That’s My Man… So Sweet Yet So Kinky ☺️ Maria You Ate With This
that’s my man… so sweet yet so kinky ☺️ maria you ate with this
Craving Like A Lungful - S.R
you ask spencer a question about breath play. he gives you a lecture, a safety demonstration, and a mind-shattering orgasm. in that order.
pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, AFAB, reader wearing a skirt, breath play, choking (consensual), fingering, dirty talk, praise, experimentation, power exchange, pet names, 75% smut and 25% love letter to spencer reid's fingers wc: 4.1k
He’s torturing you. Actually, genuinely torturing you. Spencer Reid, certified genius, closeted sadist, worst man on Earth.
Except, well, obviously, he isn’t. You would qualify him as your favorite person in existence on any given day, and therein lies half the problem.
Because right now, he’s just sitting there, reading, while his fingertips scrap absent-minded shapes along the slope of your neck. Each harmless pass managing to turn your thoughts to mush and bones to jelly.
At this point, you’re convinced you’re less a person and more a limp collection of nerves slumped against his side, pretending (poorly, might you add) to watch a show you mentally abandoned about ten minutes ago.
You’re too busy contemplating just how blatantly you’d need to behave to distract him from those words and coax him into pursuits you deem far more exciting. Pursuits that involve significantly more touching.
His grasp on you briefly firms, just a heartbeat of strain if that.
You know it was surely accidental, but your body can’t compensate for the difference. You try to swallow the intrusion of indecent thoughts like sour medicine.
The dose doesn’t take.
You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him, discovering firsthand the perfect contradiction that is Spencer’s innate gentleness and the strength you’re suddenly craving from his hands.
You’re not crazy for this, you reassure yourself desperately. He’s safe. He’s the literal personification of comfort, disguised in scholarly tweed and tender kisses.
Fantasizing him into something rougher, a little less cautious... it doesn't cancel that out. It just colors it deeper. Some might consider it acceptable, even. Right?
“Spence?”
“Hmm?” He answers preoccupiedly, the pad of his finger wetting against his tongue before flipping another page.
“What do you, um… what do you know about breath play?”
You hate the way your throat tightens immediately as the question leaves your mouth. (The universe is a huge fan of irony, you’ve discovered.)
“You know I love when you ask me questions,” he begins slowly. “But something tells me this one isn’t purely theoretical.” His regard eases as his eyes track over your shoulders, now curving inward. “Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
You could try to pretend otherwise, but you’ve come to realize, faking it is futile with Spencer. You’re sure he already knows. He’s had months to figure you out, and he treats that like a privilege — just one he’s very good at using to his advantage.
“Alright, sweetheart. Enlighten me. What exactly has you curious?”
You flap your hand, unsure what you’re even trying to say with it, and instantly feel ridiculous. Silly even.
But Spencer smiles like he thinks you’re charming and suddenly your embarrassment feels a little less terminal.
“I guess like, what’s the science behind it? Is it an adrenaline thing? A psychological thing? Or is it just, you know… a thing?”
Spencer’s hand drops from your neck, sliding to rest on your shoulder instead. It’s not exactly abrupt, but it’s unexpected enough to spark a little twinge of disappointment that sneaks out in the form of a tiny frown.
You hurry to erase it, but not fast enough.
“I only moved my hand,” he clarifies, “because I don’t want to introduce any external variables into this discussion.”
You stare, brows pinching together. “External variables?”
“Yes.” He nods. “If I kept touching your neck while describing breath play, I'd risk subconsciously steering your reactions. Maybe stirring up curiosity, maybe aversion, or maybe something more complicated. Removing the physical cue ensures you form your opinion independently.”
You squint at him. “That’s… weirdly considerate. And possibly a tiny bit intense, Professor.”
“It’s an intense topic.”
“Oh. Right. Guess that tracks.”
He’s got that look now, that particular smile he only pulls out when you’ve made him laugh without intending to. You should feel annoyed. You’re not. It's more like lucking into treasure when you were content sifting through scraps.
“Okay, so… think of it like this,” he starts, already slipping into that half-professor, half-boyfriend tone. “When you restrict airflow, even briefly, your body interprets it as a stressor. That triggers a fight-or-flight response. Your heart rate spikes, adrenaline kicks in, and your brain releases dopamine to counteract the stress.”
He pauses slightly, eyes searching yours to ensure you’re still with him. You are, mostly. Enough, anyway.
“That dopamine rush is what makes it feel so good to some people. It’s the same principle behind things like sky-diving or high-intensity workouts, the brain perceives a mild, controlled threat and rewards you with a chemical high.”
You open your mouth to interrupt but Spencer’s lips are already curling into a sideways grin, like he’s already one step ahead of you.
“And before you ask, yes, it’s completely safe when done correctly. The key is control. It’s never about actual danger, just the illusion of it.”
You hesitate for a second, then ask, “I mean… how do you know when someone’s doing it right versus, like, actively trying to murder you?”
“First of all, it shouldn’t feel aggressive or sudden. You should feel an edge of intensity without genuine fear or distress. Your body’s reactions shouldn’t tip over into panic or actual pain.” He leans forward, his proximity suddenly sharpened. “And secondly, it has to be with someone you trust implicitly. This isn’t the sort of activity you’d want to try after a few drinks at a questionable frat party.” He lifts a brow. “Selfishly, I’d much rather you not explore something this delicate with anyone but me.”
“Spencer.”
“Just being responsible, angel,” he says lightly, completely unrepentant as he dips forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’d hate to imagine you in the inexperienced hands of someone less qualified.”
You press your lips together, glaring in a way you hope reads as stern instead of hopelessly flustered. “Don’t make fun.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Which, given his shit-eating grin, is an outright lie. His hand finds your knee and squeezes. “Any other pressing questions?”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” You fumble momentarily, grasping to find footing that doesn’t involve imagining him with someone else. “Um, so, was it — did you like it?”
He tugs your knee a little closer. “I think you’re asking because you hope my experience will give you some clarity about your own feelings.”
You freeze, because, well, yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing. And hearing it out loud makes it harder to dodge.
“The thing is,” he continues softly, patiently, “my answer won’t really help, sweetheart. My role is fundamentally different, both physically and psychologically, from yours. You're the one feeling the rush. I’d be the one carefully controlling it.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction. “What you need to ask yourself is how the idea itself makes you feel.”
You stare down at your hands, willing an answer to manifest. But the truth is, you don’t have one.
Everything you know about this is secondhand. The way your friends talk about it, joking over drinks like it’s no big deal. The way it’s portrayed in movies, always intense and dramatic. The way a passage in a book makes you pause, reread it over again, just to be sure.
But all of that is distant, safely removed from your actual life. None of it feels like you.
“It’s complicated,” you admit, squirming under his gaze. “It feels interesting in theory. Like, hypothetically exciting. But actually enjoying it? That’s still an enormous, intimidating question mark.”
Spencer’s eyes flick over you once, assessing, before he nods.
“Alright,” he says. “Well, this is a safe, controlled environment. We can take it step by step, nice and logical, okay?”
You nod quickly — probably too quickly. Spencer’s mouth twitches, but he’s kind enough not to call you on it.
His hand moves back to one side of your neck.
“Let’s start by narrowing it down,” he continues, “If I touched you right here —” his voice dipping intimately, “— what’s the first thing you feel? Excited? Nervous? Both?”
Spencer’s hand is cold, just on the edge of uncomfortably so, but by now, you’ve learned to anticipate it.
The first time, he’d explained away the chill, intertwining your fingers while he launched into a gentle explanation about blood vessels, circulation, and temperature regulation, as if medical jargon might warm you up faster. Your dazed, crush-drunk state had earnestly tried to soak up every word.
The second time, however, there had been no hope of retaining anything. His fingers tracing circles around your clit, whispering against your neck something vaguely scientific — vasoconstriction, maybe? — the words entirely lost beneath your own breathy sighs.
Maybe some responsible corner of your brain caught it and tucked it away for later. But right now, all you can feel is the heat flooding your skin, surging up to meet those same chilly fingers, smothering any hope of remembering a damn thing.
You wet your lips. “Yeah, I…I think I like it.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Think?”
You try to swallow, but it’s clumsy. Like your brain forgot how, his touch is so light, it barely registers, and you're honestly not even sure he is touching you or if your brain's inventing it, already drunk on the idea.
“I do like it,” you clarify quickly, ears burning. “But it’s not like you’re doing anything unusual yet.”
“That's because I’d rather ease you into it than overwhelm you.”
His eyes remain locked with yours as he slowly adjusts his hand, four fingers resting on one side of your neck, thumb curving around to the opposite side.
“And this? How does this make you feel?”
You don’t plan to react, but your breath tangles mid-inhale, catching on something sharp. Too fast in, not enough out.
Your fingers tap aimlessly against your thigh, unsure where to go, what to do with all this feeling and nothing to burn it on.
Spencer must notice, because a second later, his free hand finds yours, cold fusing with warm.
“I like the weight of it,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice. “Feels… assertive. In a good way.”
Spencer hums before leaning in, close enough for you to see where his lashes clump at the tips, impossibly dark.
“Yeah, it probably does feel that way,” he says, thumb brushing under your ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m trying to take control. Just means I like knowing I have your attention.”
You almost laugh. He has your attention, your focus, your heart, and a few other things you probably shouldn’t name. But you just nod like he’s not entirely right.
“What now?”
“That depends on you,” he says. “We can take the next step, and I can apply gradual pressure to let you experience the sensation, monitor your response.” His eyes drag over your face. “Or we can pause. Talk it through. Or we can stop.” A squeeze to your hand. “There’s no wrong answer.”
“I want to take the next step,” you say, trying to hide the urgency. “But I might not react the way I’m supposed to.”
“There’s no supposed to,” he says, thumb sweeping over your wrist. “You don’t have to react in any particular way. We’re just exploring. No expectations.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Just… talk me through it?”
“Always.”
His fingers tighten. Just a little. Almost like a symphony getting louder, but one instrument, one beat at a time. You don’t breathe, just to feel it better.
“Let’s stay here a second. Let you get used to it.”
The size of his hand dwarfs your throat, fingers splayed wide directly over your jugular, encompassing delicate skin and fragile bone.
You’re not blind to the strength of him. But what strikes you is the control he exercises over it. The ease with which he could hurt and instead chooses to draw out something else entirely. Every move angled towards pleasure, not power.
He’s studying you now. You know it without meeting his gaze. You can feel the scrutiny everywhere, razor-sharp eyes stripping back every layer you thought you were hiding. Measuring. Tracking.
But you realize it’s more than just simple observation. It’s also craving, masked behind patience.
“Still okay?”
You nod.
“Alright I’m gonna tighten a bit. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He thumb sweeps over your windpipe without closing off any air. Your thighs clamp together accordingly, locking around your joined hands.
Spencer laughs, not at you, never that, but with the same quiet pride he gets when one of his obscure theories turns out to be correct.
Trust you to be another equation effortlessly solved by his clever fingers.
His hand slips from yours, redirecting to nudge your legs apart, stern enough that resistance doesn’t even cross your mind.
As he nestles between your thighs, you wonder if maybe you were purpose-built for this. Shaped by fate into the perfect receptacle for Spencer. It’s not the most absurd thought you’ve had when it comes to him.
“You know why this works?” His voice dips into something possessive, fingers kneading into the plush give of your thighs, sliding upward, a constellation of goosebumps being left in their wake. “Because you like knowing I could keep you here, but also knowing I’d never have to.”
You’ll never understand it — how Spencer manages to reach into the depths of your mind, extracting the exact words there, murmuring them back to you as though they were born on his tongue.
Your hips shift restlessly beneath him, craving friction you hadn’t even consciously acknowledged, your skirt climbs higher, revealing inch by betraying inch of skin without an ounce of remorse.
Spencer’s gaze falls instantly, eyes growing heavy, pupils expanding into endless darkness, mirroring the ache brewing inside you.
“I’m going to introduce something called intermittent restriction, okay?” he says. “That means I’ll apply pressure for just a few seconds, long enough for your brain to notice, but not long enough to make you light-headed. Then I’ll release. That cycle, restriction and releasing, triggers a rush of oxygen back into your system.”
His mouth finds your jaw, so softly that the rush of your pulse seems premature.
“Your nerve endings will become hypersensitive, responsive to even the slightest touch.” And just to prove a point, his fingertips slip between your thighs, tracing fire over already scorching skin. “This, for example,” he whispers, “will feel ten times as intense.”
The pressure on your throat fades as his hand shifts upward, finding a new home cradling the back of your neck, fingertips twining through your hair.
You’re left staring at his mouth, every heartbeat a fervent prayer — kiss me, please, please, kiss me.
Then, slowly, he tilts your chin upward, sweetening your unspoken wish.
When he draws away, your breath trembles, coming in shattered fragments. Your vision dims slightly at the edges, leaving only Spencer in vivid clarity.
“Is that something you’d like me to do?”
“Yes,” you breathe, everything in you reaching. “Yes, please.”
He nods slowly, pressing a kiss to your nose.
“Good. You know the safe word, but if you can’t talk and want me to stop, just tap my wrist twice.” He demonstrates against your neck. “The second it stops feeling good, we stop. No explanations needed.”
His hand settles again at the column of your throat, fingertips fitting into the tender hollow beneath your jawline. He tilts your head back, and for a second all you can think about is how exposed you are. The weird crease on your collarbone. That one spot that gets blotchy when you’re turned on.
You wonder if he sees all of it. If he likes all of it.
He looks at you like none of it surprises you. Like he expected every detail and already decided it was his favorite part.
“What if I do it wrong? Like, should I be —?”
“Hey,” he soothes, thumb gently rubbing slow circles against the underside of your chin. Gentle kisses trail along the line of your jaw toward your ear. “You can’t do anything wrong.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging. “Just relax and let me do all the work, angel.”
“Oh,” you exhale quietly as every part of you goes warm and liquid.
“That’s it,” Spencer murmurs. “There’s my girl. You ready?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “love you.”
His smile deepens, fondness glowing through him as he bumps your chin with his nose. “Love you.”
His breath is minty when it brushes yours again, tinged with that strange clove candy he orders from some European site. You’re still trying to place it when his hand moves — and just like that, you’re out of air.
It should set off alarms, should terrify you, but strangely all it does is strip away the noise, everything crystallizing.
It’s exactly like the first morning after you fell asleep beside him, waking up in tangled limbs, realizing you’d never truly rested before him, the world realigning itself in high definition, as though you’d finally found the perfect pair of glasses after years of blurry half-truths.
Time seems to move in slow motion, each elongated second stretching into something much more infinite. When his fingers ease up, you feel the air whoosh back into your lungs, somehow sweeter than before.
“Good girl,” Spencer praises softly, lips curving into a smile you can feel even with half-closed eyes. “How did that feel for you?”
You pause. “I think I need a little more evidence before I can give a definitive answer.”
You conveniently omit just how much you liked it. How every cell in your body is quietly pleading for him to do it again, and soon. Immediately, if possible. Though judging by the look in his eyes, you’re not exactly fooling anyone.
“Ah,” he chuckles softly, thumb stamping over your bottom lip, “spoken like a true scientist.”
“Well,” you breathe, “there are worse traits I could’ve picked up from you.”
His fingers squeeze around your throat once more.
You’re dimly aware that his other hand has taken up occupancy on your thigh. How long had it been there? Five seconds? Five years?
Both seem plausible, neither important. It’s there, and your lower half is already chasing the feeling, searching in desperate little movements. Anything — his palm, the couch cushion, a miracle — would suffice to ease the fever spreading through your hypoxic brain down to the sticky heat between your legs.
His fingers skim down to the edge of your panties just as his grip on your throat dissolves. One sensation gives way to the other, making it impossible to know where relief ends, and desire begins.
You, however, don’t take the opportunity to gasp for breath. Instead, you chase Spencer’s lips, gifting him your last lungful of air in a kiss that is decidedly messy and anything but falling under the category of graceful. He takes your clumsy devotion in stride, hands moving to haul you tighter against him, slotting your legs tighter around his waist.
You pull back only when your body calls for it, not your heart. And when you do, your head spins a little, most likely oxygen-related, but it feels more Reid-related.
His mouth lingers barely an inch from yours. “Take a deep breath for me, angel.”
One shallow inhale, and then it’s gone. But it doesn’t matter, because his fingertips are dipping beneath your panties in the same motion, stroking through your folds, dragging pleasure through you so intensely, you’re scared you’ll break apart right then and there.
He was right, you’re so unbearably sensitive, nerves bursting open beneath his touch, each one catching like a spark on dry glass, spreading before you can stop it.
He clicks his tongue softly, clearly pleased. “Look at you, making such a mess for me.”
There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, but your body doesn't seem to know that. Frantic anyway, trembling anyway, gasping like he himself is a trap you’ve willingly walked into.
He doles out air like it’s been earned, a mercy, always paired to the slow tease of his finger gliding up and down your folds, spreading you open, painting your clit with everything he’s pulled from you.
He gives you just the tip of his index, barely inside, and then pulls back like he's punishing you for wanting more than he offered.
You’re soaked now. Slick enough that it’s starting to drip where your pelvis meets his thighs, a growing mess that’s probably already bled through to the couch.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear everything running through that beautiful head.”
“I’m not — there’s not much going on up there,” you confess. “Just need your fingers. ”
“You have them,” he says.
“Inside,” you whimper. “Need you inside.”
He releases your throat just as his finger slides in.
“That’s what you needed, huh?” He smirks. “You sound so pretty when you beg for it.”
And your body answers for you, clenching around the intrusion, like it’s trying to hold onto him, pull him closer, keep him.
You used to watch his fingers like a secret obsession. Long before he’d ever touched you. The slope of his knuckle, the faint ridge of old scars, the exact spacing between his middle and index finger — you’d count it, like maybe the detail meant something.
Now one of them is buried inside you, barely, and it’s already too much.
When the second slides in, it feels like being opened from the inside out. Again. Like every other time he’s had his fingers in you. Or his tongue. Or his cock. You’d think your body would be used to this by now. It never is.
A moan punches out of your chest unfiltered. Your hands reach up for something to hold, finding purchase at the overgrown curls at the nape of his neck, fingers tightening there.
He leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice hushed. “Always so tight for me.”
“Spencer…” You reach, fingers closing around his wrist, moving his hand back to your throat. Your voice comes out pleading, every bit as vulnerable as you feel. “Please?”
He stops. Breathes. Absorbs it like a gift he hadn’t expected to be given twice. But he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.
“So polite, baby.”
Your next inhale gets caught beneath his palm. Your lungs stay empty, but your body lights up in its place. Pulsing. Drenched. Stretched open around his fingers. The sound of it is filthy, wet and messy and loud enough to drown out whatever noise you just tried to make.
You’re grinding down on him now, mindless, rutting against the heel of his palm like shame doesn't even exist anymore.
Your head is light, skin buzzing, orgasm barreling toward you like a tsunami you can’t outrun.
“I wish you could see yourself like this,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful. Every single time.”
You want to answer. Maybe cry. Maybe laugh. Maybe beg. But your core answers first — vision goes spotty, thighs twitching uncontrollably.
And then everything clenches, cracks open and takes you with it.
There’s a second of silence, brain fogged with nothing but static. Heat, stars, white noise. You only notice his absence when your body jerks, still chasing pressure that’s no longer there.
Your hands find him clumsily, clutching at his wrist, trying to pull him back without a word.
“I’m here. You’re okay. Come here, angel,” Spencer says, already folding you into his chest.
Your face stays pressed to his shirt, breath still shaky where it escapes in uneven puffs. Spencer’s hands stay steady on your back, but you can feel his heart beating a little too fast under your cheek.
“Not gonna ask yet,” he says lightly, “but my brain is running a post-scene checklist at full speed. So just… squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong. Please.”
“What counts as feeling wrong?” You ask. His heart skips a beat beneath you, and you wince. “Not that I feel that way. I definitely don’t. I promise. I’m just curious.”
He strokes your hair once, twice.
“You’re sure?”
You nod, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Mm. Yeah. Just a little floaty. And in love with you. But that’s normal.”
“Floaty and in love,” he repeats, pretending to consider. “Dangerous combination. Might have to keep you under observation.” He kisses your temple, voice gentling, “But seriously, if you feel off in any way. Dizziness, fingertips tingling, even a little headache, I need to know right away, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” you say, squeezing his shirt. “And, um… totally unrelated… how long is the average recovery time before we can do that again?”
“Realistically,” he starts, “we should wait a while. Especially since it was your first time experimenting with that.” Your lower lip starts to just slightly. He grins. “But… if you were interested in cutting off my oxygen, I might have a few ideas.”
You don’t even get the chance to react. One second, you’re in his lap, and the next — you’re airborne, guided up, forward, and set down over his face like he’s been planning this all night.
You let him take your breath. Now he gives you his in return.
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happy national boyfriend day to spencer reid
Hello 👋,
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the way i’d be flustered around this man-
heatstroke
shy!reader is flustered around spencer. he mistakes it for a heatstroke.
pairing: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison reid, spencer being oblivious, fluffy fluff prompt: here wc: 0.7k
Your heart is hammering so hard you’re half-convinced it’s about to burst straight out of your chest, grow legs, and scuttle off into the nearest storm drain. And now, standing so close you can map every anxious burst of breath ghosting hot across your cheek, Spencer is mumbling something rapid-fire about heatstroke of all things.
“It’s eighty-five degrees out, you know. Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented?” he asks, forehead crinkling adorably — no, anxiously — in sincere concern.
You’d answer, really, but all that escapes is an embarrassingly squeaky semblance of language. Because Spencer Reid, who is the intellectual equivalent of chugging an ice-cold slushie way too fast on your best days, is currently ushering you toward a shaded lounge chair, fingertips pressing cautiously into your side as if the slightest pressure might crumble you into dust.
Which, honestly, that's not far off.
“You really don’t look good,” Spencer says, lowering himself into a squat directly in front of you.
You want to protest, or at least pretend to be mildly insulted, but your lips part uselessly, mouth suddenly dry.
This close, Spencer is a potent distraction — big, worried eyes, dark lashes clinging wetly together, a single bead of water tracing the strong line of his jaw before disappearing beneath the edge of his collarbone.
Your vision is swimming, and it definitely has nothing to do with the diagnosis he’s busy concocting.
How did this even happen? One minute, you were innocently (fine, not so innocently) ogling Spencer as he laughed in the pool, sunlit water streaming over smooth skin and muscles you absolutely did not know existed beneath all those layers he normally hides behind.
The next, your knees had given out, quickly followed by your dignity.
Completely understandable, really, given the visual stimulus. And clearly, it was symptomatic enough to convince him of a medical emergency.
Now he’s fussing over you like a patient, touching you gently, speaking softly, and effectively making your current Spencer-induced predicament exponentially worse.
“I’m fine,” you manage to croak, forcing your lips into a shaky approximation of a smile, hoping you look convincing and not completely deranged. “Just, um — hot. It’s hot. You’re hot — I mean, it’s… the weather. The weather’s hot.”
Amazing. Truly eloquent. You doubt a toddler would fall for such an amateurish charade, let alone Spencer.
His head cocks to the side in the confusion, and now you’re stuck looking at lips that seem entirely too kissable for your current mental state.
Spencer blinks slowly at you and somehow, inexplicably, moves even closer, fingers brushing against your forehead.
“Your skin is really warm,” he says, almost to himself, his palm shifting to cup your cheek.
A barely contained shiver ripples through your body, originating exactly where Spencer’s hand rests and working its way down your spine, turning you into a shaky disaster in seconds flat. Which, of course, is incredibly helpful, given that he currently believes you’re overheating.
Tremors in blazing sun. Makes sense.
“Can you try taking a deep breath for me?” he urges, thumb sliding smoothly across your cheekbone, and suddenly you’re wondering if this is how cats feel when someone scratches exactly the right spot behind their ears.
You drag in a tight, somewhat strangled breath, probably miles from the smooth, relaxing inhale Spencer intended. But considering there was only a microscopic gap separating your faces, successfully intaking any oxygen feels nothing short of a miracle.
Spencer, clearly agrees, because his face breaks into an immediate, heart-stopping smile.
“Good,” he whispers. “There you go.”
You briefly wonder if praise-induced death is a thing, because Spencer’s clearly testing the theory.
When his hand finally withdraws, leaving your cheek strangely cool, you’re amazed at how quickly your body rights itself, as though your lungs had just been waiting politely for him to stop wreaking havoc on your nervous system.
"Stay here, I'll grab you some water," he says softly, already halfway turned toward the house before pausing, reconsidering. "Or, actually — do you wanna come inside? Air conditioning might help."
"Oh — no," you blurt quickly, nervously adjusting your bathing suit strap for what feels like the millionth time. "I'm fine out here, really. The fresh air is good."
Fresh air, you think, nodding to yourself like a total idiot. Yes, fresh air is good. Fresh air means witnesses, and witnesses mean accountability. People who can vouch that your complete breakdown is purely situational and definitely not a daily occurrence.
He hesitates, obviously conflicted, before exhaling with a sigh of surrender. "Okay, but I'm setting up a fan. It'll make us both feel better."
You manage a nod. "Fan sounds good."
The second Spencer’s safely indoors, Rossi lowers his sunglasses just enough to shoot you an amused glance.
“Kid might be a genius, but when it comes to anything social — especially romantic — he’s about as perceptive as a brick,” he says breezily. “Lucky for you, huh?”
Laughter washes around you, and all you can do is tug your hat down over your burning face as if that might make you invisible. When no helpful sinkhole opens up beneath you, you sneak a glance toward the house.
One day, Spencer’s bound to figure it out. You wonder briefly if you’ll survive it… but you’re dangerously tempted to find out.
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here’s a sneak peek at my WIP for part three to ‘anything for ellie’!
“What made you finally ask me out? I mean, you had to have thought about it before you asked me, right?” You’d asked and for a brief moment, he turns to you before keeping his eyes back on the road. He doesn’t want to, but of course, safety first, he guesses.
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek, he’d debated on telling you right then and there. But he didn’t know how you’d take him being framed for a crime he didn’t even commit and how the reason he was gone for a few months wasn’t because of his job but because he was at the Milburn Correctional Facility because he was wrongfully convicted of murdering Nadie Ramos in Mexico. He couldn’t tell you that. What if you didn’t trust him anymore? What if you wanted to call the whole thing off? What if you didn’t trust him around Ellie anymore? There were so many reasons why he didn’t — why he couldn’t — tell you. He couldn’t risk losing you when he just got you back.
no pressure tags! @darkmatilda @beenreidingaboutyou @gold-onthe-inside
sorry if any of y’all were already tagged!
ALL I WANT IS FOR SPENCER TO BE REAL 💳💥💳💥
privacy, interrupted
waking up next to spencer on vacation is the perfect morning, until rossi walks in without knocking
pairing: spencer reid r x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison spencer, reference to sexy time the night before, reader is naked, kissing, established relationship, fluff prompt: here wc: 0.8k
You sense him stirring beside you, all cautious and considerate, like he’s navigating some delicate truce neither of you signed but both seem bound to uphold. Your limbs protest with sleepiness, practically begging you to ignore it, but your brain has other ideas, wide awake simply because it’s him.
Your subconscious has apparently decreed that Spencer Reid isn’t permitted to be awake alone without your awkward, fumbling company.
And, honestly, you can’t bear the thought of him quietly awake, probably counting obscure facts or memorizing solitude, so, inevitably, your internal clock (diligently trained, very Spencer-oriented) kicks in every morning like some sort of lovesick, overly attached alarm.
Your eyes blink sluggishly open, and yeah, you’re already mentally cursing about the loss of precious sleep.
That is, until Spencer comes into view, giving you a sleepy-soft smile as soon as he sees that your awake that somehow justifies this sappy morning ritual you’ve cultivated.
“Hey there, beautiful girl,” Spencer murmurs, warm enough to render you mushy.
You manage exactly one very brave, extremely fleeting glance into his eyes — long enough for you to panic at just how intense his adoring gaze feels — before you promptly conclude that the only dignified response is burying your burning face straight into his chest.
“Morning,” you mumble, barely audible, and okay, sure, it's a weak greeting, but you're pretty sure he knows that your social capabilities are severely limited before coffee.
“How’d you sleep?”
His fingers leisurely map trails along your stomach, occasionally dipping lower, grazing along your thigh. Your breath stalls at his touch, instantly bringing you face-to-face with the very naked reality (literally) of your current state, and you're vividly aware of why you slept better than you have in years.
You squirm against him awkwardly, deeply thankful your mortification is safely concealed in the crook of his neck. You’re fairly certain there’s no scenario — no alternate timeline or parallel universe — where you’d confess out loud just how blissfully Spencer can apparently knock you out.
“Fine,” you mumble evasively.
Spencer’s fingers move to cup your chin, lifting your face until you’re forced to meet a pair of amused eyes.
“Just fine?” He eyes you skeptically. “You were snoring pretty loudly for someone who slept just fine.”
You splutter out a laugh, embarrassed and giggling all at once, shoving lightly at his shoulder.
“Spencer!” you squeak indignantly. “I absolutely, categorically, undeniably do not snore. Take it back right now.”
“Oh, I’m afraid the science disagrees,” he begins casually, hands running absentminded passes over your side as he explains. “Almost everyone snores at least occasionally. It happens when your throat muscles relax during deep sleep. It’s completely normal.” He pauses. “Some might even say cute.”
He punctuates his little speech with a tap on your nose, grinning when you wrinkle it at him.
“Spencer’s, that’s —” you begin to argue, reader to counter his science, when he suddenly silences you with a kiss, stealing your voice mid-protest.
You try valiantly (well, sort of) to keep arguing, words stubbornly squeezing out between soft kisses that blur your logic.
“I’m serious —” kiss “— you don’t get to —” kiss “— to win arguments —” kiss “— like this,” you mumble, dissolving into breathless laughter as he continues, smugly aware he’s already won.
You’re giggling into yet another stolen kiss when a brisk knock at the door startles you apart, no time to process before Rossi strolls into the room.
“Hey, kid, we’re making coffee downstairs if you —” Rossi stops midsentence.
You barely have a second to manage a yelp before Spencer moves quickly, positioning himself like a very protective, and slightly panicked, human shield in an attempt to salvage your rapidly disappearing dignity.
“Oh my god, Rossi,” you groan from your makeshift hiding spot behind Spencer’s shoulder.
Rossi lets out a thoroughly entertained chuckle, clearly relishing in your horror. He doesn’t immediately move to leave, instead pausing in the doorway.
“Well, it appears you’re both quite awake already,” he remarks, mouth curving into a smirk. “But just in case you decide to join civilization at some point, I’ll put another pot on. Take your time.”
Spencer clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks, Rossi,” he deadpans. “Maybe next time knock and actually wait for an answer?”
Rossi grins shamelessly, lifting his hands in exaggerated innocence as he backs toward the hallway.
“I’ll consider it, right after you two consider hanging a do-not-disturb sign.”
The second Rossi shuts the door, you collapse against Spencer, sighing miserably, “That’s it. Vacation over. Social life destroyed. We’re never leaving this room again until the end of time, or at least until everyone forgets what just happened — which, spoiler alert, they won’t.”
“End of time feels a little excessive,” he teases gently, nudging your jaw with his nose. “But if it means I get to spend a few more uninterrupted days with you, I might just let you have your way.”
You roll your eyes internally, half-heartedly pretending to be annoyed at Spencer’s ridiculously charming response. Honestly, it doesn't make sense how easily he dismantles your panic with one sentence and that stupidly cute smile.
Still, your pride demands at least some resistance, even if your heart is enthusiastically voting yes to the bed-hibernation plan. So, fine — maybe hiding here forever (or at least for a couple days) wouldn’t be the absolute worst way to spend your vacation.
Actually, scratch that — it might just be your ideal outcome.
join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!
day 2 extras
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maria's spring break getaway masterlist
Let Me Stay
Ex! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader
Synopsis: 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.
Category: Angst
Warnings: not really a happy ending, established past relationship, maeve arc, mentions of death and suicide, takes place during 8x17 “The Gathering”, mentions of 8x17 events, spencer being a lil sad shit, crying, reader was in a past relationship before spencer, it’s just really sad, let me know if i missed anything! <3
Author’s Note: here is part two to “when you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light”! it’s short and sad 🤗 might make a part three???
part one
After helping Spencer, things were back to somewhat normal. You’d both bumped up from only talking on cases to the occasional small talk near the kitchenette or asking how each other’s days were going when you both were in the elevator on the way to the bullpen.
Everyone seemed to notice the change but hadn’t said anything to indicate that they knew. But then you’d heard Garcia gossiping about it in her office the other day to Morgan.
“Can you believe it? They’re finally talking again! Isn’t that great? Small talk can lead into something more! Maybe they’ll finally get together again and my ship will sail!” She’d fangirl and you shook your head with a small chuckle escaping your lips. (She was always so hell-bent that you two would eventually get back together).
Not that you didn’t agree with her, you always hoped you’d get somewhere with Spencer again. You just didn’t know when you could. He was still in mourning over Maeve and you knew he needed time to heal before dating again. You’d wait forever if you had to, unfortunately.
He still seemed quiet during most of the cases or would bury himself in his work to avoid feeling his feelings. And you couldn’t say you blamed him, because if it were you, you’d do the same thing. You have done the same thing. So, with understanding, you left him alone. And you were waiting for him to come to you.
And then you had that case in Minnesota. Your unsub was Peter Harper, he had stabbed women and pulled their tongues out pre-mortem. And you knew that him pulling the tongues out had some kind of significance to him. The disparate set of women victims was chosen at random until they discovered one connection between the women and it was that they all have a very strong on-line presence, their deaths telegraphed by stories in their own online blogs, messages or texts.
They’d finally found him at a public pool, ready to throw a woman in the pool and to wait for her to drown and when the team finally found him, he’d had a knife to his neck, ready to kill himself. You and JJ tried to talk him down off the ledge and told Peter he’d get help and that everything was gonna be okay. But then Reid had spoken up, telling him the truth and the total opposite from what you and JJ were saying.
Peter had killed himself shortly after that. And Reid walked off in frustration. You and JJ shared a look, wondering what the hell that was about.
You’d gone back to the office after filling out your paperwork. You were ready to go home, to relax and to wash the stench of this case off of you. And while you were packing up, you’d overheard Hotch and Reid’s conversation nearby. You knew Hotch was questioning his decision with telling Peter Harper the truth — that it wouldn’t get better, that it was gonna be hard to get help.
And when questioned about it, Reid’s answer was simple. “Well, Hotch, I thought the last time I was in a situation like this, I did exactly what I was supposed to. I told a perfect lie and that didn't work, so this time, in the hopes of saving someone's life, I tried something different.”
And then it was clear what this was about. Maeve. And you’d known that he still wasn’t over her. And of course, it really hadn’t been that long since she died, the wounds were still raw.
When you saw Reid abruptly leave the convo between him and Hotch and head towards the elevator, you knew to follow immediately. You’d worried a lot about him since what happened with Maeve. And you guessed that you just wanted him to be reassured that he had someone in his corner.
“Spencer,” You called in the parking garage and he’d turned around at the sound of your voice and could tell by his sigh that he was in no mood to talk with you but regardless he stopped.
“Look, I really don’t want to talk right now—” And you should’ve just left it at that. But you pushed, like you always do. Instead of walking away, you interrupted him. “I don’t care if you don’t wanna talk, but you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna listen.” Spencer crossed his arms, obviously in defense mode as you continued.
“Spencer, we have given you time. We have been there for you thick and thin and all we wanna do is help—” This time, he interrupts you. “Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe I don’t want your help? That maybe what I need is just a little bit of space?”
With that, he walked off.
And you’d officially had enough.
“Do you really think that you are the only person in the world who has lost someone?” You exclaimed and Spencer stopped in his tracks, his back still facing you. “Well, you are barking up the wrong tree because — newsflash, Spencer — you are not the only person who’s lost someone. When I lost—” You pause, not wanting to say his name. “I was… such a wreck.”
You gulp, deciding to continue, hoping your words were getting somewhere with him. “And you helped me, remember? I never would’ve gotten through that if you hadn’t of helped. And I pushed and pushed you away but you didn’t leave. You stayed. All I’m asking is to let me stay.” You walk over to Spencer and he looks down at the ground, avoiding your eyes as you choose to stand in front of him.
You bow your head, wanting to meet his eyes as you put a waiting hand on his soft cheek. You move his head to look at you. “So, let me stay.” He can see the tears forming in your eyes as you practically beg him. His eyes gaze over to your lips before quickly going back to your eyes.
“Please don’t shut me out when all I wanna do is help.” You tell him and instead of nodding and listening to you and asking you to stay, he walks away. Because if he stays any longer, he might kiss you. And you don’t deserve that. Not right now.
He walks away, leaving your heart in pieces and you in shambles. He chose his path, so you must take the same route and forget you’d ask him to let you stay.
Naughty Boy
Post Prison! Spencer Reid x Unit Chief! Fem Reader
Synopsis: 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.
Category: Smut
Warnings: established relationship, power dynamics, reader and spencer keep their relationship private so it’s a bit of forbidden love trope, kissing, smut warnings: lowkey sub!spencer, and also lowkey perv!spencer, spencer has a boner, straddling, stroking, cunnilingus, getting caught, exhibitionist kink? fingering, cumming in pants, use of ‘sweet boy’, ‘good boy’ and ‘naughty boy’, spencer lowkey pathetic- idk that should cover it
Author’s Note: hey lovelies! lowkey this one kinda sucked but i wanted to write a smut oneshot 🤭 got this idea watching a sitcom lmao anyways post prison sub spencer supremacy 🛐 debating on writing a part two to this one where reader punishes spencer hehehe let me know! please enjoy this one!! <3
A lot of changes happened since you’d become unit chief of the BAU. It wasn’t your intention of becoming unit chief but Emily Prentiss believed otherwise. She passed down the tassel to you since you’d had so much experience on this team for years. And she also knew Hotch would’ve wanted it, too.
After Barnes tried to take the BAU down, Emily was given back her job and hiring authority. Feeling as if you’d earned the spot, she promoted you. Of course, you were a little anxious taking charge at first but Emily assured she’d stay every step of the way and even offered to take over when you felt the power to be a bit too much.
You and Spencer’s relationship had become more balanced since he got back from prison and you felt the need to keep your relationship under wraps for as long as possible. Nobody knew you two were together, you both were very careful when it came to your relationship. You’d only been dating for a year and a half since he got back from prison where he’d finally confessed his undying love for you and that he’d show you just how much he loved you when he got out.
You’d both been pining after each other for years before the fact. And since then every moment you’d shared together has been wonderful, despite keeping it hidden from your colleagues. It was for the better, especially now that you were a higher power. If it wasn’t strictly forbidden before, it definitely was now that you were unit chief.
You were lucky that you’d chosen someone that was usually good at keeping secrets. You both never arrived to work together, you both left work at separate times and only ever spoke in a professional manner to one another. Of course, nothing too far as to not speaking to each other entirely. You were surprised that no one had suspected a thing for the year and a half you’d been together.
Today, you were in your office, filing everyone’s paperwork and signing off on them one by one. You’d just finished JJ’s when there was a knock on your door. “Come in.” You spoke and behind the door had been your loving and doting boyfriend.
“This a bad time?” Spencer asked as he waited for your okay to come in. “No, no, not at all. Come in.” You smile and turn towards your already closed blinds. If you hadn’t already closed them, it definitely would’ve looked suspicious if you closed them now.
As soon as he shut your door, you stood up from your seat with a sly smirk and walk over to him. “So, what can I do you for?” You ask. “Oh, nothing, I just—” Spencer rests his hands on your hips. “I just missed you.”
You smile as you hold him close. It’d been a minute since you had a moment together. Cases were often disrupting already what little time you two had together.
“I missed you too, my love.” You say, looking into his eyes with a loving smile. “Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight? I’m working on the paperwork now so I won’t have to stay here too late tonight.” You suggest and he smile right back at you. “I’d like that. We could use a date night.”
You pull him closer to kiss you on your lips and as you pull him flush against your body, you feel it. It’s definitely unmistakable that he’s hard in his pants.
“Uh, baby?” You ask, pushing him a bit. “Yeah?” He asks as he leans his head down towards his collarbone. “Are you… hard just from a few kisses?” This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten an erection just from a few simple kisses from you. He pretty much gets turned on by anything you do. And you secretly love it.
“I can’t help it, Spencer admits into your neck. “You’re gorgeous.”
You blush at his words and smile, “Aw, thank you, my love.” His mouth stays on your neck, sucking on your pulse point. You pull him towards your chair and push him into it, getting on top of him and straddling him with a smirk etched on your face as you lean down and kiss him on his lips.
He tries to speak into the kiss, pushing you away for a brief moment. “Wait, wait, wait.” He says and you look down at him, your index finger tapping on his plump pink lips, staring down at them. You had a bit of an oral fixation when it came to Spencer Reid. Whether it was for yourself or for him.
“What’s wrong?” You ask. “I just don’t want us to get caught, that’s all.” Spencer stated and you smile, “I know, sweet boy. But you let me worry about that, okay? Right now, I just want to take care of my boy.”
You run your hand towards the front of his slacks and palm his hard cock through his pants. He moans a little too loud and you are quick to clasp your free hand over his mouth. “If we want to this to work, you’re gonna need to be a good boy and be quiet, okay?” He nods vehemently into your palm.
You stroke him a few more times through his pants and you check and see that your sweet boy’s eyes are rolling to the back of his head. You wonder how long you can keep him on the edge, how long you can make this until he’s shouting that he can’t take it anymore, how much he’ll—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You and Spencer look at each other in horror before you quickly usher him underneath your desk and fix yourself up to the best of your ability, sitting in your seat. Surely, you could’ve explained that Spencer was just in here for a moment but you acted quickly and couldn’t risk whoever was coming in to talk to you to see what you two were doing. You two didn’t exactly have the best poker faces in the world.
“Come in.” You say, attempting to sound as normal as you can. The door opens and in walks Emily. “Hey, Y/n. Care if we talk for a moment?”
“Of course, come right in.” Emily nods, shutting the door behind her and sitting in the chair in front of your desk.
As Emily begins to talk with you about your most recent case paperwork and begins on giving you pointers on how to handle it quickly, Spencer is crouched underneath your desk and he has a perfect view up your skirt.
You’re too distracted with Emily being in the room to feel how his hands — his gorgeous hands — glide up and down your calf and they begin to reach in a higher place and you flinch as his nimble fingers touch your underwear.
Your eyes widen as Emily furrows her brows at you and seems to notice you’ve flinched. “Are you alright?” She asks and you nod, “Oh, yeah, super. Just too fidgety today,” You hold up your mug. “Too much coffee.”
Emily continues her advice as you feel Spencer removing your underwear down your thighs. You don’t see how he stuffs them in his pocket. He bunches your skirt to the best of his ability and you look down just for a brief moment to see that he’s become in a trance as he gawks at your wet pussy.
You’re so lucky that your desk is too high up for Emily to see what you two are doing. This is so wrong. You should definitely try and stop him but the fact that he could be caught underneath your desk — it just turns you on even more. Who knew you were such an exhibitionist?
“Another thing that I recommend that you do is—” You hardly listen to Emily as you try your best to give your undivided attention to her but it’s really difficult when the man you love is underneath your table, lapping at your pussy with his useful tongue.
You feel everything as he begins to suck on your clit and sticks his fingers into your hole and you try your best to keep a straight face. You bite your lip and try and keep yourself as hunched over as you can to not draw suspicion.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Emily asks, once more. “Uh, yeah,” Your cheeks redden. “I’m… just not feeling very…” You feel as he rolls his tongue in a figure-eight on your bundle of nerves. “Well at the… the moment.”
“If you need to go home, I can take over the rest of the day.” Emily offers and you think about it. You definitely need the time to punish your sweet boy for being needy and impatient, so maybe going home would be a good idea.
“Uh, that’s probably a good idea.” You say. “Why don’t you let the rest of the team know?” Emily nods and leaves the room and you wait for the door to shut to finally gasp and whimper.
As Emily exits the room, she walks away from the door and shudders. Yeah, she knew what the hell was happening. The team pretty much knew you two were together already. You guys didn’t have the best poker faces in the world.
“Oh, you naughty boy.” You back your seat up a bit as you run your hands through his hair. He takes his mouth off of you for a second to breathe. “I like seeing you in an authoritative position. It’s sexy.” With that, he dives back in, running his tongue through your folds again.
You take your hand through his locks, pushing him impossibly deeper into your pussy. “Oh, my God!” You exclaim softly, eyes rolling back as he finishes you off. “Come on, cum for me. Please. Please. Baby, please.” He pleads in your pussy, moaning and sending vibrations through your body as he sticks his fingers back inside.
You bite your lip to contain your moans in your office and you feel yourself gush over his face and look at him, his eyes blown with lust and love. “Did I do good?” Spencer asks, wiping his mouth of your essence and you smirk.
“You did.” You admit. “Now, that Emily’s gone, maybe I should finish what we started.” Spencer looks down and shakes his head, “No, I, uh, actually don’t need help with that anymore.”
You furrow your brows, look down and sure enough, Spencer’s slacks are a shade darker near his crotch. You should’ve expected this, he’d cum at the slightest touch.
“Somebody definitely wants to get punished tonight.” You tease, dragging a finger to his chin and he holds his arms up in surrender. “Hey, sorry I wanted to look good for my boss.”
You shake your head with a chuckle. He can be so impossible sometimes.
So, you tell him to exit the office as discreetly as he can with his blazer over his crotch to hide the evidence and to call in for the rest of the day, making an excuse that there’s a bug going around so you can edge him for hours on end when he gets to your apartment.
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a 20 year old mess | wp: K4REVSREID-spencer reid enthusiast (he’s my hubby)i mostly write on wattpad i just kinda read on here kind of a slut for spencer reid 🪐
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