I don’t want to talk to him. He called things off. If anything, he should be the one talking to me!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. Not at Penelope, but the mere thought of groveling to Spencer. It’s enough to make your skin crawl. 

“I had a feeling you were going to say that…” she trails off, a knowing tone in her voice. 

You sit up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You inquire, albeit a bit defensively. Penelope just shrugs. 

“I’m just saying, I love you both very much, but you’re both very stubborn. I just don’t want either of you to walk away from something out of stubbornness, especially before giving it a real shot. That’s all.”

It’s so profound, you want to scream. You look at Penelope, really look at her. She really looks back. It momentarily shifts your world on its axis, until you remember the way he spoke to you out in the bullpen. Your walls dart back up, and your eyes find occupancy on her desk. 

“Fine,” she shrugs, all too nonchalantly for your liking. “If you want to be stubborn, I do have one more answer for you.”

Your eyes dart back to hers, your lips swirling around your last noodle. “What is it?” At this point, you’re desperate for anything that will get you away from him. 

“Maybe work in the conference room for a little bit?” She suggests. You tilt your head to the side, thinking, almost like a curious dog. “A change of scenery might be helpful, y’know, so you’re not forced to stare at that gorgeous mop of curls all day.”

You roll your eyes at that, but ultimately agree. Once you wrap up your lunch, you make your way to the conference room with a box of files. As you walk through the bullpen, you notice an alarming lack of Spencer. His bag is gone, the files from his desk absent as well. You stop for a moment, eyes flitting to the conference room window. The table is empty, so you continue your journey there. 

Once you’re in, you spot Spencer, working on the couch, finishing up a conversation with Emily, who’s standing in the doorway. Her eyes immediately find you, and she makes quick work of shutting the door, the click of the lock following soon after. 

“Emily!” Spencer exclaims, frustration lacing his tone. 

You whip around, attempting to exit from the other way, but Penelope comes out from the other side of it, repeating Emily’s actions.

“Penelope!” You squeal, utter betrayal in every syllable. 

“I know! I’m sorry I tricked you! But you two are so stubborn it’s actually ridiculous! You’re not allowed out until you’re made up!” She punctuates her sentence by shoving a chair under the door. 

You roll your eyes, a huff of frustration falling from your lips. You turn to see Spencer not far behind you, staring at you as if you were the last woman on earth. You set the case files on the table, ignoring him. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, annoyance in his tone as he watches you get started on the file you’d been working on before this abhorrent interruption. 

“I’m working, what does it look like?” Your tone is cold, short. It’s especially hot in the conference room, the lack of airflow on either side nearly suffocating. You tug at the neckline of your dress in a weak attempt of cooling yourself off. 

“That’s not going to do anything,” Spencer huffs, rolling up his shirt sleeves to the forearm. 

“It’s better than just sitting here,” you nearly bark back. 

“Yeah, well maybe if you dressed appropriately for work you wouldn’t be so uncomfortable,” he quips. His words are like a powder keg, shooting you out of your seat in record speed. 

You face him, so close you can smell the musk of his cologne, and it makes you dizzy. It doesn’t drown out the anger, the frustration, the hurt. 

“Spencer, you have so much nerve making a comment on the way I’m dressed. If I recall correctly, you don’t want me anymore. So what’s the problem?” You exclaim, finally at your limit. Your heart burns as you watch the emotion shift on his face, frustration, heartbreak, longing. 

He flinches at your words, and it only aggravates the flame to your heart. 

“Spencer, you-” you stop yourself, looking away from him before you spill everything. 

“What? I’m what?” He asks. “An asshole? A coward? Believe me, I know.”

The pitying tone in his voice sends heat rushing to your face, anger pulsing through your veins. 

“You were the one who called it, Spencer! You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself!” You’re shouting now. You can’t seem to care. Rage and adrenaline seeps through your every pore, drowning you until there’s nothing left but red, hot lava. 

He plows ten fingers through his hair, pacing before you. “You think I don’t know that?” His hushed volume doesn’t match yours, but his tone carries the same amount of venom. You’re both aiming for the kill. 

“Do you really think I haven’t spent every waking moment since Saturday night wishing I could redo it all?” He blurts. Your eyes go wide. 

“Then why did you do it?”  You space out each word like he’s a toddler. You’re beginning to think he might be. 

“Dammit,” he breathes, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting. He rests his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He runs his fingers through his hair again, before looking up. You study his blank stare out of the conference room window. His gaze is aimless, soulless. 

“I don’t measure up,” he utters. It’s like a whisper, barely audible as he says it. 

You move closer ever so slightly. “You don’t m- what?” You’re bewildered, unsure what he even means. He turns to face you then, a look in his eye one you’ve never seen before. One of insecurity, doubt. 

“I don’t measure up,” he repeats, more audibly this time. You throw up your arms in exasperation. 

“Spencer, am I supposed to know what that means?” You still have an attitude, and you can tell it’s pushing him further and further. 

“How do you think I’m supposed to feel when all I see, all night, is men gawking at you, speaking to you like I’m not even there?” He says, and it hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re not sure whether you’re angry, sad, or confused. You decide on some sort of fucked up venn diagram of all three. 

“Spencer, if that was the problem, then why are you punishing me for it? Men flirt with me. They have my entire life. You’re one of them!” He flinches at your accusation. You keep going, sweat forming on your brow. “If you can’t handle that, if it makes you this upset with me, then maybe we made the right choice.”

A silence falls between you at that, tension so thick it’s as suffocating as the heat swamping the room. He stares at you. It’s long, loaded- full of everything he wants to say. After long, gruesome minutes, Spencer breaks the silence. 

“It’s not that I’m upset with you,” is all that comes from him. It’s hushed, frustrated as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Then what?” Your voice is venomous, dripping from your tongue. 

“It was just too much. Too much for me to see these men with you, men who skate through life without a care in the world. Men who aren’t carrying the baggage of a wrongful prison sentence. Men who aren’t a completely different person now because of it,” Spencer confesses, and it’s like a wrecking ball swung through the room. 

You battle the intensity of your emotions- the pity, the anger, the longing. They swirl within you like a tornado, your insides a flurry of emotion. You sympathize with him, you really do, but why couldn’t he have just spoken with you about it? You tell him such. 

“Spencer, do you really think I want to be with any of the bottle blondes that were approaching me Saturday night?” You inquire, a hand on your hip. “I turned them all down. You saw it, in fact.”

“I know I did,” Spencer grits out, frustration lacing his tone.

“Why couldn’t you just talk to me about it? Why was your first instinct to run? I guess that’s just what scares me the most, that whenever something serious happens, you’ll call it,” your words start to become choked in your throat, tears springing to your eyes. 

“I didn’t want to call it,” he breathes, fists tugging at his hairline. 

“So then why did you?” Your voice rises in frustration. You feel like you’re on a carousel with him, dizzy and nauseous, unable to get off. 

“Because I’m-” he stops, as if he’s not sure he wants to continue. You raise a brow, and he does. “Because I’m so pathetically in love with you. I have been the second I saw you. And I know, deep down, that I’ll never be enough for someone like you. So I ran.”

It rocks you to your core, knocking the wind straight out of you. You gape at him a moment, watching the panic rise in his face. You place a tentative hand on his arm, stopping him from the self conscious thoughts in his head. 

“I never wanted to call it either,” you whisper, as if the air around you would shatter if you spoke too loudly. “I love you, too.” He deflates at this, relief washing over him. He pulls you to him, but you stop before his lips can touch yours. 

“I want you to know though, if you ever try that again, you won’t get me back,” you raise a pointed brow at him and he nods. You grab onto his collar and continue. “You need to talk to me when you’re feeling this way, m’kay?” He nods again, as if he’s a dog and you’re his owner, wielding a bone. 

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes falling shut as he breathes a potent, “I’m sorry.” You relent, touching your lips to his in the sweetest kiss. He grips onto you like you’re his lifeline, deft fingers gripping the chiffon of your dress. He pulls away from the kiss, only slightly. His lips ghost over your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, kissing your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, fingers gripping the hair on the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, lips trailing down your neck. 

You tilt your head to give him more access, his hand splaying against the small of your back to pull you closer. “Spencer,” you murmur, half in a daze at the soft touch of his lips. 

“Hm?” he murmurs, the vibrations tickling your collar bone as he leaves feather light kisses across them. 

“We’re still at work,” you giggle, giving his hair the softest tug. That was a mistake, you realize, as it emanates a moan from him that has your knees buckling. 

“Don’t care,” he mutters, lips finding their way to your ear, biting the lobe. 

“You probably should,” you giggle, even more so when you hear the door creak open ever so slightly, a pair of bespectacled eyes peering in the small open space. “We have an audience.”

This gets his attention, his head whipping around to find the door now wide open, Penelope filling the space with a cheshire smile. 

“You two need to get back to work!” She scolds, and you roll your eyes at the irony. 

“We’ll talk more later?” You ask. He nods, walking you out of the room, his hand still resting on your back as he guides you. You grab his tie, just before you part. Giving it a light tug, you say, “Swing by my place around 6. I’ll get us a pizza. You’re buying.” You punctuate it with one last kiss to his lips. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes, unbelieving. You could get used to that title.

[trampleddoves]

Tie

Pairing: switch!Spencer Reid x sub!fem!reader Summary: Spencer gets unreasonably jealous of you. You let him take control to comfort and reassure him. That's what loving girlfriends do. WC: 3.6k Warnings: smut - oral (f receiving), edging, overstimulation, kinda softdom!Spencer, reader is compliant to everything he says, he's just as desperate as her, sir kink, creamp1e (i long for a better word), bondage, unprotected pinv, dirty talk (they yap), pet names, pussy slapping. Jealous Spencer deserves a warning of its own. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: I have no excuse for myself (I'm ovulating). This is pure filth and indulgent because I was being tortured with thoughts of Spencer.

Feedbacks are always welcomed and appreciated <3 Masterlist

Subtle touches from Spencer all night had you going crazy. Well, they weren’t exactly that subtle.

During a particular conversation you were having with Rossi about Italian cuisine (you were an enthusiast, both of cooking and eating Italian dishes like nothing else existed), Spencer, who had an armed slung over the chair you were sitting on, started twirling your hair in his fingers. When you laughed at some remark about how French people are insane for combining dairy with fish, your boyfriend pulled your hair rather crudely. You glared at him from the corner of your eye.

You got somewhat angry because it was uncomfortable for you to be that intimate around others, but his teasing worked wonders on you. Now, you wanted his touch to be bolder, thirstier, needier, just to match your own sinful thoughts and wants. Right now, Spencer was saying goodbye to Rossi, who was waiting for a cab to take him and his wife back home. Spencer's hand rested at the small of your back. The wine you sipped all through the night, combined with Spencer's bratty behavior, was now making your pussy throb with need for your boyfriend. Nevertheless, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you all worked up in public. "Goodbye, Krystall, and again, happy birthday. Thank you for including me! It was incredible," you said to the woman, who hugged you warmly and thanked you with a smile on her face. "Looking forward to those cooking sessions you mentioned earlier," you said, a big smile on your face as you gave David Rossi a hug.

"Anytime, bellissima." He said simply as you pulled away, smile gracing his face. You held out your hand to Spencer to walk back to his car.

The nickname had struck a nerve. He wasn't jealous, no, he trusted you with his body and his soul, even if he, as a man of science, didn't believe in the latter — that's how much he loved and trusted you, and it was Rossi, for God's sake... Still, he was just another man. Another stupid, territorial man. He opened the door for you and you entered the car, giving him a peck on the lips, "Thanks, handsome."

"Anytime, bellissima," he said through gritted teeth after he closed the door and as you fastened your seatbelt, out of your earshot. He turned around to enter the car, taking the driver's seat.

You went home silently, but you could sense the heavy atmosphere between you on the way there. As you entered your apartment, he got down on his knees to take off your shoes for you. He always did it, no matter what. Apparently, acting weird was no exception to his care with you. You bit your lip, a little apprehensive to bring up the subject. "Thank you, baby," you said softly instead.

"You're welcome, darling." he said, not looking at you and taking longer than necessary in his task.

You sucked in a breath. "Okay, baby, what was that? We need to talk about it."

"What was what?"

"Just when we left the restaurant. I said thanks and you basically ignored me all the way here," you explained, even if you knew he definitely knew what you were talking about. your hand found the nape of his neck, making him look up at you. He had a guilty look on his face.

Busted.

He sighed, "I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was mean." He apologized, eyes sincerely searching your form and hands reaching up to rest on the sides of your hips.

"Why did you do it, then?"

"Bellissima. You know what it means. I just got... jealous? I should be the only one complimenting you," he said, now standing at full height in front of you. Kissing your lips, hands caressing your waist, touch light as a feather, "telling you how much you mean to me," you sighed as his lips brushed the skin of your neck, "how much it drives me crazy just seeing you," he bit the sweet spot just behind your ear, "my beautiful, gorgeous girlfriend. Mine."

You pulled on his hair so he could see your features. Looking him dead in the eye, with an almost angry look on your face. You wanted him to pay for everything he had done that night. "Baby, you were touching me all night, knowing that you were driving me insane. knowing you're the only one who gets to do that," you leaned in to kiss him softly. "And then throw a tantrum like the spoiled little thing that you are just because someone said a word to me? You know compliments mean nothing when it comes from someone who's not you, baby. Thought you knew better."

Silence. He looked at you like you kicked his dog. 

"Remind me, then," he retorted, looking you in the eye. "Remind me how much you're mine and mine only."

One of your favorite things about your relationship with Spencer was that, in public, your dynamic was totally different from what you were like between four walls. When you were surrounded by people, Spencer acted like a gentleman, always making sure to cater to your every whim, opening car doors, taking off your shoes for you, picking nice places to take you on dates, accepting your suggestions of what to wear — it was no coincidence that he looked a lot more styled lately, but you also loved his usual attires. It was how you met him and how you fell in love with him, after all.

But, in the bedroom (or wherever he decided to have you), it was totally different. You were compliant to everything he said, letting go of the control you had over yourself, over your relationship, over everything so he could take you to fucking heavens. You obeyed everything without so much a "yes, sir", and he fucking loved it.

He unzipped the skin-tight dress after leading you back to your shared room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, you stood before him, whose tie was loosened around his neck. "Is this all for me?" he asked as he saw what you had underneath your dress all night long, absolutely sick with the slightest idea that someone else could have that.

You sighed as he kissed your neck and trailed down to your breasts, easily unclasping your bra. "Yes, sir, all for you."

Just like clockwork, all his attention drifted to your breasts. One of his large, calloused hands held your waist securely and the other played with one of your nipples as he licked the other, his hot tongue circling the nub, making you whimper and sending a rush of wetness through your core. "mmm, always need my mouth full of you, angel."

"nnngh, it feels so good."

He smiled on your skin, biting your nipple afterwards. The sting made you see stars and desperate to feel him in some sort of way, you'd take anything he had to offer you. You just needed to be touched. As he continued your ministrations on your breasts, switching from one to the other, you moaned, your hands finding his hair. "Sir—ah—, can you please—touch me?"

He stopped his movements and looked up at you, laughing mockingly. "Is that all it takes, pretty? A few minutes of my mouth on you and you're already so pliant? So eager for me to touch you?"

"Yes, sir. I need you so bad."

"Tell me, then," he scoffed, "where do you want me to touch you?"

Your incoherent babbles meant nothing, so he just laughed at your poor attempt at an answer.

"You're so good at begging, aren't you?" You nodded, licking your lips with the sight of his wet ones. "Wanna kiss me, baby?"

"Always do. Can I?"

"Yes, you can." No matter how dominant he was, he could never deny you a kiss.

You leaned down to kiss him. The brush of your lips alone made Spencer crazy, craving more and more. He could spend hours just kissing you, never getting tired of the mind numbing sensation it had on him. You deepened the kiss, your tongue caressing his, earning a moan from his end. You smiled. "I love kissing you." You whispered as you barely pulled away, breathless.

"I know you do, pretty."

His hands trailed on the sides of your body, earning a shiver from you. Just as he reached the hem of your panties, they traveled up again, grazing the skin of your arms instead. As he found your hands, he gave them a gentle squeeze. He stood up and looked down at you, in for another kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me," he groaned. His words only spurred you further. "Take off my shirt. Slowly." he commanded. And you complied, taking every chance to brush your fingers against his hot skin, desperate to rake your nails on his chest, to make him shiver for you, too.

Spencer turned you around gently so you could see yourself in the big mirror placed in front of the bed. You watched as he pushed your hair out of his way, resting it on your left shoulder to give him access to your neck, his hands finding your breasts so he could play with them, too. He started with light kisses on your neck, lips barely brushing the area, making goosebumps soon erupt on your skin. His caresses got gradually more aggressive, making you blatantly moan his name when he bit the sweet spot behind your ear and grinded his clothed dick against your ass. You whimpered, overwhelmed with so many stimuli.

Turning you to face him, again, he sat you on the edge of the bed, covered only by your underwear in front of him. You could see the tent in his pants and you were desperate to taste him, to take him in your mouth in order to make him as crazy as he made you. God, the things you'd do to hear him whimper like he knew you loved to hear...

"Thinking about something, angel?" He chuckled, mocking you yet again when he saw what were you looking at and the position you put yourself in: cunt in full display after you placed both feet at the edge of the bed.

You nodded violently. That was how you always found yourself pleading for him. It didn't take much, honestly. "Please, sir, I'll do anything. jus', please, let me feel you,"

Anything...

"Aw, pretty, you're so desperate for me," his tone was condescending. "thought you'd wanted someone else for a moment tonight."

"No! No! Never, sir. Never. I only want you. I only want you to touch me."

Leaning down, his fingers raked over your stomach, ghosting over the fabric of your panties. Spencer groaned as he touched the wet patch on your underwear, glistening, begging for attention.

"'s just how much I want you..."

"Look at you, angel, begging me to have my way with you," he sneered, "so pretty..." he muttered, getting down on his knees.

Through your soaked underwear, Spencer caressed your mound and outer lips, almost as if he was drawing your cunt from scratch, tracing every single feature, making it cling even harder to the garment. Each touch made you feel eager. Want something, say something, right?

He teased you for what felt like hours, but when you were finally able to form a sentence, he pushed your panties to the side and he moaned lowly at the sight of you. "Spence—sir..." You started, but were cut by a breathless grunt that raked through you as he licked a broad stripe on your slit.

"You are soaked, princess, had to have a taste of you... you were sayin'?"

"Please, don't stop, sir," your hands flew to his hair, trying to push him back to what he had started.

"Nuh-uh, princess," he tsked, gathering his tie from the floor, "You don't deserve to touch me after the little show you put up today. I’m gonna have to tie you up, alright?" 

There it was. Your punishment.

One thing about Spencer is that he always made sure to tell you whatever he was planning on doing with you, both so that you could say no if you wanted to and also because it turned you on beyond limits. It made your heart soar, he was so careful with you, making every man on earth seem like straight up Neanderthals. You whined at his plan as he looked at you to see if you were okay with the idea.

You jutted your lip out, brows furrowing, but you couldn't disagree with him. Adorable, he thought. He tied both of your hands behind your back, using his fucking tie. "... Yes, 's alright. I jus' wish I could touch you so badly," you complained.

"I know, pretty," he cooed, "that's why I'm gonna give you a chance to be good for me, and when you prove to me you can do it, you can touch me all you want."

"O-okay," you stuttered as he started placing teasing kisses on your inner thighs. You sighed.

"You smell so good. Want me to taste you too, hm? You're soaked, your pussy is begging me to do something about it."

"Yes, yes, I do!" you almost yelled. "Please, sir, I'll be good for you."

"I know you fucking will." he stated. Just then, he started licking your pussy, delicately at first just so you could get used to the feeling of finally having him the way you wanted. His hands held your hips in place to stop you from moving. He was the one in control, after all.

Then, once he sucked your clit between his lips, he started flicking his tongue against the nub, eliciting moans from you. The taste of you in his tongue was something he could never get used to, every fucking time felt like the first. He felt addicted to the power it had over him. The best he could do was at least try to be in control. You squirmed, almost like you wanted to get away from him, but his firm hands held you in place. "Be good and stay still," he muttered against your core, slapping your pussy once. You nodded, whining, too lost in the feeling after the sting, in the feeling of his tongue punishing you in a rhythm that put you in a frenzy. Spencer's middle finger slowly pushed inside your fluttering walls. "You're dripping all over my fingers. What a messy girl."

Knuckle deep inside your cunt and mouth feverishly and steadily working on your clit, your boyfriend started to feel more and more desperate by the second with the sounds coming from your mouth. You, on the other hand, could almost taste your release, a complete mess on the bed, chants leaving your reddened lips from all the biting, "yes, sir! You make me feel s'good, you're s'deep in me. Fuck! I'm your good g—" as he heard your words tinged with desperation in a high pitched voice and felt the muscles in your pussy tighten, he quickly stopped his actions.

He would bet money that it hurt him more than it did you.

"Noooo..." you whined, like a spoiled brat. A breathless, messy, spoiled brat. You knew what you were in for from the moment he took off your shoes. "Please, please, sir. You can f-eel how desperate I am for you," you blabbered, trying to argue. "Can I show you?" You decided to take matters into your own hands. Well, as best as you could.

He stood up. "Let's see what you've got, princess." He gripped his shaft in front of you, making saliva pool in your mouth. "You're not even being fucked yet, and you're already this dumb, baby?" He sneered at you. You looked up at his face, taking in his dilated pupils watching you. You looked like any man's wet dream, perfect pussy on display, chest heaving with anticipation of what was coming next, face contorted in the filthiest expression in the world.

He would be happy just to watch you, but he was actually able to taste, touch, see, smell and hear the whole thing.

He was the luckiest man in the world.

Half sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and already off of his slacks and briefs, he beckoned you over to his lap. You kneeled somewhat awkwardly on the bed to hover on his lap, cunt dripping arousal on his belly as you did so. He groaned, the dominant facade faltering for a moment. He had to be the most indulgent dominant man ever, because he was barely able to resist you and your seducing ways. "See how wet you make me?" You whispered, eyes focused on his, which looked directly at the sheer liquid pooling on his stomach.

"You're such a good girl, baby" in a weakened voice made its way out of his mouth. "Since you asked so nicely and you have proof, why don't you show me how much you love riding me, huh? Come on, pretty, sit on my cock. Ride me." His commanding sentences made your cunt gush yet again.

"Yes, sir!" you exclaimed, ready to obey his commands.

Spencer gripped his base and rubbed his dick against your folds. He groaned, biting his lip and it took every single ounce of self control not to kiss him senseless. After some more teasing, he muttered, "You can do it now."

You sat down on him, slowly, pushing the tip in. "Fuck," hoarse voice, just the way he loved it, "you feel so good, sir. And you're not even fully in yet."

"Come on, nice and slow, princess."

You sank a little further, his girth stretching you out so deliciously that it made you shut your eyes closed as goosebumps erupted on your skin, pure bliss running through you. "Fuck—ah— you're so, so hard, sir," you hissed.

"Yes, that's it," he grabbed your hands in one of his. He felt you clench around him. "Gonna make sure you get off on my cock alone."

Recalling his demand, you obeyed. Nice and slow, savoring the feeling of having him buried to the hilt inside of you. each time you pulled back just to slam his dick inside again made you feel dizzy. Spencer was mesmerized by the sight before him. First, your expression told him how much you enjoyed riding him, mouth agape to let out the dirtiest moans and words, unlike the poised woman he liked to brag about to whoever listened. "Fuck, you're so deep. 's so good, love it when you let me ride you, sir."

Spencer kept silent for a moment, still admiring your form. He watched as the hair on your skin shivered each time he started to meet your thrusts, eager to make you his. his eyes drifted to your breasts, bouncing with every movement of your bodies. It was wanton, watching you get off on top of him, using him to chase your own high, but the sight that got him enthralled was your pussy making his cock glisten with your arousal. "Yeah, pretty? So what do you say? D'you remember you have to be nice?"

"Thank you, sir"

"Thank you for what?" he urged.

“Thank you for letting me sit on your cock. Ah! I'm all yours, sir! Yours."

"That's right. You're taking me so well, princess, fucking hell," he cursed. "Such a tight pussy, baby, so perfect for me."

At this point, Spencer was a goner below you. You rocked your hips and he met you thrusts ruthlessly, focused on chasing your high. You slowed your movements, clit grinding against his pubic bone, dick still rock hard inside of you. You felt the telling signs of your orgasm approaching and, mind filled with thoughts of all the filth you've done with him. You still wanted to do much more. "Fuck, pretty girl—you're so good at taking me."

You leaned down to whisper in his ear, your tits brushing against his skin adding to the whirlwind of sensations. "Can I come, sir? Please! I want to come all over your cock," all your sentences sounded like heavenly, pathetic whines to Spencer's ears.

"You hafta take it, princess," he groaned, hands guiding your movements. "Take. It." He urged, words emphasized by two particularly hard thrusts. “Wanna come inside of you.”

"Yes, please! I'm all yours—Spencer!" You yelled out his name as your orgasm washed over you, still grinding against him.

The sound of his name leaving your lips was enough to follow you not shortly after. “Gonna come—fuck—inside you.” He gritted. After spilling inside you, he kept fucking his cum back inside with a few sloppier thrusts.

You crashed beside him, taking a minute to catch your breath. Spencer quickly reached to undo his tie on your wrists, kissing the soft skin after removing the garment. You chuckled at his care. “Don't ever stop me from touching you again,” you muttered.

“What are you going to do, angel? Stop me?” He laughed softly.

He cleaned you both up and you had your hands free to caress your boyfriend’s skin all night long.

The next morning, Spencer had you on the phone as he walked in the bullpen, saying “yes”, “of course”, and a series of different agreements, gleeful expression on his face.

He heard Derek Morgan chuckle. "Aw, Reid, she already telling you what to do?"

"There's no time for her to start, you know that, Derek," Emily quipped.

They had no idea you were telling him about the wet dream you had about him fucking you in the middle of the bullpen.