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unfortunately-a-dazai-kinnie · 3 days

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fresh out the slammer ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid comes home from prison, and needs to fulfil everything he has missed about you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut & comfort (18+ mdni) tags: post prison!reid. soft dom!spencer. teeth might rot i was cringing during some of this. established relationship. the briefest of breast play because what do i hate? the word nipple! fingering. p in v. no protection is mentioned but imagine what you will. casual nudity afterwards. spencer's got bruises from prison. i lowkey forgot about his thigh wound until the very end. word count: 5.7k a/n: there's a completely different version of me in a world where i didn't write this. i hope she's doing well. i feel like i've been reborn. this is stupidly long LOL my apologies. pleaseee tell me if you liked this! or if you didn't! i love feedback! here's my monthly smut fic see you all in october!

Three months wasn't a long time, in the grand scheme of things. A quarter of a year usually went by too quickly for anybody's liking, the year sprinting through seasons until all twelve months were complete, and you were repeating it all over again. Usually. Three months without Spencer Reid, however, went by achingly slowly. And you hadn't originally considered just how agonising they could be.

Each day was another painful mirror of the last, waking up and going to bed with the same sense of dread in your stomach, oftentimes swallowing you whole and leaving you unable to do just about anything at all.

Living life without Spencer Reid was hard.

You saw him — of course you did. Despite his original efforts to keep you off the approved visitors list, Penelope Garcia had seen one glimpse of your heart shattered expression upon being told, and marched her way to the prison to slap sense into him. You weren't sure if that was metaphoric or not.

However, seeing him once every other week and living with him were two very different situations. You hadn't realised just how much you had depended on him always being there when you woke up in the morning until you were waking up to cold bed sheets and a pillow clutched petulantly to your chest in hopes of recreating the warmth only Spencer could provide.

And then he was free.

From prison, that is. You hadn't heard it all — information about his time in prison had been kept from you in an attempt to protect your own peace of mind. But you knew from at least the bruises he was always sporting no matter when you went to visit him, that something awful had happened to him in there, and his own brain would keep him imprisoned for as long as it wished.

But he was free.

And he was here, and you were staring up at his face littered with unkempt facial hair and a head of untreated curls, and regardless of everything horrific he had endured brewing behind his eyes, he was staring at you with the same softness he had before any of this happened.

Despite the beginning of a protest when you wrapped your arms around his torso, you hugged him, and he hugged you, and even the faintest smell of grime and blood couldn't stop you from gripping onto him with so much force you thought your knuckles would break.

"You're real," you whispered into his chest, muffled by it, and it shook beneath your face as he laughed, quietly. Beautifully.

"I am," he answered, and you could feel him crushing his own facial features into the top of your head, no doubt inhaling your shampoo. "You're real."

"Yes," you confirmed with a nod.

Maybe hours passed, perhaps only minutes. Whichever it was, you were still reluctant to pull away from him until he did, your face stained with tear streaks you don't remember shedding, his own eyes glassy as your gazes met.

"You don't want to talk about it, do you?" you asked him, walking backwards as you led him out of the doorway you two had been finding solace in, and further into the apartment space you were ecstatic to share together again.

"Not particularly," he answered, strides catching up to you and encasing your waist between his hands, tugging your body closer to his own. "Is that okay?"

"As long as you promise not to keep it in," you replied, teeth chewing into your lower lip in a contemplative habit.

"I have counselling at work," he said, and you nodded, your facial features softening only a little — you knew him well enough to know he wouldn't enjoy said counselling sessions. Breath tickled your lips as he leaned in a little closer, inciting heat onto your cheeks. "Any other questions?"

"No," you replied, your own lips twitching in amusement. "That's it. Why?"

"Because I haven't kissed you in three months," he murmured, "and I want to."

"Maybe," you said with a hum, and he said your name chidingly, eliciting a laugh from you. "Yeah. Okay."

To be honest, you had spent a few too many nights allowing your thoughts to wander and end up dreaming about what it would be like to kiss him again. Whether or not either of you would have the patience to be gentle and kind to one another. In those nights, you had decided you would be. Your heart cracking every time you thought of Spencer alone in a concrete cell that it left you with a gaping hole in your chest. All you really wanted was to hold him and remind him how adored he was.

Right now, you learned you wouldn't be.

There was a tenderness in the way his hands found your cheeks to cup, and there was a softness in his fingertips against your skin. Yet, everything he kissed with was anything but. Feverish and quick, swallowing you whole and inspiring a spark in your chest that resulted in you kissing back just as hungry.

Just when you thought there was nothing left to trigger within him, a squeak left your lips as the result of him tugging you impossibly closer, and he was beginning to walk you backwards, even further into the apartment, his kiss growing all consuming.

"Spencer," you said, breathlessly, jerking your head back, staring at him, waiting for him to realise you weren't returning your lips to his, and his eyes opened.

"What?" he asked, almost irritatedly. When he watched the slight flicker of hurt flash on your face at the tone, his own expression became gentler. "I'm sorry. Is something wrong?"

Immediately, you shook your head. "No. I just wanted to check how far you wanted to go," your hands travelled up to his hair, fingers scratching gently against his scalp. "I know there's a lot going on up here."

"Actually, right now it's just you," he said, tilting a head to the side to lean into one of your palms. "It's mostly you all the time. But right now you're consuming it."

"I make such an impact on your life," you quipped.

"I know you're teasing, but you do," he replied, fingers tracing up and down either side of your jawline, eyes searching each small detail on your face he had no doubt already memorised. "I survived in there for you."

"Oh."

Probably not the most eloquent response for the things he had just confessed, but truly your brain had scrambled within an instant, and you weren't sure what to say.

"Sorry," he said, hands stilling on your face. "To answer your question, I don't know. I really missed you."

"I know," you said when a gaping silence followed his words. "We don't have to."

"I think I want to."

Your eyebrows furrowed. "You can't think, Spence. You've gotta know."

"I've definitely said that to you before," he chided, thinking for a moment, before, "yes. I did. First time we had sex."

"Sue me for repeating important sexual advice to you, Spencer Reid," you huffed. He laughed.

"No, I mean, I do. Want to," he finally replied. "I'm really scared of hurting you."

"Do you want to hurt me?"

"No."

"Then you won't," you reassured him, despite knowing whatever doubt he had in himself would not be resolved just like that, and it'll probably eat at his mind for a long while. "And even if you do, I won't be upset with you." When his face scrunched and his expression mirrored judgement, you stammered to clarify. "Not in a kinky way. Don't look at me like that, Spencer. Stop it. I just meant I'll understand. And I won't be mad."

"Didn't take you to be into masochism," he mumbled, and you groaned at his selective hearing, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, that shook with his laughter. "Kidding, honey. I know what you mean."

"Not funny."

"It was a little," he countered, a hand reaching up to entangle within your hair to pull your head back, gently, so he could look at you again.

"Hi," you said when your eyes locked once more.

"Hello," he answered, his lips pulling into a smile. "I'd like to kiss you again."

"You've used up your kiss for the day, actually," you replied, sweetly beaming up at him.

"Quiet," he shot back, leaning forwards and allowing his lips to brush hesitantly against yours, eyes searching your own with an added hint of desperation. "Please?"

You pretended to think for a moment too long, because he was already mumbling something that sounded a little like 'brat', and pressed his mouth to yours once more.

You couldn't complain.

It was the same intensity as earlier, and yet there was something in it that differentiated the homesickness of the kiss from then, and the desperation now. Large hands — that you would probably allow to encase you whole — pathetically held your face lightly, hips knocking with yours as he walked you backwards and up against the back of the couch.

"Spence," you whimpered embarrassingly, hands clawing at the sleeves of his suit jacket, trialling and failing at tugging it off his body.

"I got you, sweet girl," he mumbled against your lips, not breaking the kiss for even a second as he helped you, shrugging the jacket off and allowing it to fall to the floor — something he will certainly chastise himself for later.

"Bedroom," you said, in between heavy breaths and feverish kisses. A request he was more than happy to comply to, for he had nodded, and you were instantaneously tugging on one of his hands in the direction of the room, his eyes fixated on your body as he trailed behind.

"Missed you so much," he murmured as he tugged you back towards him the second he had kicked the door shut, lips finding the corner of your mouth, then your jawline, then your neck, as he kissed down you.

"So you've said," you breathed out, tilting your head to the side as he gently nipped at the skin.

"Do you get off on being mean to me?" he chided, lifting his head to look at you again, and your heart stuttered.

"No. Just that dominance act that it brings out," you murmured, attempting to keep the mood light. Successfully so, for air huffed out of his nose as his lips twitched, fingers that had dropped to your waist squeezing it gently. In unresolved doubt, you added, "I missed you too. Don't worry."

"I'm not," he replied, and the weight lifted off your shoulders. "Lie down."

"So demanding," you teased, though his tone was anything but firm.

You were met with an unimpressed look, and you merely grinned back as you climbed onto the bed, sitting cross legged atop it, staring up at him expectingly.

Instead of moving over you like you had expected, he crouched at the foot of the bed, holding his hands out on the mattress in front of you. Needing no more than the simple gesture, you untangled your legs and stretched them out in front of you, and he tugged you down towards the end of the bed, breath hitting the skin of your thighs deliciously.

"I'm supposed to be making you feel good," you argued when his fingers trailed up the sides of your legs, finding the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"Why?" he questioned, halting his movements as he searched your face.

"Because you're the one who just got out of prison," his face scrunched at the verbal reminder. "Sorry. But... yeah. I have thought about making you come the day you got home like daily."

"Oh have you?" his eyebrows shot up, and it was then that your brain caught up to your running mouth, and your cheeks heated up.

"Nope. Forget I said anything."

"No," he pushed himself up from the floor, moving his body over yours on the bed, successfully forcing you to lie back. "Tell me those thoughts."

"Spencer," you moaned, shaking your head as you buried your face into your hands, that he was a little too quick to catch and pry away.

"I'm not going to judge you," he said, amused. "In fact, I aspire to know every single thought there is up in that pretty head of yours. Especially the ones about me. Please tell me."

"I just thought about making you come. There's nothing more exciting to it."

"Yes, but how?"

"My mouth, I guess," you mumbled, voice going impossibly quiet. "I don't know."

"You're acting like you have never given me oral," he said, catching your gaze within milliseconds of you averting it, thumb and forefinger straightening your head again.

"Nobody says oral, Spencer. Say head," your own face now scrunched up.

"Lots of people say oral," he defended.

"Yeah, old people. We are not old people."

"Fine, you're acting like you have never given me head."

Despite it being a jab at him to take the heat off of you, the phrase coming out from his lips sounded exceptionally vulgar for what it was, and it only resulted in your stomach flipping.

Finally, you regained some control over your own thoughts, and you found it in you to reply. "That's what I want to do. Because I want to make you feel good."

"You underestimate how much I gain from making you feel good," he countered, fingers lazily caressing the skin of your jaw as his eyes studied your face with an intensity that had your stomach flipping.

"It cannot be as good as an orgasm," you huffed, stubbornly so.

He nipped at your nose. "It is."

"Can we compromise?"

"So you don't want me to give you oral?" his eyebrows rose.

In every other situation, you would not be fighting him on this. In fact, he would probably have already gotten his foreplay of teasing and teetering you on the edge out of the way by now, and you'd be well and truly content. However, the forefront of your mind was still plagued by how little time Spencer had to take care of himself, and the last thing you needed him to be was at your service. Despite his protests.

"Head," you corrected. "And no."

He searched for remnants of a lie for a few beats longer, before he nodded his head, giving in. "What's your compromise, honey?"

"I don't think there's a sexy way to say to just put it in me," you said, and his lips curled up into an amused smile, followed by a huff of laughter.

"No, I don't think there is," he agreed. "I do think anything you say can be sexy, though."

You pulled a face, and you shook your head. "No. Don't say that ever again either."

"I can't compliment you, I can't give you ora—head," he rattled off. "Is there anything good I get out of this?"

"You get to fuck me?" you batted your eyelashes up at him.

"Such vulgar language," he chastised, ducking his head when a hand of yours rose to swat him.

Despite himself, his head had dropped to the crook of your neck, and he had begun placing feather like kisses along the skin that distracted you just enough to drop your hand back to the mattress beneath you.

Any other day, and you'd probably still be bickering with him until the minute he made you come. However, three months without even the faintest of touches from him left you overwhelmed with everything he did to you, and so the gentle kisses trailing down to the collar of your shirt were enough to destroy any coherent thoughts you could have.

Cautiously, and with a touch so delicate, Spencer lifted your — his — shirt up your abdomen, fingertips leaving behind the warmest of trails as they skimmed along your skin. One quiet whine from you was all it took for him to hurry his teasing along, and soon enough your shirt was discarded.

A quiet, sharp inhale of air was the other sound aside from your quickened breathing, and you felt tears sting your vision as another kiss was placed just below your now exposed collarbone.

The time without you seemed to weigh nothing in his mind as he took every inch of you in separately, lips mapping out your body like it was the first time all over again, though still knowing exactly when to pause and pay attention to for the sweetest of sounds to be ripped from your throat.

He liked to hear you.

Fingers found your waist as his lips kissed down your sternum, then back up and over until they reached your nipple. He spent time on each breast, ignoring your impatient whining as he neglected the rest of you for a few minutes too long (in your opinion).

"Spencer," you scolded, and it was all it took for him to accept you were not in the mood to wait, and for him to decide he wasn't either.

"Sorry, honey," he replied, voice impossibly soft as he returned his lips to your face, a kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth as his fingers found your shorts again. "Can I take these off?"

"I think we're incredibly out of balance," you replied. And though there wasn't really anything wrong with the sentence — you had certainly said it before — he still pulled back, an unrecognisable grey clouding his eyes. "What?"

"I want to keep my shirt on," was his response, the words inciting confusion to your face.

"What? Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

You wanted to scream that yes, he did. But did he? Wordlessly, you shook your head, but it didn't help the pang of worry in your chest.

"Unless there's something like an embarrassing tattoo, I'm not going to judge you," you decided to say instead. "Did you get an embarrassing tattoo in prison?"

"No," he shook his head, and you were comforted by the amusement in his tone. "I didn't have the best time in prison."

"I know," you replied.

"And I wasn't very liked. By the men in there."

You knew that too, to an extent. You knew the bruises on his face weren't self inflicted. "You're liked by me."

"I know, sweet girl," a heart shatteringly sad smile stretched across his face as a hand lifted to your cheek. "It just isn't very pretty. And I don't want you to worry."

Well, now you were. Regardless, you nodded your head, turning your head to the side so you could kiss the palm of the hand on your face. "I won't worry, then."

"I want to keep my shirt on. Can that please be okay with you?"

Silently, and after a debate inside your brain, you nodded your head. Gratefully, he pecked your lips once more, before his focus shifted back to you and your body.

"Shorts. Can I take them off?" he asked, again.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

His fingers collected the fabric of your shorts' waistband, and gently pulled them down your legs, cool air washing over you despite the final leftover article of clothing on your body. You shivered, and you could hear him mumbling nearly incoherent apologies as he kissed your stomach.

"These too?" he then asked, eyes flickering between your face for confirmation, and the pair of underwear you still had residing on your body. You nodded your head, and he pulled them down too.

You do not remember a time ever fearing being naked beneath Spencer Reid's gaze, and that did not change even now, as an arguably different man drank in your entire body, the love he had for you not having wavered despite the passing of time.

And you certainly did not fear the way one of his hands slid up your leg, seemingly soothingly, until it teetered on the edge of too far up the limb to be innocent, and he was intensely watching your face for every reaction you could possibly make.

Achingly gently, his middle finger ran up the centre, collecting arousal you hadn't realised was there and knuckle gently bumping your clit, eliciting a quiet mewl from you. You watched him smile at the sound, dragging his finger back down, gathering more of your arousal until he was pushing the finger in.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling oh so familiar, and yet seemingly foreign all at once. Too long, you decided then. Three months is too long.

Leaning back down, his lips brushed your jawline, the otherwise odd sensation of there being something — someone — inside of you balancing out with the pleasure that came from the comfort of it being him. And of course the delicate circles his thumb had begun to draw on your clit.

"Did you do this while I was in prison?" he asked you, lips moving against your skin.

"Touch myself?"

"Mhm."

"Yeah," you said, voice breathless. "Was never good, though."

"No?" he asked, curling his finger inside of you and tugging a louder moan from your throat. "Why not?"

"Just never felt as nice. Not like you."

"Oh. I'm sorry, angel," he murmured, pulling his lips away so he could look at you again. Though, your eyes were still planted shut. "I'll make up for it then, yeah?"

You feverishly nodded your head, and he laughed. Fulfilling his promise, he sped up the motions of his finger and thumb, your hands grabbing ahold of fistfuls of the sheets, in hopes that it will provide some comfort from the overwhelming feeling of Spencer touching you again.

"Can I add another finger?" he asked, and though slightly hesitant, you nodded your head.

He waited a beat longer before fulfilling your request, and there was something obscene about how easily another finger entered you. Though, Spencer thought it was pretty, and your back arching was pretty, and yes, he had missed this and he had missed you and he was biting his tongue from telling you that all over again.

"Spencer," a delicately breathy whine left your lips when the heel of his palm collided with your clit — thumb long forgotten once he had gotten distracted with thrusting fingers in and out of you.

"Hm?"

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, the kindest smile on his face reminding you just how much he adored you, and your heart sporadically beat in your chest. When you didn't say anything else, he quickened his ministrations, eliciting more whines and moans.

"Is two orgasms too much for tonight?" he asked you, the question seemingly innocent regardless of both it's undertones, and what he was currently doing to you.

In hindsight you should've probably said yes. It most certainly would've hurried things along to something he would enjoy as much as you. However, if Spencer Reid fingering you was a religion, you were an eternally loyal follower, and you would do anything to keep him there for as long as you could.

So you shook your head, murmuring a quiet, "No. I can do two," and allowing him to fasten his fingers once more.

Fingers found and massaged that spot inside of you he had probably engrained into his brain, and he was leaning down to swallow the loud moan that followed from the feeling. Practiced motions tore the same sounds from your throat as he repeatedly brushed up against it, until your eyes were forced to squeeze shut once more, and hands that were once seeking solace in the sheets, found his wrist and wrapped around it.

"I can't move if you're going to keep my arm locked up, angel," he said when your nails dug into his wrist, lips smiling against your skin.

A few short jerks of his hand convinced you to let go of the death grip you had on him, instead returning them to the mattress.

Then he was doing that motion again, and again, and you were silently praying he would never stop. Although, if your moans were any indication to where you were at — and they were — Spencer wouldn't.

Your hips bucking told him more than he needed to know, and the absence of his body above you when he lay down on the bed next to you was long forgotten when a splayed hand on your abdomen pushed you back down into the mattress, your heart stuttering at the feeling.

Gentle whines of his name, and a repeated mantra of 'please, please, please' was the only thing your otherwise dismantled brain could come up with, and Spencer was relishing in the knowledge that he was doing this to you. And though it is something he knows he's done before, it had been far too long since and the reminder was always welcome.

"I know, sweet girl," he said against you when your eyes came open and searched his desperately, walls fluttering around his fingers indicating just how close you were.

"Please don't stop."

"I won't," he confirmed, punctuating the promise with his thumb returning to your clit. He had your best interest in mind — you knew that. He now wouldn't stop even if you begged him to.

Overwhelming seemed too insignificant of a word to describe what you felt like when you came, nerve endings all over your body sparking, instead of just the ones he was stimulating.

His thumb rubbing circles and his fingers thrusting in and out of you didn't falter until your shaking body had stilled and your strings of moans had diminished, slowly coming to a stop and leaving your body — seemingly — as fast as they had entered.

The content smile on your face was interrupted with Spencer's hand lifting to your lips, and instinctively you parted them, already knowing exactly what he was after.

His middle and ring fingers entered your mouth, and your face scrunched up despite yourself as you tasted yourself on them. He laughed at that — of course he did — and pulled them out soon after.

"You do that every time," he murmured, hair tickling your skin as he placed open mouthed kisses over your shoulder, up towards your neck.

"It tastes weird," you argued, and his teeth nipping your skin told you he disagreed. Though, he wasn't in the mood to argue, for he didn't say anything else on the matter.

"Still got it in you for one more?" he asked you, pulling his head back so he could see you once again.

"Yes."

"Good."

Your eyes watched him even as he rolled back to take his pants off, and the awkward smile he gave you provided the inkling of comfort that there was still the man from three months prior in there.

"I really missed you, you know?" This time it was you saying it, piercing the air as his hand came down between your thighs to part them. The head of his cock nudged against you, brushing delicately through your folds and eliciting a quiet whimper from your lips.

"I know," he answered, pressing kisses on your shoulder once more. "Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah. I'm fine," you confirmed with a nod, confusion crossing your features all up until you learned why he was asking.

A broken moan, choked and caught in your throat, left you when he painstakingly slowly pushed inside of you. There's not a lot going on inside your mind when he stops, your entire body aflame and equally desperate for more, as you were for him to take a moment here.

"I love you," he breathed out, the words hurried and encouraging your heart to speed up, and your mind to melt even more.

"I love you too," you said back, voice just as quiet, gently nudging hips ushering for him to move.

"Impatient girl," he muttered, but you smiled nonetheless because he did (move).

His thrusts were slow, and gentle, but you never truly minded how much time he took with you once you two were here. Even more so now, for you were on the same page as him, and you wanted to savour every single moment of this down to the second.

A whimper left your lips, followed closely by the desperate whisper of his name, and lips that were still resting against your shoulder smiled.

"I thought about this a lot," he said to you, his hand that was holding your thighs slightly open sliding up to find your clit. "I definitely shouldn't have."

"Why?" You knew why, but the thought of hearing him answer it aloud excited you a little.

Unfortunately, he knew you better than that. "Don't play coy. You know why, honey."

"You're cruel," you huffed, and he laughed, rolling his hips to meet yours, earning another moan. "Maybe I don't."

"Use that wonderful imagination of yours, then," he answered, rubbing your clit at the same time as he moved his hips once more, effortlessly rendering you unable to respond to him again.

A teenage boy probably could've lasted longer than the both of you, but you decided to blame it all on your already sensitive nerves from a prior orgasm, and the fact that Spencer Reid had not had you like this for over 2190 hours (not that he was counting).

Whimpers escaped your throat as he kept his hips thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace, while his fingers working on your clit did anything but. It was an aching juxtaposition that left you reeling for more, and Spencer was now the one shutting his eyes so he could hold onto some semblance of composure.

"Spencer," you pleaded, and it was a quiet moan from behind you that told you he was exactly where you were.

"I know, honey," he replied, the desperation in his voice jumpstarting your heart. "Need to come, yeah?"

"Mmhm," you nodded your head quickly, breathlessly moaning. "Please."

"You're going to. Don't worry. Don't need to beg, sweet girl."

Commingled moans and obscenely wet noises filled the air, and your hips stuttered as your stomach twisted into knots.

Chanting his name like a prayer, you meet him wherever your two souls go in that moment, and it's a shuddering feeling as you come at the same time as him. For the first time in forever.

His hand drops back to your thigh and he massages the muscles there gently, willing himself to stop before he crossed the line of overstimulation — not that you think you'd complain about that.

There was an emptiness when he pulled out, but then he was kissing you again to make up for it, and you were smiling against his lips as you kissed him back. This time, without the fever.

"How're you feeling?" he asked you, quietly.

"Happy," you answered, forcing your heavy eyelids open when he pulled back. "How are you feeling?"

"Also happy," he agreed, and your heart soared.

"Good."

"You need to go pee," he said, placing another kiss on your cheek, before he leaned his body away entirely.

"Help?"

Arguably, you could do it yourself. Your limbs were tired, yes, and your mind was melting, but you were coherent enough to brave it alone.

Thankfully, you didn't have to.

He carried you to the bathroom, running the bath water after you had silently begged him for it with your eyes (looking between him and the empty bath with wide eyes and a jutted lip worked wonders), and leaving you to pee.

"Are you getting in with me?" you asked him as wobbly legs akin to a fawn carried you over to the now full and steaming bathtub.

"Do you want me to?"

Hesitantly, you nodded your head, fidgeting with your fingers in front of you. "But you'd have to take your shirt off. So you don't have to."

He studied your face for a moment longer, before he nodded, and fingers expertly worked at unbuttoning down the shirt.

"I'm okay now. That's the important thing you have to remember, okay?" his words provided little comfort, but you nodded your head regardless.

You had a suspicion already of what sight you were going to be met with, but it didn't stop the guilt settling into your chest when the shirt fell to the floor anyways.

"Spence," you murmured, taking a hesitant step forwards, heart falling to your stomach.

Bruises littered the skin, some fresh and still purple, others nearly healed and yellowing. But there were so many, and it was then that you were swallowing the rest of him in with your eyes, catching the bandage on his thigh.

"What is that?" you nodded towards the covered wound, and when your eyes returned to his face again, he was staring at you with an unreadable expression.

"A lot happened," he answered, quietly, before repeating, "I'm okay now."

You nodded your head, tears stinging your vision for nothing more than your ridiculous amount of empathy. "Can you tell me about it?"

"I will," he promised. "Eventually. Just not now, okay? I haven't processed it all yet."

"Okay," you replied, and his heart shattered at the sight of a tear slipping down your face.

"Hey," he took ahold of your hand and tugged you closer to him, fingers running through your hair and resting at the base of your scalp. "I promise, honey. I'm not going to disintegrate from a few bruises."

"It isn't just a few," you answered, voice wavering. "There's so many."

"You have a heart too big for your chest," he decided to say instead, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. "Most of them don't even hurt now. Please believe me when I say I'm okay."

"I'm trying," your voice is thick with a sob caught in your throat. "I think I'm just really tired."

"Yeah," he crooned, agreeing. "Your body's released a lot of prolactin, which encourages sleep. Alongside the endorphins and dopamine that you're crashing from upon seeing this."

Wordlessly, you nodded your head, and he kissed the tip of your nose in an attempt to comfort.

"Bath, then we can sleep, and we can talk more in the morning," he listed off, and you merely nodded your head once more, sniffling and wiping your eyes.

"Okay."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

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unfortunately-a-dazai-kinnie · 3 days

Text

This is so sweet ahhhhhh

gypsophilia ; honey (18+)

Spencer Reid x Reader

TLDR: Spencer thinks Sundays are just for you - fluffy fluffy smut smut smut - 2.2k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI sexual content below (oral f!receiving, fingering, thigh humping for like a second, nipple play, a second of overstimulation), whatever it's called when reader licks Spencer's finger after he finger-bangs her, slight f!body worship, mentions of prayer and God and angels, pet names, softdom!Spence is a little shit, reader is submissive, Spencer is a whore who eats his girlfriend for breakfast, discussion of death and decomposition (I know, even in a smut fic I manage to make things depressing)

Notes: 2nd person, no y/n, fem reader. No physical descriptions aside from reader being able-bodied (please let me know if not the case as I try to keep reader a blank slate). shoutout to the three people that saw me get fucked by tumblr's queue department this morning.

When Spencer leaves your apartment on Sunday morning, he expects to find you asleep upon returning.

Sundays are for rest, you say, stay in bed, baby- no, stay, don’t… Spence… in that high-pitched whine that usually gets you exactly what you want.

And he replies, I’ll be back, baby, I– shush, I know, I know, and kisses your head.

You grumble. You pout. You snooze again soon after.

So, he expects to find you still in your sheets, fuzzy-brained and blossoming with Sunday feeling.

When he opens the front door, he hears your rustling in the bathroom. Smiling to himself, he waltzes to your kitchen and places down a paper bag of warm muffins and a bundle of baby’s breath, the tiny white petals bunching like snowflakes, and slips off his coat, frost still clinging to the vintage fabric.

You wander out of the bathroom, skin damp and complexion steamed and dewy, towel wrapping your frame.

Spencer's eyes twinkle like it's the very first time.

Heaven. Heaven. Heaven.

Boom, boom. Boom, boom.

“Sweet girl…” he rasps, tugging you tight against him, beaming down at you – pure sunlight – and presses a kiss to your forehead, “good morning.”

“Good morning.” You grin, “Where’d my sweet guy run off to, huh?”

“It’s not often I get to spend a whole weekend with you; I was trying to commemorate it.” taking your hand, he leads you into the kitchen, where he presents you with the warm paper bag and flowers.

You press your nose into the baby’s breath and grin up at him.

“My favourite.”

“I know.”

“And what’s in there?” you peel open the paper bag and gaze down at the chocolate-chip muffins waiting for you, cooked this morning, still hot from the bakery’s oven, “Perfect, perfect.”

Spencer smiles, eyes trailing the line of your towel, agreeing with you.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Spencer sighs, shaking his head, and clasps you by your waist, placing you to sit upon the kitchen island counters. You bite back a squeal, and he silences you further when he takes you by your radiant cheek and pulls you in to kiss him.

It’s not gentle, but not feverish either – someplace desperate but full of adoration, passionate. He breaks away because he can’t stop smiling, and continues to press open-mouthed kisses to your dew-dropped throat.

“Spencer…”

“Honey…”

“What are you doing?”

Spencer’s heart flutters.

“You look so pretty.”

His hands run up from your knees to your thighs, dragging the coarse fabric with it until it’s tucked up by your waist.

"Stop." you chuckle, turning bashful at such comments - the way he says it always make it sound important; he is the judge to your jury, and you wait for his words always with baited breath.

“So pretty.” he gazes at you, “Like an angel.”

“Really?”

“Always look pretty. Lay back for me, honey.”

Your brows raise at him.

“Why?” you taunt, one leg wrapping around his hip, tugging him closer to you.

“Because, smart-mouth,” he chuckles, taking your other leg and pushing it aside, exposing you underneath your towel, “when you are as charming-,” your eyes roll, “and as stunning as this… there’s only one thing on my mind.”

He slides you forward then so you’re almost hanging off the counter, eyes not breaking from yours.

"And on Sundays... I can take my time with you."

His lips take to your neck then, kissing away at your jaw and collarbone until you’re perfectly placid and quiet, and then leans over, lowering you back until your cool shoulder blades bones meet the countertop and his chest is pressed mostly to yours.

“Is that okay with you?” he asks then, tongue dragging along your jaw before kissing the spot just below your ear.

Your face burns and your cheeks ache from smiling.

“More than okay…” you mumble, tongue suddenly heavy.

Your fingers lace his hair as he navigates your skin through the damp towel, then reaches your thighs.

Kisses and tenderness part them for him, and you hum contently as his fingers glide the fabric aside.

When his tongue first makes contact against your clit in a light, testing lick, your hips buck and you let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a laugh, and Spencer’s arm slides around one thigh to rest his hand on your lower stomach, keeping you steady.

“You should be in bed, you know,” he tuts, “this would be a lot more comfortable in bed.”

You murmur, fingers streaming through his hair as he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one flat, weighted line that has your hips grinding against him.

On any other day, he might’ve chastised you for such impatience, but Sundays are special – they’re for you.

“’m plenty comfortable…”

Spencer tightens his hold on your thighs, your towel brushing around his forearms, drawing a line and a circle, over and over, until he's satisfied your entrance has been teased enough. Carving loops into your nerves, your desperate fingers loop and bunch in the curls of his hair, taming your hold to be as gentle as your pent-up arousal will allow.

Already hazy, the morning light dances along the curve of his clothed back and untameable curls, and your legs hook over his shoulders as he lowers further down, settling, devouring you, tongue accelerating in harsh halos that leave you halfway to heaven and halfway to hell. In your liminal space of ecstasy, there is no god except the man between your legs, indulging you just as much as you’re indulging him.

One hand comes to ground itself against the kitchen counter, head turning as you murmur your prayers to him – Dear God… Dear God… Dear God…

The gypsophilia brushes your nose and you smile in remembering their existence.

Sucking against your clit, gently at first in second-only intervals, your heels dig into his shoulder blades and your ribs expand around a sudden breath.

“Spencer…” you whine, charmed, and he smirks against your skin - the whining is his favourite part.

“Honey…” he murmurs, “you okay up there?”

“Uh…” you stumble for words – for something smart or bold or just coherent – and end up settling for a simple, “mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“Yeah… mhm, m’kay.”

“Those aren’t words.”

“One was…”

He shakes his head at your stubbornness but settles for your response, returning to his work – his praising of you – and your words return to hums and moans and whimpers for more. You wonder what he thinks with his head between your legs.

The truth is he’s thinking you taste and sound and feel perfect. Many philosophers theorised this didn’t exist. Spencer completely disagrees.

Spencer continues to lap at you as you grow wetter, as your legs tremble, as your pitch raises and he utilises his hand over your stomach to keep you against the counter. Your angel song is something to be craved.

As your thighs tighten around his head, he groans.

Back to halos, working through every trick in his book, Spencer leans in closer between your legs and wastes no energy in drawing circles on your clit, marking the same pathway he has a hundred times before. Whimpering, your hips raise, and Spencer senses your release.

He eases off and steadily flicks against you instead. You whine, murmuring nothing but sounding displeased all the same.

“Little longer, baby.” he rasps.

Worked up and clenching around air, your head shakes, but Spencer has you in the cold waves of pliancy, soft in the way you listen so well. Arching into his mouth, tugging on his hair and reminding yourself to be gentle, you drift into your own little world of please, please, please, Spencer, I’m close, need more, I need more, just-,

“I know… I know…” he mumbles, barely letting up, Sunday stubble brushing your inner thighs.

His sudden softness leaves you fluttering around air and Spencer smiles as your discontentment.

Two fingers drag across your entrance and you grind down, hoping to catch them, but failing by smug design.

"Desperate girl." he tsks.

"Cruel boyfriend." your head shakes.

"Cruel?"

Just to prove a point, he gently - slowly, making you wait for it - pushes his fingers inside you, giving you time to adjust.

"I'm not cruel, honey, I just know what's best for you."

In typical Sunday style, Spencer takes his time in opening you up around his fingers. Your hips fall against the counter and just let him do what he wants to do to you, soft sighs and whimpers leaving your parted lips.

"Look at that..." he smiles, lazily working at you.

When he’s satisfied you’ve waited enough, Spencer drags a heavy line from your entrance to your clit once more and sucks hard, rolling his tongue over it. Combined with his fingers curling inside you, Spencer has you right where he wants you.

You cry out, like he’d wounded you, glowing from the inside out – it burns, you’re sure, from the pit of your stomach to the morning light. Your head shakes – too much, too much, Spence.

“Mm… almost there… you're okay, honey..."

Fucked by Spencer's fingers, obliterated by his tongue, your orgasm creeps up on you – no doubt confused, itself, from Spencer’s incessant teasing – and you swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs. Tightening around him and growing dizzier, you search the desert of your mind for the word Spencer always wants to hear about now.

“Please…”

"Please?" he repeats, “You gonna come for me?"

You nod.

"Hm?"

"Yeah... please, Spence, please..."

"Of course… polite girl... such good manners..."

Sinful as ever, the moan that clambers your throat as your orgasm builds is panted and loud, restless and unyielding, and Spencer’s cue to hold you tighter as you no doubt start bucking your hips. Your body takes over your mind – you’re reduced to nothing but nerves and neurons – and you whine and shiver and Spencer, oh my God, Spencer, Spence… until you’re back to planet Earth, with Spencer still licking and lapping at you for his own enjoyment.

Your thighs tense around his head and your hips twitch again, this time writhing away from him.

“Too much…”

He kisses the insides of your thighs, biting and nipping as you come down from your sublime high.

"No more?" he asks.

"Mm.. no, thank you..."

"Okay, sweet girl..."

Spencer's hair is soft between your tingling fingertips.

Useless over his shoulders, Spencer moves your legs for you, guiding them down the edge of the countertop until they're fully hung over. His half-lidded gaze absorbs you in your hazy state, warm throughout, and you, continuing your neediness, reach out for him, brows wrinkled.

“Here, please.”

Spencer takes your hand and ushers you up slowly, other hand on the back of your head. You grumble at the awkward bend of your spine and settle into Spencer’s chest with a sigh.

“Love you.” your voice is a delicate mumble against his neck.

“I love you too… you okay?”

“I am… returning to orbit…”

“Oh good, I kinda need you on Earth if I wanna do that again.”

He cradles your head against his shoulder, other hand coming to wrap around your covered spine, pulling you flush against him by the small of your back. He loves how your quips and snark abandon you - how you crave his attention.

A short chuckle from his chest sends shivers through your thighs again.

"Not too much?" he asks.

You lift your head from his shoulder, shaking your head at him, still half a world away.

Spencer smooths a finger over your lips and you part them slightly, and he caresses your lower lip. Your tongue slides out to quickly taste yourself on his fingertips, and he smiles at you, pulling away so he can kiss you instead.

“Let’s get you into some comfortable clothes, hm?” he suggests.

With soft hands, he guides you off the counter on to shaky legs and you head into the bedroom, where he’d hoped to find you when he returned from his little outing. Muffins growing cold on the counter, Spencer is all too eager to get you into something cosy and sitting on the couch with melted chocolate on your nose.

As you dip into the mattress, peering up at him, Spencer smiles at your quietness. Opening your drawers, he fishes for a pair of pyjamas and fluffy socks.

“Your hands and feet account for around twenty-five percent of your body’s heat loss.” he says, “So, it’s important you wear socks – they have one of the smallest mass relative to surface area of your body.”

Kneeling in front of you, he tugs your socks on first as it’s all very important.

“Is that why you sleep with socks on?” you ask.

“Mostly,” he hums, “I like to be warm.”

“Does being taller mean you have less mass relative to surface area?”

“No, the opposite, honey.” he smiles, not holding it against you at all in your fuzzy state, “But that’s a good question.”

Sighing, you lean back on your bedsheets, crimpled and wrinkled underneath you, and Spencer unwraps your towel from your frame like a birthday present, gazing at you adoringly – though lust tinges his blown pupils, more than anything there is love.

Prayer, again.

Dropping your pyjamas to the bed, Spencer leans over you once more and kisses over your jaw, neck, collarbones, down to your chest where he licks at your nipple before taking it into his mouth. As you grow all hot in the middle once more, Spencer's hands slide over your sides, caressing your ribs down to the narrowest point of your waist. Writhing again, softly moaning, your still tingling clit brushes against Spencer's trousers and he wastes no time in giving you the friction you want, one leg kneeling on the bed between your thighs.

"So pretty... always so pretty..." he murmurs, voice half lost around your sensitive skin as your warmth drags against his trousers, "needy girl." he adds, sucking at your nipple and gently biting at it.

Your brows scrunch as you fight the urge to lean in and tug away from his attention, "Could look at you forever."

"Spence..." you whine out.

"'m not gonna push you for another one, don't worry. I just like looking at you - taking my time," he sighs, a hand caressing your jaw, "even though time isn't real, not in the way we operate around it, I... like to dedicate part of my finite existence to... your finite existence..."

Rising from your chest, Spencer's thigh slips away from your core and he kisses you. You grin against him, tender hand brushing his hair from his face.

"I disagree," you mumble, "I think you and I are infinite."

Spencer beams, blushing, head shaking. You think he might melt and compliment you again.

Instead, his nose swipes tauntingly against yours.

"That's not accurate."

"Spencer-," you grumble.

"Decomposition starts immediately after death; in fact, in our late twenties, our bodies stop operating as efficiently," he kisses one cheek, "and the telomeres shorten with each cell division, and that shorter telomeres means slower cell replication." and then the other.

"Well, what if I write about you, hm?" you ask, "What if I write songs and poems? What if I paint you?" toying with the fabric of his shirt, you continue, "Besides, haven't we always existed, in some way, within our ancestors? Wouldn't you find a splinter of me in the stone age if you looked close enough?"

Spencer tugs your pyjama bottoms up over your legs, which you hold out delicately for him, musing at his insistence on taking care of you, then ushers you up with a wave of his fingers.

"I would find you anywhere. I do."

The waistband sits snuggly over your hips and his knuckles brush around your abdomen.

You take your shirt and tug it over yourself in an attempt at independence, which he steals from you when he kisses the summit of your head.

“Come on,” Spencer calls, “believe it or not, I am actually hungry and your flowers need water.”

“Muffins aren’t a good source of breakfast nutrients anyway.”

“So, you don’t want one?”

You frown.

“No, of course I want one, silly man.”

“Is that how we talk to boyfriends that spoil us?” he grins.

Face warming far too quickly, you divert your gaze and rise to a stand, hand clasping his shoulder for support.

“Maybe not.” you mumble.

“Maybe not.” he nods, “Yeah, maybe not, maybe we don’t…”

“Stop.” you bat his arm, entirely mockingly, and he chuckles, cheeks pinkening with each dashing moment in your presence.

“Why? You get all shy when I talk to you like this – it’s sweet.”

“You’re good at it.”

“I am, am I? Well… I’ll have to bring you muffins and flowers more often.”

Clasping your cool hand in his, he continues.

“Did you know that gypsophila is actually the largest species of carnations with over a hundred and fifty different types of plants, and the sweet fragrance makes it a pollinator friendly flower attracting bees and butterflies?”

masterlist series (smut) masterlist for more pure fluffy smut, check out amber (18+) for more sweet sweet spencer, feel free to check out magic

crimson and clover - tommy james & the shondells i found you - alabama shakes sweet nothing - taylor swift

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