I Love You, I’m Sorry

spectacular gimme fourteen of em rn 💳💥💳💥💳💥

gala

who? spencer reid (season 7) x fem!reader summary: when you need a date for a gala in DC, there's only one person you're willing to call on, and spencer has to make it known how hard it is to restrain himself around you, especially in that dress. word count: 2.4k content warnings: munch!spencer, spencer calls r ma'am and sweetheart, r wears a red silk dress, no use of y/n, 18+ minors dni a/n: can you tell i stole the gradient idea from @mggslover? thank you for enabling me tonight bby <3 check out more mayor!reader here

You hadn’t meant to call him — debating it in business class with your entourage settled in around you. The press secretary insists that it’s bad PR to go to the gala alone, held in honour of the city officials of California after some of the worst wildfires you’ve seen in history. The thought makes you uncomfortable, especially with the kinds of dresses that have been packed for you.

Still, you think, at least I’m not giving a speech. Even if the realisation that you wouldn’t be getting any airtime at the gala had made the PR team livid. And having passed the midpoint of your second term made it worse, knowing that the next target was a governorship. As much as it made your skin crawl, the team had pulled together an elaborate set-up in the wake of the fires, propping you up to give one of the best speeches of your career, rallying first responders and the neighbourhood.

The handwritten letters had been your idea, personally writing to grieving members of your community, and the people had taken to social media, making you one of the highest rated city officials in the state over your response to the fires. The fact that public rating hadn’t been the point went over everyone’s heads.

Part of you is tired of this — of the constant hovering, checking your angles, turning you into the perfect doll. It’s a halter-top dress, red silk hugging your waist, and matching heels that are gonna be murder at the end of the evening, hair swept into a chic bun to show off pearl earrings. Perfectly put-together for the camera.

You’re going over the itinerary of the evening when he knocks on your door, already ajar, and stepped inside, closing it behind him, wearing a tuxedo, the bow-tie slightly wonky — something that would give your press secretary a heart attack. His lips parted a little at the sight of you, hazel eyes tracing the outline of your dress, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, mustering the courage to meet your eyes. “Hi,” he said meekly at your apologetic smile.

“Hey,” you murmured, slightly out of breath already. The last time you’d seen him had been in your car, dropping him off at the airfield, leaving you with a lingering kiss that had you staring into space for a minute before you were sober enough to drive back. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” you started, having practiced what you were gonna say in the bathroom mirror.

“I’m glad you called,” he assured you, feet finally moving towards you.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you murmured. “Some public spectacle because ratings say I look better on someone’s arm—”

“You look amazing,” he rushed to cut you off, hand twitching with the effort of not touching you. And just like that, three words rendered you speechless, colour rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the make-up artist’s blush.

“Thank you,” you managed, taking an infinitesmally small step to correct his tie. His eyes never leave you, nor do you want them to, as you smoothed down the lapels of his tux.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he confessed, it taking every ounce of effort and willpower not to just reach out and touch you.

“I’m pretty sure Maria would kill you if you did,” you murmured, looking up at him, the corner of your lip curling up in a smile.

“It’d be worth it,” he whispered, unable to help himself as he slid his hand over your waist, leaning in closer, watching your pretty eyes close with his proximity.

“We really shouldn’t,” you whispered back, and you’re gonna need a chaperone at this point to make sure there’s at least a foot between you both.

“What if I can make it so noone needs to know?” Spencer asked, nose nudging yours a smile playing on his lips. His grip was growing firmer, more confident, guiding you to the nearest surface, but loose and slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted to, and the next thing you know, you’re pressed against the writing desk. His hand cupped one side of your neck, nose trailing over your cheek as his lips found purchase on the other side, just under your ear, the faintest swipe of his tongue electrifying your skin. Your head hung limply, betraying your logic as he overwhelmed you completely. “Need to hear a yes, sweetheart,” he whispered, a slight rasp to his voice.

“Y-Yes,” you whispered and his lips drifted lower, careful to keep you as pristine as your team had left you. His hand dragged under the hem of your thigh, sliding over the outside before gently lifting you up, setting you on the desk, slotting between your knees.

“Christ, I missed you so much,” he whispered, dragging his callused finger tips over your thighs. “Want to kiss you so badly.” He's so careful, so gentle, but you can tell he's holding back, his breaths turning just a little ragged and his grip becoming a little possessive. Spencer's so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, the hand on your thigh sliding up, just under the silk. Your heart's pounding so hard it's a wonder he can't feel it, and there isn't a damn thing you can do but watch as his nose brushes over your jaw.

Your hands gripped his forearm, fingers digging in when he finds the hem of your panties, lifting your hips ever so slightly in permission. He dragged the lace fabric down, simultaneously using his foot to hook around the chair to bring it closer so he can sit between your knees, looking up at you.

The room is eerily silent apart from your heavy breaths, and he's looking up at you with a heady mix of desire and reverence, before his mouth drags over the inside of your knee. His other hand slides over your hip, gripping you tight, as he slowly, so slowly, plants warm, wet kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"Fuck," you breathed out, elongating the word, gripping the edge of the table to hold onto some semblance of cognitive function. But one look at Spencer between your thighs, marking up soft skin, robs you of any of that.

He can feel the heat radiating from you as his nose trails over the sensitive skin, and his tongue darts out for a split second, before his mouth is back, leaving a trail of bruises along your trembling thighs.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, and even he's surprised at the amount of want in his voice. "You're killing me here."

You want to laugh, but it's strangled in your throat. "I'm killing you?" you scoffed in quiet disbelief.

"You should see yourself right now," he murmured, glancing up at you beneath his eyelashes, but the view is too tempting, and he couldn't help but kiss his way up past your knee, hands cupping your calves. "You're so close to me, and I can't even kiss you because of that stupid, stupid makeup. I'd kiss you so hard, sweetheart. You've no idea," he voiced, punctuating random syllables with open-mouthed kisses.

Your heart jumped at the rasp in his voice, the sheer extent of his desire, and you believe him, so much that you have to shift uncomfortably, clearly needing him to relieve you. He noticed the restless movement, the way the muscles in your thighs tensed, and his mouth curled up in a faint smirk.

"You want something, sweetheart?" he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, so close to where you wanted him. He was trying to keep his voice steady, his composure, although it was quickly crumbling.

"You're being cruel," you whispered.

He chuckled, the sound low and rasped against your skin, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your heated skin. He was close, so close, to where you needed him, but he was holding back, drawing it out. "Me? Cruel?" he echoed, his breath ghosted over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "You're the one sitting up there, all dolled up for the cameras, driving me insane."

"Hardly on purpose!" Your protest comes out as a childish whine. "I'm just trying to do my job."

Spencer hummed, hands reaching your hips and pulling you close to the edge of the desk. “May I, ma’am?” he asked, smirking from below you, fingers already tracing the edge of your panties and you screwed up your lips, trying not to smile at the title as you nodded, tucking strands of hair behind your ear. Your hips complied to his pull, red lace coming down to your ankles, then disappearing into his pocket.

Before you can come up with something smart to say, his head dipped under the red silk, and Christ, his tongue has your knuckles whiten, fingers digging into the desk. It’s a sharp flick that has you mewling already. The tip of his tongue swirls around your clit so lightly, it’s all you can do not to gasp and push his face closer. Your hips twitch and squirm, already so sensitive from his lightest touch, only his hands keep you still with a firmness he never had before.

“Spencer,” is all you manage to breathe out, and his voice is too muffled. You never get to ask him to repeat, the flat of his tongue parting your folds, running over your centre and wrapped his lips around your clit like he was making out with your cunt. It was all you could do to stop yourself from pulling at his hair, breathy gasps turning into soft whines as he played around with a rhythm, finding one that worked for you, and going crazy with it.

Your thighs threatened to close in on him, only for firm, vein-riddled hands to push them wide. Your grip on the table gives out as he coaxes you to your peak, landing on your elbows with a quiet thud, a fuzzy sting that rivals the fuzziness in your head. Your hips attempt to jerk closer to him, and his arms have to wrap around your thighs to keep you still, making your frustration so much worse, your sheer helplessness to his onslaught making you needier. “Please,” you gasped, needing release. How did his jaw not hurt at this point?

His lips wrapped around your clit, nose rubbing against it, tongue sliding lower, lapping against your entrance. You’re almost sobbing when he eases two fingers into your cunt, curling deep, crooking and finding a slow but hard rhythm that has you clenching around him — almost desperate. You’re barely holding on, legs shaking around him. “Please, Spence, I’m–“ but you can’t form any more words, so close, just teetering at the edge, his fingers still going and his mouth still going and it’s just too much. “Please, please,” you whine out, desperate for relief, trying so hard not to pull on his hair.

His fingers curled, seeking that one spot, the one that had you trembling against him. Your voice rose in pitch, nearly cracking, words turning back into mewls and moans. Your hips jerked desperately, seeking more that he was just barely keeping from you, and your eyes fluttered shut, the heat in your core growing impossibly tight, threatening to spill over. He didn't show any signs of letting up, the relentless rhythm he had set up driving you to the brink. "Please, Spence, I’m so close," you begged, and he could hear the tension in your voice, the desperation, the need that mirrored his own.

His fingers curled, finding that sensitive spot inside you, his tongue flicking over your clit with perfect pressure. You could feel yourself trembling on the edge of your orgasm, and he knew exactly what you needed. "Please," you gasped again, and he pressed against that spot in response, feeling your body tense up even more. He could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, before relaxing entirely, your body going boneless as relief warms your entire body.

Spencer takes a breath before lapping your cunt clean, at a slow and leisured pace, sliding his fingers out. Silk fell away from his face, draping your lap as he pulled away, watching you catch your breath. The air was heavy with the smell of arousal, the taste of you still on his lips and the fingers that he licked clean. Your breathing slowly returned to normal, the tension fading from your body. He couldn't help but admire the sight of you, completely undone, your figure draped in red silk, the usually composed and articulate city official now utterly wrecked. It was a sight he could easily get used to.

“You… I don’t— how are you so good at that?” you asked, breathlessly, looking at him in awe as he stood between your thighs.

“With a lot of self-restraint,” he admitted, making you huff, shaking your head. You moved your hands to straighten his bow-tie, well aware of your proximity to him, your hands smoothing down the lapels of his tuxedo, and the door to your room opened up.

“Car’s waiting for you downstairs, Madam Mayor,” your assistant reported, her clear gaze not missing the proximity between you and Spencer and barely restraining a smirk. “Dr Reid,” she added in acknowledgement, Spencer raising a hand to greet her with a sheepish smile and then the door closes, leaving you both alone for a moment.

You let out a sigh, slipping off the table, smoothing down your dress as Spencer watched you. His gaze never left you as you composed yourself, straightening your dress and fixing your hair, transforming back into the poised city official in a matter off seconds. The transition was almost seamless, but he couldn't help noticing the slight redness on your cheeks, the remnants of your earlier activities.

Spencer's heart, after spending the last few moments going at a pace that would've concerned a cardiologist, finally began to settle. He had been reckless, and perhaps a little selfish. But as he watched you, he couldn't bring himself to regret a thing. “This is gonna be a long night,” you murmured under your breath, taking his arm. He couldn’t help but agree.

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EATING THIS UP RAHHHHHH

bad idea right

Holiday break with your new stepfamily gets more interesting when you catch your stepbrother's lingering glances.

Pairing: afab!reader x stepbrother!Spencer Content: angst + slight smut, 2.7k words, DDDNE, no kinks, but Spencer is your stepbrother (set just before-s1), reader is a college graduate and mentioned to wear dresses and makeup, reader gets tipsy, complicated family dynamics and unhealthy coping mechanisms, making out, dry humping.  Notes: MDNI. I do not condone the choices of the characters, this request truthfully just brought to me a fully-fledged idea that I could not ignore. Once again, scroll away if this isn’t your cup of tea. Title is indeed from the Olivia Rodrigo song, which I extensively listened to while I wrote. This isn’t even that smutty, but I really enjoyed exploring ideas of resentment simmering beneath the surface. I suppose this affirms a previous anon who accused me of being a freak—evidently. Of the highest order. Welcome. I bear cookies and milk. They’re poisoned.

Winter break. The chill wraps around the air like an overbearing mother—inescapable, looming in corners you wouldn’t suspect—although Spencer Reid wouldn’t know what having an overbearing mother entails. Diana Reid had never been overbearing even in her lucidity but the comparison seems apt. A certain foreboding attitude hangs over the house. Gathering here, with his father’s new family, a measly, pathetic attempt to be closer. 

He’s never particularly gone through the usual sulking phase of adolescence. Too busy growing up, being good, working hard to hide how he’s splintering at every corner—a young boy burdened by the weight of his genius and a mother absent from reality. A life without the support of a father. 

A father who is now desperately trying to reconnect, accepting him—forcibly, under the guise of love—into the fold of his new family. It’s all so performative, but then again Spencer knows all about performative. Having spent years trying to seem okay, like his mother isn’t rapidly deteriorating, hiding the fact that she’s unfit to be his guardian behind clean, well ironed clothes and his remarkable academic performance. His entire life is a laughable farce, so he sees through everything—the perfect spread of Christmas dinner, being forced to open presents in the morning together—they’re all facades precariously balanced on everyone’s cooperation. 

He'd played the part, baring his teeth as a way of smiling—he's never quite properly learned how to smile, having little cause for the action—posing for pictures, thanking his new stepmother for the new copy of Foucault’s Madness and Civilization. 

It’s a good gift, even though he’s already read the material. Shows that she made an attempt to know about him. Spencer could admit that the woman is kind, thoughtful, stable, he could see how his father would fall in love with her. But there's the underlying implication—she's nothing like Diana Reid. 

He decides he hates her the day after Christmas. He decides William Reid doesn't deserve her either. 

It feels like now he’s getting his life’s worth of teenage angst. After Christmas is over, he locks himself away, talking only when talked to. His father and stepmother are gone today, attending a fancy brunch with their shiny new friends, so Spencer ventures out of his room cautiously. His quiet footsteps are simply manifestations of his unease. Trying to create the least amount of noise, take up the smallest space. He does not feel welcome here, and he doesn’t want to.

Winter break. The chill insists upon invading the house, despite the heater. 

Yet you’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of cereal in nothing but a slinky, emerald green slip. 

You. The most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

His stepsister. 

He pauses at the doorway, mouth dry, eyes trained on the way the fabric falls over your body, reflective silk casting shadows and highlights and making every single curve seem so supple and soft and oh so tempting.

He clears his throat. “Good morning.”

“Hey,” you look over your shoulder to regard him. He’s found that you’re even more displeased by this arrangement, this quick merging of two families. Traditional holiday festivities ring hollow now, obviously ornamental to make the marriage seem less dismal. Your way of showing your displeasure is the exact opposite of his. Instead of holing up in your room, you’re always outside if you can help it. He’s not sure where, but it’s obvious that neither of you are happy.

He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He’s finally reached a point where college graduates are age appropriate enough to be considered his peers. No longer the youngest person in the room. But at this point, his social grace is completely in reverse to his intellect. That is, nearing zero. He has no idea how to talk to you.

“I’m gonna meet a couple of friends for lunch,” you say, lifting the spoon to your mouth. His gaze follows, before he finds clarity and looks down.

“That’s good,” he mumbles, walking to the fridge and finding the milk carton.

“You wanna come?”

“Not really.”

He sees you shrug from the corner of his eye. Part of him wants to retract his rejection, but you’re already rinsing your bowl. Soon you’ll flounce off, and he’ll be alone. Good, he decides. It’s better off like this, holding you at a distance. He doesn’t need more fuel to add to his inappropriate attraction to you.

Leave it to him to mess this up. He doesn’t even want this new family—he’d much rather spend Christmas in Nevada. A small room he rents near Diana’s sanitarium, so he could spend time with her whenever he can. Still, he can’t believe he’s committing to this cliche. Nerdy step brother ogling his beautiful step sister. It’s as if he carries some permanent malady, inflicting it upon everything he touches.

“I’ll see you later then, Spencer.” your touch on his arm makes him flinch. 

He ducks and nods, hiding away from the odd look he’s sure you’re giving him. A look everyone gives him, even his mentor, the only man who could ever keep up with him. Weakly, he answers, “Yeah. Later.”

Later turns out to be way past dinner; Spencer is alone for far longer than he anticipated. His father and stepmother return around dinnertime, the woman drunk and stumbling about. William Reid pats his son on the shoulder, before quickly retiring to the master’s bedroom, “We’re both exhausted, Spencer. Make sure your sister gets home at a reasonable hour.”

What constitutes reasonable? He’d never gone out and partied when he was studying—or after, if he’s being completely honest. Still, he nods at his father, deciding there’s really no harm waiting up for you. 

It is quiet when you stumble into the house, but there’s a light in the kitchen that makes your heart rate spike. Your mother? William? Are you in trouble for staying out? Can you even get in trouble when you’re an adult? What are the rules for adults still living with their parents? You’re unsure. There’s no curfew, but the presence of the light reminds you all too well of past conversations when your mother had caught you sneaking back in.

It’s easy to regress back into the habits from your earlier years when you’re around her. Locked in this perpetual dynamic of mother and child—mother and daughter, which is arguably even worse—where you’re meant to forever stay young, her baby as she likes to say, with a beaming smile as if that would soothe the sting of having to move back home after college. 

Tail tucked between your legs, accepting defeat. You had plans of making it in a big city—didn’t everyone? But money and luck and a whole other host of factors are not on your side, so you’d begrudgingly accepted her offer. Come live with me until you get your feet solidly planted on the ground, she had said. Conveniently leaving out the part where she remarried. But you didn’t want to be homeless, so you had smiled through gritted teeth and moved back in, accepting William Reid as your new stepfather, as if your old, real father wasn't buried six feet down the ground only eight months ago.

It’s his son now that’s waiting in the kitchen. Spencer. Scrawny, bug eyed. Your mother had gushed about him in the past few weeks—apparently, he’s finished three PhDs., and is being considered for the FBI even though he’s technically too young to even apply. He’d never be like you, struggling to get past the first interview. No, he’s too brilliant for that.

He looks up from his book as you pad through the halls. Dim light softens the gaunt angles of his face, making him almost handsome. He smiles, and the illusion is gone, replaced by the reality of what he is: a boy still fumbling about how to be a man. 

“You’re back,” his voice is soft as he closes the book—some Italian writer you remember reading for a literature class.

You walk past him, grabbing a glass. “Yeah. Why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, training his eyes on the floor, but not before you catch his gaze lingering at your bare legs. “It’s so quiet around here.”

Right. He still lives in the city where, even in the dead of night, there’s an undercurrent of sound. Still accustomed to the slight hum, the pulse that lets you know there are other people awake around you, doing night shifts, or partying, or making love. Here in the quiet suburbs, with the strict homeowner’s association, a car revving down the street would be the cause for a noise complaint.

“Hm,” you gulp your water, “Should’ve come with me.”

“I didn’t want to intrude on you and your friends.” he replies, eyes flickering back to you. Clear amber, even in the dim light, “I hope you had fun, though.”

Try as you might, you can’t hate the guy. He’s much too earnest, too bumbling to ever be of any real danger. Besides, he’s stuck here just as much as you are, into this stupid tableau of family values your parents have forced upon you. Your resentment would only be wasted on him, especially since his resentment is just as obvious.

So you flash him a smile, lips reflective and mimicking wetness thanks to the lipgloss, “I did, thanks. How’s your book?”

He doesn’t answer right away, eyes trained on your mouth. 

“Spencer?”

“Oh, it’s good,” he turns his gaze back to his copy, old and worn, with papers sticking out of them, “I’ve read it before, I’m just reading through my annotations.”

“Ah,” you nod. Of course he’s the type to annotate. And reread said annotations. You walk closer, leaning against the table beside him. The way his eyes dart down your bare legs, not in full display, within touching distance, fills your mind with dangerous thoughts. So you steer the conversation that way, pressing his buttons ever so slightly, “Sorry you’re stuck here by the way. Could’ve been out getting laid at D.C.”

He shakes his head, a self deprecating smirk tilting at his lips. “I’m not—that’s not really my thing.”

“No?”

“Girls don’t really find me appealing.” he mumbles, risking another glance at your legs. You wait for the usual self pitying speech, the one with underlying anger and misogyny, but it doesn’t come. He simply looks wistful.

You find yourself filled with genuine intrigue, “No?” 

It’s interesting how the same word could carry such a different meaning with the slightest shift in inflection. Spencer seems to pick up on the softness of your voice.

“No, I don’t really—I spend most of my time reading.” he tells you.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t spend your time holed up in isolation,” your finger touches his chin, tilting it up to meet you. A strange sense of power fills your stomach as you watch his pupils dilate. “You’d find someone.”

You have a plethora of fucked up things upon which you can place the blame for why you do the next thing—your life not going the way you want it, the growing resentment for this entire holiday, your alcohol addled state of mind. That’s a problem you’ll figure out in the morning. Right now, you’re leaning in to kiss him. Your lips are sticky against his dry ones, palms cupping his jaw as you move your lips gently.

For a moment, you’re afraid you’ve misread the signals—he’s rigid, as though frozen by the permeating frigidity of the house. You consider pulling away, but then he is kissing you back. Slowly, at first, matching your pace, but then your tongue darts out to drag across the seam of his lips, mouth parting, and suddenly he’s moving with desperation. Kissing you as if he intends to meld your mouths together, making the prettiest little noises from the back of his throat.

There’s little time to think, not when there’s so much resentment and frustrations pouring out of both of you and into the kiss. He’s trying to keep up with your anger, but inexperience makes him uncoordinated. It’s sloppy and just on the edge of painful, clashing teeth and tongues poking harshly into crevices, not with the intention to explore but to take. 

When you tug at his pants, he pulls back, holding onto your hips like you’re some sort of lifeline. “W-we shouldn’t,” he pants.

“No?” you press your palm on his crotch, raising a brow at the obvious erection hiding beneath the fabric. 

He moans, eyes squeezing shut. “This is wrong, you’re drunk and—and my step sister.”

“I’m not drunk,” you mumble, moving to straddle his lap, dress hiking up to your hips and giving him a full view of your legs. Your cunt goes directly over his crotch. Only a few scraps of fabric separate you, and the thought makes you moan, makes you nip at his lower lip. He stiffens in response, face bright red.

“At least deny the step sister part,” he complains, resting his forehead against yours.

You don’t have anything to counter it, at least not with words, so instead you move your hips over the spot where you’ve settled. A moan trembles from his lips as you grind on his crotch, seeking friction from the growing bulge. You swallow the sound with another kiss, and this time he doesn’t fight it. 

“It doesn’t count,” you say in between kisses, hands tangling in his hair, “If we don’t actually fuck.”

He laughs, breathless and disbelieving, his breath warm on the skin of your jaw where he’s begun trailing kisses. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Yes, it does.” you insist, grinding your hips on his crotch, moaning as the thin lace of your panties grow soaked with your arousal, making the friction feel that much sweeter. “Makes perfect sense. Perfectly logical. It’s just masturbating then.”

Spencer is whimpering into your neck, large hands holding your waist to keep you balanced on his lap. “That’s still wrong.”

“Oh please, don’t act like you haven’t been jerking off to the thought of me.” That’s a risky sentence; you’re not actually sure. But with the way his hips jerk up into you, you realize he has done it. Lowering your voice, you lean in and bite his ear, rocking your hips into a rhythm that mimics the movements of sex. “You have, haven’t you? That’s why you spend all that time alone in your room?”

“I—fuck,” he groans, nails digging into your hips as he ruts his hips up to match you, “Yes. Yes, yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Spencer.” you moan, arms wrapping around his neck. “God, this feels so good.” Pleasure courses through your veins, heightened by the alcohol and the fact that neither of you shouldn’t be doing this. Beneath you, the chair he’s sitting on scrapes on the kitchen floor, creaking slightly from your rocking bodies.

“Yeah,” he groans, teeth clamping around the sensitive part of your throat. You hiss at the sting, grinding down on his erection harder, an action that sends his body into a fit of tremors, stiffening and then shuddering as he muffles his moans against your skin.

He’s coming, you realize, and the fact makes you go harder, eager to chase your own orgasm. His length is still rock hard, easy to rub your sensitive clit on it to find stimulation, and soon, you’re quivering on top of him as the pleasure finally snaps and overtakes your body.

He holds you tightly to him, arms around your waist as you try to regain your breaths. “W-we can’t do this again.” he whispers, voice hoarse, arms trembling despite their tight grip on you.

“Right,” you murmur, gingerly climbing off his lap, “Just this once, never again.” 

His arms linger, wanting to keep you against him longer despite every brain cell yelling at him about goodness and morality and legal complexities. Reluctantly, he lets go.

You regard him, strangely sober after such a high. Cheeks flushed, a stain at his crotch, the very picture of ruin. With a smile, you bend down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Keep this between us?”

“Of course.”

You make two promises that night. Only one of them is kept.

Life With Spencer

Part One

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst, mild hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: choppy -- like real life lol, open ending, smut & suggestive content (18+), criminal minds cases & violence, sooo in love, people being mean to Spencer, reader is nervous, reader is also grumpy when woken up (real), virgin!Spencer, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like a year…

Word count: 20.4k

a/n: i just keep imagining what it would be like to be true, domestic partner's with spencer *sighhhhh* i would love to make this a series if anyone has any suggestions for real-life scenarios with our man!!! part two is already underwayyyyyyy

main masterlist

It started, of all places, in a post office.

Spencer was there to send a specialty package to his mom, carefully wrapped and labeled in his neatest handwriting and checked at least three times before approaching the counter. You were there picking up a fresh sheet of funky stamps for the biweekly cards you sent to your own mom. You caught him eyeing your stamps; he caught you noticing how he triple-checked the zip code, and before either of you knew it, you were both lingering by the door, pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to say something.

He didn’t ask for your number that day. He didn’t even ask your name. But you remembered his awkward smile, and he remembered how your laugh sounded like a punctuation mark at the end of his favorite kind of sentence.

Approximately two months later, after a few more accidental post office encounters—some real, some not-so-accidental on his part—Spencer finally worked up the courage to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Nothing fancy. Just... coffee. You said yes without hesitation. Not because you loved coffee or anything—you didn’t even drink it that much—but because it was him.

About five weeks after that first coffee—after getting to know each other over steaming mugs, awkward pauses, and shared smiles that turned less awkward with every meeting—Spencer asked you on an official date. He said it like it was a formal event, and you agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three weeks after the first date, you had your first kiss. He asked, of course—“Can I kiss you?”—softly, like a secret he wasn’t sure he could say aloud. You whispered “Please” and met him halfway.

One day later, he showed up at your doorstep, cheeks pink, breath short, and hands full of slightly wilted grocery store flowers. He blurted out, “I’d like to be your boyfriend officially. I wish I had more patience, but I don’t.” You laughed, said yes, and pulled him inside for some checkers and records. You both forgot the flowers on the kitchen counter until hours later when he gasped and apologized profusely for “botching the presentation.”

One month into dating, you finally had a proper make-out session. It happened on your couch after you watched an old movie you’d half-paid attention to. His hands were still a little unsure like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but you guided them to your hips gently, making room for all the ways he was still learning how to want.

Three months after that—after gentle kisses, warm touches, and whispered confessions—you started experimenting more fully. Slowly. Carefully. Clothes stayed mostly, but curiosity replaced fear. Hands explored. Bodies pressed close. 

When you start experimenting, it’s clear right away that Spencer is a complete virgin.

Not in the accidental, whoops-it-just-never-happened kind of way. No—he carried this with him deliberately, quietly, like a fragile artifact wrapped up in careful layers of hesitation and logic.

He’d had a few kisses here and there—fumbling, fleeting moments of curiosity and awkward courage—but nothing past that. The most notable, of course, was the one in the pool with Lila Archer, which he mentioned to you once with a sheepish, barely-there smile and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

But what else could anyone expect? He was a child prodigy placed in public schools in Las Vegas—twelve years old, surrounded by kids over his age, twice his size, and with none of the social tools they’d already started to learn. By the time those awkward, formative years passed him by, he was in college. Then, the Bureau. Then, the field.

Life didn’t exactly leave time or space for learning how to kiss someone without overthinking it, how to touch someone like it was normal, or how to be touched without freezing.

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

Not because he doesn’t want it. And not because you’re hesitant, either. But because he feels everything. Every brush of your fingers over his collarbone. Every time your thigh touches his on the couch. Every time your lips linger too long near the corner of his mouth, just waiting for him to close the gap.

And Spencer doesn’t want just to do things. He wants to understand them. Feel them. Memorize the lines of your body like poetry he’s afraid to get wrong.

So the first time your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, his breath stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t panic. But he’s so still.

Like his body doesn’t know yet what it’s allowed to want.

And you… you go slowly. Tenderly. You kiss him like you have all the time in the world and like he’s never been kissed quite right before. You let your hands rest on his chest, warm and grounding, not moving unless he shifts toward you first.

And when he finally does—when Spencer leans in, his lips parting slightly and his hands shaking just a little as they find your waist—you can feel the trust. You can feel how much it took for him to get there.

…

After all the slow touches, the careful kisses, the long silences that weren’t uncomfortable but sacred, it finally reached that tipping point. That moment when your hand, light and sure, drifted lower, brushing down the center of his chest, past his ribs, over the soft skin of his stomach—just warm skin beneath your fingers, taut with tension but never rejection.

You weren’t rushing. You would never rush him.

But he was trembling now, just slightly, beneath your hand, and when your fingers reached the waistband of his pants, pressing there gently like a question—Can I? Are we okay?—

Spencer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his entire body freezing like someone had hit pause on him mid-thought, mid-movement, mid-desire.

And then—

“Virgin!” he blurted out, like a siren going off in the middle of a church.

You blinked. Pulled back just a little, more surprised by the sudden volume than anything else.

He was already burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” you said softly, trying not to laugh—not at him, never at him, but just at the Spencer-ness of the entire thing. “Did you just—did you just shout the word ‘virgin’ at me?”

His voice was muffled through his hands. “I panicked.”

You bit your lip, reaching out to gently tug his hands away so you could see his face, which was redder than you’d ever seen it.

“I figured,” you said with a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “That you hadn’t… done this before.”

Spencer stared at you, his eyes wide and embarrassed and pleading for you not to think less of him. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin anything. And then your hand was—you were right there—and I didn’t know what to do or say, and I—”

“Spence,” you cut in gently, placing your hand over his heart. “Hey. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m really glad you told me.”

He swallowed hard, trying to read your expression. “You are?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I want all of you. That includes all the firsts, too. I don’t care how much or how little you’ve done. I just care that you’re here and that you trust me.”

He looked like he was still trying to compute that. His jaw flexed slightly, eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back. “I do,” he said softly. “Trust you, I mean.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and slow. “Then let’s take our time.”

—

It happened in the quietest moment, a few months in.

Not during a grand gesture, not in the middle of a kiss, or some cinematic slow dance under string lights. It happened while you sat on the couch with your legs draped over his, your shared dinner growing cold on the coffee table, and an old record playing in the background.

Spencer looked over at you—your hair a little messy, one sock slipping down, hoodie too frumpy, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and said it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

No stutter. No warning. No long-winded buildup, though with Spencer, that in itself was a miracle. Just three soft, perfectly-formed words like he'd been thinking them every day and finally found the courage to let them go.

You blinked.

Your chest swelled instantly, and that kind of joy was so overwhelming that it felt like your heart might burst right through your ribs. Your whole body felt lighter like gravity itself had relaxed around you. You wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Climb into his lap and never get up again.

Because you loved him. So much. And hearing it from him—from Spencer, who measures his words with surgical precision, who doesn’t say things unless he means them with his entire being—meant everything.

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him how long you’d wanted to say it, how long you’d wanted to hear it, how long you’d been feeling it—but nothing came out. Not one word. Not even a breath.

You could feel your face trying to smile or do something, but it wasn’t a smile. Oh God, it wasn’t a smile. It was… it was a grimace.

Not because of him. Not because of the words. Not because of the moment.

Because of you.

You were mad at yourself for freezing. For making this look like anything other than the greatest thing ever said to you—that’s ever happened to you.

Spencer’s face fell just a little—not much, just the faintest furrow of his brow, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. But he noticed. Of course, he did.

And still, you couldn’t speak.

Inside, you were screaming I love you too, so loud the words echoed through your bones, pounding against your ribs like they were trying to break free.

But your lips stayed parted in useless shock, your eyes wide, and that half smile half grimace—God, that awful grimace—still hovering across your face.

And Spencer, sweet, brilliant Spencer, reached out slowly, brushing your hand with his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

But you shook your head, once, twice—because no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you couldn’t talk. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt.

It was love. Overwhelming, soul-consuming love. So big and deep it clogged your throat, tripped over every nerve ending, shorted out the parts of you meant to speak.

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer tried again, his voice barely above a whisper now, brittle at the edges with the kind of laugh that only shows up when someone is trying really hard not to fall apart. “I—” he looked down, smiled, almost like he was apologizing just for existing, “I can’t read you right now, and it’s… really scary.”

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out except a soft breath that shook with the effort. You reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly in yours, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Why won’t the words come out?

You wanted to say it perfectly. You tried to mirror what he gave you. But your brain was betraying you in real-time, too caught up in the height of the moment to deliver the simple truth you’d been carrying around for weeks.

So you just stared at him—at the man who loved you, who chose you to say those words to first, who gave them to you without condition, without waiting for safety or the right moment. He gave them to you because they were true.

And the best you could do right now was squeeze his hand tighter and will your heart to speak for you.

But you saw the hurt flash across his face. Subtle. Quick. He blinked it away like it hadn’t happened, but it had.

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Do you…” Spencer started, and you felt it in the way his hands tightened just slightly around yours, and his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read a language he suddenly didn’t understand. “Do you want to slow things down?”

He asked it like it physically pained him to say. Like the words had to be forced out through a throat full of thorns. Like he was terrified, they might be the match that set the whole thing on fire.

Your heart broke.

That wasn’t it at all. Not even close.

But from his side of things—from the outside looking in—it must’ve seemed like you froze because you didn’t want him to say it. Like your silence was a retreat. A signal to pump the brakes.

You shook your head so quickly that it blurred your vision, your voice finally punching through the barricade in your chest. “No.”

Spencer exhaled all at once like the breath had been stuck somewhere in his lungs since the moment he said I love you. His shoulders slumped, his expression softening instantly.

“Okay,” he breathed, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay… Do you, um—” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly shy again—“do you love me?”

You nodded fast, almost too fast. “Yes.”

His face lit up—full and real. His grin was goofy and toothy and completely unguarded, like the question had been blooming in his heart for weeks, and your answer finally let it open.

“Did you forget how to speak?” he teased gently, eyes dancing now, the tension gone.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

Spencer laughed softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, still smiling. “I’ll take unintelligible nodding,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, warm, teasing, and thick with affection.

Then he tilted his head just slightly and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, sweet kiss—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything, only offered.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It wasn’t about the fear of losing each other or the relief of still being here. It was quiet. Certain. Gentle in the way only love can be when it’s finally spoken aloud.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your hand curled into the soft cotton of his shirt as you kissed him back, anchoring yourself to the moment and to him.

And just before you pulled apart, he whispered against your lips, “I love you,” again, like he’d never get tired of saying it.

You kissed him once more instead. Slow. Firm. Certain.

…

The exploration continued—sweet, slow, exploratory. Neither of you were in a rush to reach any finish line, and truthfully, there was something delicious about not rushing. About drawing everything out until the tension between you was so thick, it clung to your skin like humidity.

It started with kisses that deepened over time—long, open-mouthed, tongue-slow kisses that left both of you breathless and warm. Your hands started roaming more freely, lingering on his hips, his ribs, and the dip of his lower back, and when you slid them beneath his shirt just to feel the heat of him, Spencer whimpered like you’d done something forbidden.

And he loved it.

You touched over clothes for a long time, and somehow, that made it feel more intense. The layers didn’t mute anything—they made it better. More anticipation. More teasing. Rubbing, pressing, dragging your palm down the length of him through denim, through soft cotton pajama pants when he was sleepily pliant in bed—he’d gasp like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. Like you were magic, and he was still trying to figure out how.

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

The first time it happened, it hadn’t been intentional. You were in his lap, straddling him during a particularly intense makeout session on your couch, your bodies pressed so close you couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster. You shifted your hips without thinking, just adjusting your weight—and he whined.

A real, honest-to-God whine. High-pitched and needy, muffled by the kiss but unmistakable.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, lips swollen, your breath ghosting over his. “Oh,” you said, surprised and wickedly delighted. “You like that.”

His head fell back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut, throat working hard around the truth. “Yes,” he breathed, like it pained him to admit it. “So much.”

From then on, it became a regular part of your experimentation. Clothes stayed on, but the heat between your bodies didn’t need anything more. You’d climb into his lap or pull him into yours, and slowly, so slowly, you’d move, letting your hips rock against his, coaxing out all those noises he barely knew he could make.

He’d grip your hips like you might float away, bury his face in your shoulder, and whisper your name over and over like it was a prayer. Sometimes, he’d tremble before anything even happened—just from the rhythm, the friction, the build.

And you loved watching him unravel.

You made it safe. You made it sweet. You made it good.

And Spencer? Spencer made it feel like no one else had ever touched you like this. Because no one had ever made him feel like this.

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

It wasn’t even supposed to go that far—not technically. You’d been kissing in bed, bodies pressed close, your hands under his shirt, his on your thighs, your hips moving in lazy, deliberate circles against his. It was slow, indulgent, just another one of those experimental nights where nothing needed to happen, where the point wasn’t release—it was intimacy.

But his breathing had gone uneven, his hands had tightened their grip, and he had buried his face in your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you completely. You knew. You knew what was coming. You could feel it.

And then, with a gasp so quiet it sounded like he was shocked it happened at all—he came.

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, his face still pressed into your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Oh my God. Don’t say anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned, then slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was red. Not blushing. Not pink. Red. Like he was seconds away from dissolving into atoms and leaving this plane of existence entirely.

“I—” he stammered, already reaching for the edge of the blanket like he might try to escape from under it. “That wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t mean to—God.”

But you couldn’t even speak.

Not because you were embarrassed. Not because you were annoyed.

Because you were floored.

You had never seen anything so honest, so raw, so real in your life.

You bit your lip, watching him scramble, and you could swear to God you’d died and gone to heaven.

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

You could feel the mortification radiating off of him in waves. His entire body had gone still in that telltale Spencer Reid way like he was internally building a forty-page psychological thesis on his own perceived humiliation.

You sat back slowly, your hands still on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him.

“Hey,” you whispered, leaning in to nudge his temple with your nose. “Look at me?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his face just barely, just enough for you to see the blooming red flush across his cheeks and neck. His lashes lowered like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I—” he started voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. It just—you—and then—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, cradling his jaw in both hands. “You’re okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut again, lips pressing into a tight line, but then you kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, reassuring, no heat this time, just warmth.

When you pulled back, your smile was easy, teasing, but genuine. “Spencer… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a choked laugh—more like a groan, really—and dropped his hands over his face in total embarrassment.

And then—

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice muffled by the back of his hand, but it didn’t have an ounce of venom. If anything, it was laced with disbelief. With wonder. With that particular kind of amazement, only Spencer could radiate after experiencing something that both shocked and deeply overwhelmed him.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just smiled against his skin, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the slope of his throat—soothing, adoring. Reassuring him with touch, because you knew his brain was still spinning, his thoughts still racing, probably analyzing your tone, your face, your body language, checking for signs of judgment that would never be there.

“I mean it,” you whispered eventually, your voice warm and honest against the damp heat of his neck. “That was… incredibly hot.”

Spencer groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, grinning. “Forever. I’ll probably bring it up at random moments. Grocery store. Your birthday. Funerals—”

“Funerals?!” he squeaked, lifting his head to look at you, horrified and helpless.

You shrugged, delighted. “If the memory hits, it hits.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thunk. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You created a very happy girlfriend,” you corrected, crawling up just enough to look him in the eyes. His were still wide, still a little panicked, but they’d softened now—especially under the weight of your smile.

Your hand came to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “Spence,” you said softly, seriously, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t embarrass yourself. You didn’t scare me off. You let yourself feel, and that’s beautiful. It’s real.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’ve never—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, this time slow and deep and full of all the words you hadn’t yet said.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy in that way that always made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you said gently, almost like a secret. “Every part of you. Even the part that panics when things feel too good.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath, one that felt like a release, and turned his face into your palm.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

You snorted, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a fit of laughter. “Deal. But I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” he grumbled, but you could feel him smiling.

…

And approximately five months after that, he asked if you wanted to have sex.

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He sat beside you in bed after a particularly long, drawn-out evening of tangled limbs, whispered names, and asked quietly, “Would you want to, sometime?”

You turned to him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and asked just as gently, “Do you feel ready?”

And when he nodded—just once, eyes wide and sure—you kissed him and said, “Then yes.”

—

You and Spencer had joined the team out for a night at O’Kieffe’s, the warm, slightly too loud bar just a block away from Quantico that everyone seemed to gravitate toward after a good case or a big change. It was the latter tonight—David Rossi had officially joined the BAU, and the team wanted to mark the occasion with drinks, stories, and maybe a little too much bar food.

Spencer had been hesitant at first. Bars weren’t exactly in his comfort zone—the crowd, the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the clinking of glasses, and the echo of music bouncing off the wood-paneled walls all tended to overwhelm him faster than he liked to admit. But when you gently placed your hand on his arm, reminding him that this wasn’t a night about chaos but celebration, he nodded.

He could do this—for you. And maybe even a little for Rossi.

Because the truth was, Spencer was excited. Really, truly excited. He wasn’t always great at expressing that kind of thing in the ways people expected—there’d be no loud cheers or performative toasts—but there was a particular brightness in his eyes as he adjusted his sweater cuffs and followed you into the bar.

Rossi was a legend. Spencer had read everything the man had written—twice—and the idea of learning from someone with field experience that rivaled Gideon's but without the same emotional volatility was, in his words, “an intellectually stabilizing opportunity.” You’d laughed when he said it, but you’d seen it for what it was: Spencer was hopeful. That was rare. And beautiful.

As for you, you were just happy to see the team again. The BAU didn’t often give space to breathe, let alone celebrate, and being surrounded by the people who lived in the trenches with Spencer—Derek with his teasing, Penelope with her sparkle, JJ already organizing everyone's drink orders, and Emily nursing a beer in her corner—made the night feel a little lighter.

You and Spencer had slid into the booth side by side, your thigh resting against his under the table. He was already reciting a fact about Italian wine in Rossi’s honor before you’d even removed your jacket, and you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder for just a second as the bar's noise faded into the background.

“Hey,” JJ grinned as she approached with two menus and two drinks. “Look who came out of his cave tonight.”

Spencer blinked up at her, already mid-sentence about vineyard elevations. “Technically, I was in the lab today—”

JJ handed you a drink and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Uh-huh. Sure, genius. Welcome to the land of the living.”

You laughed softly into your glass. Spencer looked at you, eyes squinting like, is that supposed to be funny?, and you just leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing great, baby.”

Spencer relaxed for the first time since walking in—just a little, but it was enough.

Predictably, Spencer asked for an Arnold Palmer—his go-to when he wanted to blend in at a bar. The bartender raised an eyebrow, as they always did, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he pretended not to, too focused on getting the ratio of iced tea to lemonade just right when he asked. You, on the other hand, simply shrugged when the girls offered to order something for you.

“Surprise me,” you’d told Penelope, sliding the laminated menu back across the sticky table. “Just nothing blue.”

Penelope gasped, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy. You don’t like blue drinks?”

“I don’t like them when they come up,” you replied, and Emily, across from you, choked on her beer from laughing.

JJ leaned in. “I’m getting you something sweet but deadly. You’re welcome.”

You grinned. “I trust you with my life and my blood sugar.”

By the time your mystery drink arrived—pink, fizzy, and dangerously good—you were nestled between Spencer and Emily, your arm tucked behind Spencer’s back along the booth. He sat upright, knees a little too close together, fingers twitching over his glass as he listened intently to Rossi talk about his early days in the field.

He wasn’t talking much, but his eyes were wide and bright, darting between whoever was speaking and the condensation on his glass like he was cataloging every second of the conversation. Every now and then, he’d lean into you slightly when he heard something particularly interesting or particularly absurd, his shoulder bumping yours like a silent: Did you catch that?

You didn’t work for the BAU, didn’t know all the lingo, the history, the inside jokes that shot back and forth like rubber bands across the table—but it didn’t matter. You liked watching them. The way JJ would cover her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way Derek told a story with his whole body, practically reenacting the events across the table. The way Penelope reached for everyone’s arm when she got excited, physically incapable of holding her enthusiasm in place.

“I’m telling you,” Derek said now, pointing an accusatory finger at Emily. She dropped her badge into the sewer grate and then tried to fish it out with a police baton—in front of the suspect.”

“I still caught him,” Emily muttered, nursing her drink.

“Yeah, because he was laughing too hard to run.”

Everyone howled. Even Spencer, who usually reserved his laughter for niche jokes or obscure references, chuckled into his Arnold Palmer.

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “You look happy,” you said softly.

He turned to you, his smile shy but steady. “I am.” He looked back at the table, then at you again. “I think… this is good. It feels good.”

And it did. There was something about the warmth of the bar, the laughter, the closeness of bodies pressed into booths and leaning across tabletops that felt more like a family reunion than a work celebration.

When Rossi raised his glass and toasted to “the next chapter,” everyone clinked their drinks together with grins and mock solemnity. You lifted yours, too, even though you didn’t know what chapter they were on.

Spencer clinked your glass gently with his own, then held your gaze for a second too long.

“What?” you asked, amused.

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Morgan groaned dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Reid, you’re buying the next round for burning our eyes with your little love fest over here.” He fake gagged for good measure, head tilted back like he was in the final scene of a tragedy.

Penelope slapped his shoulder with a firm thwack, her bangled wrist jingling as she did. “Derek! He’s in love! Leave him alone!”

Spencer, mid-sip of his Arnold Palmer, choked slightly on the lemonade, the tips of his ears immediately blooming pink.

Across the booth, Hotch barely disguised his amusement, lips twitching toward a smile that never fully broke through—but his eyes gave him away. “It is Spencer’s turn,” he said, deadpan.

That was all it took.

With a quiet sigh and cheeks still flushed like he'd accidentally been assigned to deliver a TED Talk on romance, Spencer gave you a look that was half wish me luck and half I should’ve stayed home. Then, wordlessly, he scooted out of the booth, brushing your knee as he passed, and stood beside the table, preparing to memorize everyone’s drink orders.

“Okay,” he muttered, locking in. “Everyone… just… say it slowly. No overlapping. JJ, you first.”

It was a mess, of course. Everyone calling out orders with no respect for his system—Penelope wanted something sparkly and strong but not too strong, Derek wanted whatever beer came in a glass, not a mason jar, JJ changed her mind twice, and Emily was now teasing Spencer by naming obscure cocktails just to see if he’d recognize the ingredients.

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

As he finally finished and headed for the bar, Rossi leaned back in his seat with the kind of casual flair that only came with age and absolute confidence. Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and slipped a black card between two fingers, holding it just low enough that only Spencer could see.

Spencer blinked at him.

Rossi gave a sly wink. “Go on, kid. It’s on me tonight.”

Spencer hesitated, brow furrowed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “But—”

“No buts,” Rossi interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re celebrating me, remember? Least I can do is pay for the honor.”

Spencer looked down at the card now resting in his palm, then back at Rossi. The older man was already returning to his drink as if the conversation was finished.

And, well, it was.

Spencer tucked the card carefully into his wallet and headed for the bar, still blushing, still flustered—but smiling all the same.

So he made it up there—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting with the corner of a cocktail napkin, cheeks still pink from Rossi’s gesture, Derek’s teasing, and the general social exhaustion that came with being Spencer Reid in a crowded bar.

He’d given the bartender the list in his soft, fast voice—apologetic but thorough. “One scotch neat, one whiskey sour, one gin and tonic, two beers, one cosmopolitan, one appletini, and—uh—an Arnold Palmer. Please.”

The bartender, to their credit, didn’t even blink. They just nodded and turned away, starting on the scotch first. Spencer exhaled, relieved, and stepped aside slightly to make room at the bar for someone else.

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

Behind him, a man snorted loudly—one of those exaggerated, performative sounds meant to be heard. “Jesus, what are you ordering for? A daycare?”

Spencer blinked, head turning slowly, confused. “I—what?”

The man was older, maybe in his late thirties or forties. He was tall and broad, with the overconfident stance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. He was nursing a Jack and Coke as if it gave him some kind of authority, his eyes rolling toward Spencer as if he were the one holding up the entire establishment.

“I said,” the man drawled, louder now, clearly looking for an audience, “if you’re gonna order drinks for the whole choir group, maybe let the rest of us get a round in first.”

Spencer stared, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a limit on group orders.”

The man snorted again. “Well, there should be. Who even drinks an appletini anymore? You trying to get your girlfriend drunk off juice boxes?”

Spencer's mouth opened, then closed again, a dozen facts about cocktail popularity and historical alcohol trends immediately loading into his brain, ready to be deployed like a defense mechanism. But something about the man’s smug grin—so certain, so pleased with himself—stopped him.

Because this wasn’t a conversation. It was a provocation.

Spencer shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to rise to the bait. “They're for my friends,” he said simply, voice low. “It’s a celebration.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, genius. How about next time you call ahead for catering?”

At that moment, the bartender slid the scotch in front of Spencer, followed quickly by the whiskey sour.

Spencer nodded his thanks but didn’t look away from the man, who had turned back to his drink with a smirk, clearly satisfied he’d gotten in the last word.

But then, with a calmness that even surprised himself, Spencer murmured, “You know, statistically, men who police other people’s drink orders are often projecting latent insecurities about their own masculinity, particularly when in public settings designed to measure dominance, such as bars.”

The man blinked.

Spencer reached for the next glass being slid across to him. “But please,” he added, without looking up, “tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens you.”

It was clinical. Precise. Barely a jab at all—at least, not to most people. But to a drunk man with too much ego and not enough brain cells to process nuance, it was fighting words.

The stool next to Spencer scraped back with an ugly screech as the man stood, puffing out his chest like a cartoon character about to pick a bar brawl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he slurred, stepping in too close, looming over Spencer like that would somehow make him feel bigger, stronger, smarter.

Spencer stiffened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly around the rim of the next drink, his eyes fixed forward like if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he could defuse the situation with sheer avoidance.

“I didn’t insult you,” he said carefully, quietly. “I made an observation. Based on empirical data.”

“Oh, data?” the man sneered, leaning in now, the smell of cheap liquor wafting off him. “You one of those little trivia guys? That it? You think you’re better than me because you read a book?”

Spencer’s breath caught, his shoulders rising a little, defensively—familiar posture. You’d seen it before. Fight or freeze.

And this wasn’t Spencer’s scene. Not by a long shot. He could navigate conversations with senators, unravel a serial killer’s psychosis with a few words—but bar aggression? Drunk men with something to prove? That was another beast entirely.

“I’m just here to pick up drinks for my team,” Spencer said, holding the man’s stare now, standing his ground but not escalating. “I don’t want trouble.”

Unfortunately, the guy did.

He shoved Spencer’s shoulder hard enough to slosh two drinks onto the bar. “Then don’t go running your mouth like a smartass, Poindexter.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Derek Morgan appeared out of nowhere behind the guy, voice low, controlled, but laced with threat. He placed one firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him just enough to get him out of Spencer’s space.

“This guy bothering you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asked without breaking eye contact with the drunk.

Spencer cleared his throat, stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “He had some… strong opinions about fruit-based beverages.”

Derek clicked his tongue, expression flat as he stared the man down. “Yeah, well, I have strong opinions about idiots starting fights in public places. You wanna keep going?”

The man blinked, unsteady on his feet now that he was no longer the biggest guy in the conversation. He mumbled something that might have been “not worth it,” and turned, staggering back to his bar stool further down the line.

Derek waited a beat, watching him go. Then he turned back to Spencer, his demeanor shifting instantly. “You good?”

Spencer nodded, still holding two drinks with extreme care. “Yes. That was… unpleasant.”

“You wanna head back with what you’ve got? I can come grab the rest.”

“No,” Spencer said, squaring his shoulders like he needed to prove to himself that he could finish the job. “I’m okay.”

Derek smiled, clapped a hand to his back. “Proud of you, man.”

Spencer sighed. “I was trying to de-escalate.”

Derek chuckled. “Spencer. You probably just told a drunk guy his manhood was tied to a cosmo.”

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

When the two men arrived back at the booth, arms full of drinks and expressions full of something, the mood shifted immediately. Whatever easygoing laughter had been drifting between the team members froze mid-air the second they saw Spencer’s pink ears and Derek’s look of guarded amusement.

You sat up straight, eyes narrowing instinctively as you scanned Spencer’s face—flushed, stiff around the jaw, very clearly trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. “What the hell was all that?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, frowning as she took her drink from the line Spencer was meticulously assembling on the table. “What did Macho Man want with Spence?”

Penelope gasped. “Wait—was there drama?!”

Spencer sighed, softly and with great effort, as if this was the last thing he wanted to relive. Derek, on the other hand, leaned back in the booth like he was settling in for storytime.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Derek said, grinning. “Reid here almost triggered a bar fight because someone took offense to him ordering an appletini.”

“It was not about the appletini,” Spencer muttered, sitting down beside you. “It was about the man’s deeply rooted insecurities surrounding masculinity and his inappropriate hostility in response to a completely factual observation.”

You turned to him immediately. “What did you say?”

Spencer gave you a look. The one that always meant you’re going to mock me but I’m not wrong. He folded his hands in front of him like he was testifying in court. “I asked him to tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens him.”

Emily slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. JJ stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Derek confirmed, shaking his head. “I got over there just in time to stop the guy from launching into him.”

“Is he okay?” Penelope asked, peering over Spencer’s shoulder as if expecting to find evidence of bruising or trauma.

“I’m fine,” Spencer said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… a little overstimulated. I didn’t expect to be insulted over a beverage. And shoved.”

You frowned, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Someone touched you?”

Spencer nodded. “It wasn’t hard. It was just… unwelcome.”

“That’s it,” you said, scooting back in your seat as if about to go confront the man yourself. “Where is he? I just wanna talk. Maybe throw an appletini in his face.”

Spencer caught your hand quickly, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s okay. Derek handled it.”

You looked at Derek, who gave you a look that said handled might be a mild way of putting it.

“I used my words,” Derek said innocently. “Mostly.”

The table burst into laughter, and the tension slowly unraveled.

But you leaned in close to Spencer, lowering your voice just enough so it was only for him. “Are you okay, baby?”

His eyes met yours instantly, the tension still clinging to the corners of his mouth but softening under your gaze. You could see how hard he was trying to seem fine for everyone else’s sake—keeping his posture stiff, his voice level—but here, with you so close, it cracked a little.

Spencer nodded quickly, that earnest little head bob that told you he was trying to be brave. “I am,” he said, almost like a question he was answering for himself as much as for you. Then, more gently, “Can we go soon?”

“We can leave whenever you want, my love,” you said without hesitation, your hand sliding to rest on his thigh under the table—a quiet, grounding touch, warm and solid.

Unlike the man at the bar, whose shove had left a static buzz of tension under Spencer’s skin, your touch had the opposite effect. His muscles eased almost instantly under your palm like a string had been loosened somewhere deep in his chest.

He exhaled. Really exhaled. Not one of those shallow, polite breaths he gave when people asked how he was—but a real, whole-body sigh.

Spencer reached down to place his hand over yours on his thigh, holding it there like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave him a small smile, one that said always and pressed your thumb against his leg in a slow, gentle circle.

The rest of the table carried on around you—Derek recounting the confrontation to Penelope with far more dramatic flair than necessary, JJ laughing into her drink, Emily shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this night was real—but all you could focus on was Spencer.

His hand in yours. His heartbeat slowing. The way his body leaned subtly closer to you now, like he knew he was safe again.

And soon, the two of you would be walking out of this place together, hand in hand, far from anyone who’d ever make him feel small.

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

But tonight, you’ll start with a room—his room—lit soft and made sacred with intention.

So you get a little cheesy with it. Romantic. Old-school. The kind of thing people roll their eyes at in movies but secretly dream of. You plan.

You sneak into his apartment while he’s at work—not really sneaking, of course; you have a key, gifted in a quiet moment weeks ago when he pressed it into your hand like he was asking a question he couldn’t voice.

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum. 

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp—your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this: 

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised. 

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat. 

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried—to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed. 

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there. 

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads. 

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

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:¨ ·.· ¨:`· . ୨୧⠀masterlist!

SPENCER REID

smut / 18+ | fluff / ★ | angst / ↯ | all of the above / シ

Latest Work: Louder… - You and Spencer on a couch… need I say more? 18+

SERIES OR MULTI-PARTERS

Back To You / Mini Series (fem! reader) シ

When You’re Lost in the Darkness, Look for the Light - Your ex, Spencer Reid, has just lost his girlfriend due to her being murdered. When all else fails with the BAU team helping him get through this loss, the only person left to help is you.

Let Me Stay - You and Spencer have gone back to normal, somewhat. But it only takes one conversation to ruin that all again. All you wanna do is stay, but he won’t let you.

Back To You - Spencer finally realizes that he wants you to stay and that he loves you and he proves to you just how much he does. 18+

Anything For Ellie / Mini Series (single mom! reader) シ

Summary / You are Spencer Reid’s next door neighbor, a single mother with a five year-old daughter trying to get by. It’s been three months since you’ve last seen Spencer and little did you know, it was because he was in prison, accused of a crime he didn’t commit. And now Spencer has opened his heart to you as you have to him. But when he realizes he could hurt you in the long run, he begins to push you away. Will you let him?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three 18+

more to come!

Silver Springs / Series (fem! reader) シ

Summary / You’ve been in love with Will Lamontagne for years. But when the BAU comes knocking, it’s like you’ve missed your chance with him entirely when Jennifer Jareau comes and sweeps Will off his feet. And then comes Spencer Reid, the man who has had a thing for Jennifer since they started working together. Turns out you two have something in common.

Prologue

more to come!

ONESHOTS

One Bed - You and Reid get paired together in a hotel room after a case, only to discover there’s only one bed in the hotel room. And that said hotel room is freezing. ★

Protector - You and Spencer have been together a few months and he’s beginning to notice how often you keep your guard up and he converses with you about his concerns and so you tell him why you act the way you do. ★ ↯

I’m Here, Now - Your boyfriend, Spencer gets released from prison and you’re his first stop after dealing with Cat Adams and her schemes. And all he wants to do is see you and love you. ★ 18+

Nice Car - You’d always had a crush on Dr. Spencer Reid but you’re sure he’s never had eyes on you. But he takes you home after a night out with the team and you’re definitely proven wrong about him not having eyes on you. 18+

Hands to Myself - Since Spencer got out of prison, you two have a bit of a problem keep your hands to yourselves. 18+

I Love You, I’m Sorry - You left the BAU and your boyfriend, Spencer, after a case took a hefty toll on you. You only left behind a letter, explaining yourself and why you had to leave. Four years later, you find yourself back in DC on a whim. You learn that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. ↯

Love Of My Life - REQUEST / You’re fully expecting to spend Valentine’s Day alone with year with your husband on a case. To your surprise, he comes home early and wants to help you destress, especially with you two trying for a baby. But little does he know, you have some news that’s going to change his world forever. ★ 18+

A Sunflower In The Graveyard - You’re the new kid on the block— joining the BAU during Spencer’s prison sentence and since then, he’s ignored you despite your efforts in trying to start a mere friendship with him. But when all hope seems lost, Spencer seems to show his soft spot for you when a case really gets to you. ★ ↯

Free Now - You’re about to get married to the man of your dreams. But the person you’re supposed to get married to knows that the man of your dreams isn’t him and instead is your best friend — your man of honor, so to speak. He might’ve just done you a favor. ★ ↯

(Not) A Jinx - Spencer has been going to a new coffee shop recently and that’s where he finds you — a clumsy barista who screws up orders and asks for help all of the time. After a confrontation with a customer, Spencer sees you and assures to you that you’re not a jinx like you seem to think you are. ★ ↯

BLURBS

Dream A Little Dream - Spencer comes home from work and finds you sleeping in bed and he’s completely mesmerized by you as you sleep. ★

No One Is Alone - Spencer realizes you guys might have more in common than he thought when he finds out your parent also has schizophrenia. ★ ↯

A Chat About Books - Spencer catches you reading a rather disturbing book on the jet and a discussion about books and reading ensues. ★

Book Lovers - Spencer sees you at a bookstore and buys you a book just to be able to start a conversation with you. ★

Bad Day - You come home from a really bad day and your boyfriend, Spencer is there to save the day… and hold you while you cry. ★ ↯

Naughty Boy - You and Spencer are trying to have a little fun in secret until Emily walks in… Spencer decides to make it a little more interesting underneath your desk. 18+

I literally got 1 (ONE) comment on ao3 for my spencelle fanfic, and that just made wanna come back to it lol. We as a society need to bring back commenting on fanfictions. I am sick and tired of not getting ANY feedback.

my god this was HOT

𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆?

Inexperienced doesn’t mean incapable—especially when you’re bent over and begging him to go deeper.

wc: 2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex, mild dominance/submission dynamics, inexperienced but eager Spencer, praise kink, slight hair pulling, deep penetration, overstimulation, mild dirty talk

A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)

Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.

You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.

And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.

"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.

"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.

His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.

But not tonight.

You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."

His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.

He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."

"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."

"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.

"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."

You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.

Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”

A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”

A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.

“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.

“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.

“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.

“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.

Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.

“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.

The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.

Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."

You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."

Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."

He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."

i’m crying this is so soft 🥹

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐩𝐬 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader  Category: comfort, fluff Summary: Your insecurities hit you on the morning after, but Spencer's reassurances keep them at bay. Content: 1.4k words, implied intimacy, established but still new relationship, adult acne, insecure reader A/N: based on this request! Anon, you gave me free reign and I have to deal with adult acne, so I just projectile vomited that insecurity onto this reader. I hope it’s to your liking, feel free to request something else if not (and go ham on specificities so I can better write it for you!) not proofread oops.

It’s silly really. Insignificant. Half the time, nobody can even see. But right now, bathed in the soft light of the morning after, when consciousness begins to creep in your body, you realize that Spencer is right there in bed with you. His warmth registers first, melting away your anxieties of him somehow leaving in the morning. It’s another irrational thought—why on earth would your boyfriend leave you the morning after your first intimate time together? Yet it remains there, lingering like a coiled snake ready to strike, coaxed away by the confirmation that he stayed, he’s here, a large hand running up and down your spine. That’s what registers next, the fact that he’s awake. Before you. Lazily mapping out the expanse of your skin and suddenly, the anxiety returns, shoving past the momentary reprieve you’ve felt when you realized he’s here.

He’s here and awake before you. Touching you, mapping out the planes of your body like he did last night. 

Except this time, your bedroom is lit by the soft rays of the sun, exposing every single thing the darkness had previously concealed.

Every scar, every stretch mark, every imperfection on your body. It had been hidden last night by the dark and ignored by the pressing desire between you two. You had planned to wake up early, get showered and ready and out of bed—making breakfast preferably, to fend off suspicions as to why you’ve left the comfort of the bed. But it must have been his strong grip on you, or perhaps you were just too tired from the long night of lovemaking. Regardless, you’d overslept. And he’s awake before you, probably counting every single mark and flaw on your body as though they were demerits to who you are as a person. Each scar is one less point on the scale of desirability.

“Angel,” his breath ruffles the hair at your temple, “I know you’re awake.”

“No, I’m not.” coyness. Wit. You’d manage to secure him through a combination of this and your intelligence. Maybe it’ll be enough to distract him from the mars on your body.

He laughs, warm and languid from sleep, “I didn't know you sleep talk.”

“Mhm,” you hum into his shoulder, nuzzling into the space where it meets his neck. A small space, but it seems made just for you to tuck your head into, “Now you do. Is this a deal breaker?”

“I have to think about it,” he murmurs. He brushes his hand over your back once again, fingertips going over each bump of your spine as if he's trying to commit each bone of your body to memory. As fingers ghost over your skin, the blanket slips off even more and you inhale sharply. You don't think you reacted that much, but he notices anyway. He always does.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” You tug the blanket up again, a total contradiction to your answer.

He scoffs softly, tenderly, lips coming to rest on your temple. A teasing lilt in his voice when he says, “A little too late to be shy around me, don’t you think?”

You laugh, keeping the blanket stubbornly around you. Too terrified by what the light will reveal, from your body to his reaction.

“Sweetheart,” he coaxes you with slow fingers and soothing kisses, “Tell me what’s the problem. Do you regret last night?”

“No!” you look up at him with wide eyes, horrified he’d even think that way, “No, Spencer, of course not.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing.”

He raises his brows in response, wordlessly telling you he doesn’t buy your bullshit at all. The expression he wears is patient, completely halcyon despite your childish attempts to duck through his questioning.

With a sigh, you relent. “It’s just—you’ll see all my scars.”

“You saw my scars last night.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

How do you say yours came from something so… mundane? Acne that you’d picked on so much that when they’ve healed, the  marks have become too deep and too stubborn to fade. His scars come from valor, injuries sustained from bullets and knife wounds as he works to save the world. Yours seems so insignificant, something that should have been erased quickly after puberty, left behind to be nothing but memories, just as you did with high school. 

But the acne never truly left, chasing you well into adulthood, and the compulsion to pick at them never stopped either. 

“You still with me?” he rubs his nose along your jaw like a kitten seeking warmth. 

You exhale a laugh, “Yeah…”

“I’d rather you tell me what’s bothering you because you want to, sweetheart, but I’m not above tickling you to get an answer.”

God, not tickle torture. “Mean,” you chuckle again, relishing the way his curls twist around your fingers as you run your hands through them. This is Spencer, though, you’re safe. The words spill out in a rush, as if you’re hoping to expel them from your body in the fastest possible time, “I just have a lot of acne on my back, is all.” 

“Mhm?” he hums, patiently waiting for more.

“And it’s—it’s not pretty.”

A kiss to your jaw, down your neck.

“And I know I’m too old to still be having acne, but I do. And there’s a lot on my back and—” the words waver as another kiss lands on your throat. “Spence.”

“What?”

“Are you listening to me?”

He pulls away at that, eyes glinting like molten gold in the early morning sun. “Of course I am, angel. You shouldn’t be worried about acne, they don’t magically stop after puberty. Especially in women, where factors like genetics, diet, hormones, stress, and the menstrual cycle all contribute to how your body produces oil.”

You can’t help but laugh at his earnest reply; of course he’s turning to science to help you feel better. “You don’t think it’s gross?”

He scrunches his nose, “No, why on earth would I think that?”

“Well, some people conflate pimples with being dirty.”

“I just enumerated several other factors, none of which involve dirt,” he replies, ducking once again to leave kisses along your collar, “Admittedly, bacteria build up is another factor, but I’ve seen your toiletries, angel, I know you’re not dirty.”

“They’re just… annoying. I dunno. There’s so many scars.”

“Post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation is also normal,” Spencer murmurs, “Really, your body is just working as it should, angel.”

“But they’re not… pretty.” It sounds so vapid, admitting it like that, but Spencer only softens.

“Is that what matters?”

“No,” you pause, trying to articulate why this complicated relationship with those silly marks all over your body is making you so skittish around him, “I just don’t want you to look at me any different, I guess.”

He frowns, “Why would I look at you any different?”

“Because my body’s not… flawless.” you wince, realizing that it sounds almost like an accusation; you’re saying he’s shallow enough to be put off by something as insignificant as scars. However, Spencer merely chuckles.

“Nobody is flawless,” he counters simply, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “A few scars don’t take away from how intelligent you are. How funny and charming. How endlessly creative. It doesn’t take away your kindness, or your patience.” he kisses you with every word, slowly chipping away at your anxiety and the traitorous voice in your head.

“Stop it, you’re bad for my ego.”

“Better that than to tear it down.” he says, finally giving you the sweetest kiss on your lips, “I won’t force you to show me if you don’t want to, angel, but I hope you know they won’t ever change the way I feel about you.”

But after such tender words, how could you not? Despite the pounding in your chest, you turn around, the ultimate act of vulnerability. Trusting him not to hurt you as you look away. You feel his fingers ghosting over your back once again, tracing the scars. And then warm lips press upon your shoulder.

“You know what they remind me of?” he whispers, wrapping an arm over your waist. You’re drawn into his embrace, warm and snug and loved.

“What?”

“Constellations.”

You giggle, “Constellations?”

“Mhm,” he laughs as well, “Like your own personal star map.”

It’s silly, and maybe a little romanticized, but at this moment, they’re exactly the words you need.

thank you for reading! my requests are open <3

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perm era 🥰

matthew gray gubler in the life aquatic with steve zissou (2004)