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you are tipsy and flirty with spencer after a night out, leading to soft kisses, drunk rambling, and sleepy cuddles
pairings: spencer reid x reader
warnings: alcohol consumption, no gendered language (I donât think at least, let me know if there is), tipsy reader, sensual undertones but nothing crazy, flashback of sex scene but it's not too descript, drunk flirting, established relationship, lots of sleepy affection, mild undressing, domestic fluff, mutual pining but already together
wc: 1.6k
You collapse onto the pillows in a sprawling, uncoordinated heap, giggling helplessly into Spencerâs mouth as he lands right after, warm and solid and perfectly weighted. You imagine some celestial force eavesdropped on your wishes and promptly deposited him on top of you.
You remind yourself to thank them and gravity. Tonight, at least, itâs completely forgiven for all those stubbed toes and spilled coffees.
And gravity is making your limbs feel like noodles. No, scratch that, noodles would have infinitely more structure. Itâs possible youâre not even a person anymore. Perhaps youâve melted straight into the mattresses, becoming one with it, all fluff and sighs and goofy grins.Â
Is that a thing? Can people turn into beds? Youâll ask Spencer later.
Right now thereâs kissing to do. Right now, your fingers are stumbling over a jawline so sharp and lovely and you think he smells like laundry straight from the dryer. You suffocate in it as your nose nudges to the hollow beneath his throat.Â
And his hands â oh, his hands â theyâre now under your shirt and it tickles and you think youâre giggling again, because what else is there to do when heaven is handsy?
He sighs, hands sinking into the plush curve of your waist. Itâs a familiar sigh you love hearing, one of those overly dramatic, pretend-exasperation sounds to signal his patience is running thin. Except you know better. Intimately so. Because beneath that theatrical huff is a smile he canât quite hide, not when you can almost taste it if you turned your head just right.
He loves this, youâre certain, even if he refuses to say it. But thatâs fine. Youâre smart, even drunk-smart, and knowing is basically just as good as hearing. Actually, itâs even better because now youâre filled with the giddy determination to chase after that invisible grin with your lips, to hunt down the saccharine concealed there until it blossoms fully into laughter.
âI think,â you whisper loudly, your own smile mashed sloppily into the roughness of his cheek, âyou just wanna get me naked.â
Spencer snorts. "I think you need to drink more water."
Spencer gently lifts your arms, pulling off your shirt in one very smooth, very grown-up motion. Textbook Spencer Reid, all responsible bedtime procedure and absolutely zero funny business.
But your brain is champagne bubbles, pleasantly fizzy and a little devilish, so your fingers mound absently, tracing warm, languid circles along your newly exposed skin.
You watch him shamelessly, delighted when his cheeks flush just enough that heâs forced to look away, trying to convince you both heâs entirely unaffected.
"Don't need it," you murmur, eyes half-lidded and full of affection. "Just need you, thanks."
"Nice try, angel."
You sigh, softening like butter left too close to the stove as his fingertips coast feather-light down your back while coaxing you upright.
He takes his time, smoothing out each bump of your spine vertebrae by vertebrae. C1 all the way to C7. Then, with a sigh of his own, he pulls back, a moment stretched too thin, and reaches for your pajama top.
You take the time to look at him. Really look.
His belt hands low on his hips, leather biting into the fullness of his stomach, and you ache, physically ache, to trace that little line where cotton gives way to skin. His dress shirt, rumpled and sleep-wrinkled, clings across his chest like it wants to be closer too, buttons tugged taut over the breadth of him.Â
His tie is gone. Hours ago, probably. Lost to some hallway or couch or whatever innocent piece of furniture was first to fall victim to your pawing hands.
Spencer tugs the pajama top he fished from the drawer down your arms, moving slowly so you donât lose balance, not that youâd fall when youâre glued to the bed and using him as a human anchor, arms looped around his neck.
âYou know,â you begin, lips dragging along his jaw like a love-drunk GPS, âPenelope is so funny.â
"Mhm."
"No, like, funny-funny. She made songs. About people. Little jingles. Did you know Derek has a theme song?â
"I did not."
"Well, he does. And so do you."
Spencer pauses. "Should I ask?"
"No, because you'll be mean about it."
"I'm never mean to you."
You narrow your eyes at him, or try to. Theyâre a little too heavy to cooperate.
âSpencer. You once corrected my math during sex.â
He shrugs. âIn fairness, it was a bold miscalculation.â
He exaggerates.
Spencer had been beneath you, hands clutching greedily at the back of your thighs, his pupils blown so wide you could drown in their inky hunger â hunger he never bothered trying to disguise. You were gasping, half-lost on the exquisite stretch of him inside you, feeling so full it was like your body had molded itself around him, rewriting its shape in his image.
In the hazy gaps between thrusts you murmured a proud little tally into the air. Three times, maybe four. You couldnât remember, didnât care. It felt triumphant enough. Spencer, it seemed, had not.
He corrected that the first time wasnât technically full sex, so the current count stood at two. You could still remember how your palms had flattened on his chest.
He looked up at you with a smirk that said, what? Itâs true.
And you kissed him hard enough to shut him up. Not because he was wrong, but because you absolutely refused to let him be right.Â
âSo youâre admitting youâre mean to me on,â you say, squinting at him as you try to remember the word you were looking for, âoccasion.â
Spencerâs lip tugs upward as he puts a hand to his chest. âSlandered in my own bed.â
âIâm kidding, Iâm kidding,â you gasp, cupping his face. âYou are the opposite of mean. Youâre⌠youâre nice. Youâre, like, aggressively nice. Stupidly nice. But youâre not stupid. Youâre so smart. And â youâre the best boyfriend ever. Literally ever.â
âThere's a lot of praise tonight, sweetheart.â
You groan, face smooshed right into his chest as embarrassment wars with your lingering bravado. Blame the tequila. Blame your poorly-timed confidence at the bar, when you sidled up to him, inspected him head-to-toe like he was some stranger, and purred, whatâs a pretty thing like you doing all alone?
Never mind the fact that you arrived together. Never mind the fact that he had been holding your purse.
âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â
His voice spills out all velvet and sweet enough that your brain happily gives up on forming a coherent rebuttal. Gentle fingers squish your cheeks together, molding your lips into a pout that youâd probably laugh at if he werenât already leaning in to kiss it.Â
And he does, of course, soft lips pursed just slightly, showing you a peek at that deeper, cherry-stained color hidden inside.Â
Lips shouldnât look that edible, should they?
But with him, everything feels bite-worthy, nibble-able, lickable, and utterly unfair in how pretty he is. You constantly remind him, watch as his ears bloom pink, eyes narrowing in an attempt to deflect your adoration, especially when youâre in public.
You know he struggles with it. The receiving. The enormity of being loved without proof, without conditions, without demands. But thatâs never scared you off. If anything, it draws you closer, makes you cherish every reminder, every repetition, every soft retelling of the truth heâs still learning how to hold. Because one day, maybe, youâll say it so many times that even he canât deny it anymore.
âYou know,â you mumble, eyelids drooping as your finger taps his lower lip, voice slurred like honeyed bourbon. âThat thing you did earlier, kissinâ my wrist all slow â mm-hmm â was that on purpose?â
A low laugh escapes him as he guides your form onto the bed, sliding down to lay beside you. He props his head on one hand, studying you.Â
âOn purpose? As opposed to⌠what? A spontaneous wrist-kissing seizure?â
You wrinkle your nose, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes.Â
âSpence, thereâs accidents, and then thereâs⌠purposeful stuff, right? Like when someone just does things because they wanna make you feel good. Little things, like kissing wrists, and⌠remembering your favorite cereal and ââ You lose yourself briefly, blinking sleepily. âAnd it just feels really, really nice when someone does things on purpose for you, âcause it means youâre worth noticing, I think. And you do that a lot.â
He smiles, thumb dragging a lazy arc along your cheek. You lean into the touch like a cat, nuzzling closer.
âI love your mind. Drunk Socrates, but cuter,â Spencer teases, pulling you closer so your head rests comfortably against his chest. âYou probably wonât remember any of this in the morning,â he adds, âbut I will and⌠I donât know, noticing you has never been something I try to do.â
He exhales slowly.
âItâs actually harder not to,â he continues, âYou know, yesterday you left your book on the counter, spine cracked and bookmarked with a receipt, and I couldnât stop thinking about what part youâre up to. I actually looked up the chapter summaries to figure it out.â He chuckles under his breath. âYouâre just constantly⌠there. In my head. Background processing, even when Iâm thinking about something else.â
You dissolve further against him, the lines between your bodies blurring pleasantly, warmth pooling so deeply that your outlines vanish. You silently plead with yourself to remember this clearly in the morning, and that your expression in daylight wonât too obviously reveal how completely youâve fallen in love again.
âSo what youâre sayinâ,â you mumble, wrapping your arms around him, nipping at the slope of his shoulder, âis Iâm basically a parasite you canât get rid of.â
âExactly,â Spencer says, fingers digging into your side. âMutually beneficial symbiosis. Iâd let you take over my entire life if you wanted. Full infection. No cure needed.â
âMmm, youâre gonna regret sayinâ that when you wake up stuck with me forever.â
âIâm counting on it.â
And you believe him.
đ masterlist
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Imagining spencer reid letting me get off on his thigh in secret (not so secretly because hes holding your waist like his life depends on it.) because hes busy and cant give you what you want at the moment, and while no one is around hes telling you in your ear "you're doing so good staying quiet baby", it kills him that you can't moan his name so you resort to biting and scratching his shoulders instead. And when you two finally leave he makes sure to cover the wet spot you left on his thigh from your release, and he fucks you so good in his car, grinding, making sure to hit all your sweet spots while kissing your neck and shoulders, leaving marks that'll definitely get the the both of you teased by the team tomorrow. Those same marks that got you both teased, he's weirdly proud of, knowing that he's the one who made them, knowing you chose him and he chose you. Knowing that they don't just mean sex, they mean love. Anyways wow what a thought, am I right???
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But it closes a little too firmly, a little too carefully controlled, and thatâs how you know.
You look up from where youâre curled on the couch, the soft glow of the TV painting the room in low light. For a second, he just stands there with his hand still on the handle, shoulders slightly hunched like he hasnât quite made it all the way back yet.
âHey,â you say softly.
His head lifts at your voice. The tension in his face shifts, not gone, just⌠tucked away. Filed under something neater.
âHi.â
Itâs automatic, the way he crosses the room to you. Like muscle memory. Like youâre part of the routine he trusts. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your lipsâgentle, familiarâbut itâs over before it can settle into anything.
Too quick.
âCase ran long,â he adds, already pulling back, already halfway somewhere else in his head. âIâmâuhâIâm gonna shower.â
âSpenceââ
But heâs already moving.
You watch him disappear down the hallway, the quiet click of the bathroom door following a second later. Then the rush of water.
And just like that, the apartment feels⌠off.
You frown slightly, staring at the space he left behind. The way he didnât linger. Didnât ramble. Didnât even really look at you beyond that quick, checking-in glance.
Somethingâs wrong.
Not catastrophically wrong. You know what that looks like. Youâve seen it before.
This is quieter than that. Heâs wound too tight.
You mute the TV, the silence settling in around you, filled only by the distant sound of running water. Your mind runs through possibilitiesâbad case, lack of sleep, something that stuck with him longer than usual.
Probably all of the above.
You push yourself off the couch, padding down the hallway. The bathroom door is still closed, steam already curling faintly from beneath it. You hover there for a second, considering knocking.
You donât.
Instead, you lean your shoulder against the wall, arms crossing loosely as you wait.
The water runs longer than usual.
When it finally shuts off, thereâs a pause. A long one. Like heâs just standing there, gathering himself, piecing something back together before he has to step out and be a person again.
Your chest tightens a little.
The door opens a minute later, and Spencer steps out, hair damp, t-shirt clinging slightly where it hasnât fully dried him off. He looks⌠better, technically.
Cleaner. Still not okay.
He blinks when he sees you there. âOhâhi. I didnâtâuhârealize you wereââ
âWaiting?â you offer.
He gives a small, sheepish nod, rubbing at the back of his neck. âSorry. I didnât mean to disappear like that.â
âItâs okay,â you say, but your eyes narrow just a little, studying him. âYou just got back. Youâre allowed to be weird for at least, like, an hour.â
That earns you the faintest hint of a smile. It flickers across his mouth, brief but real. âOnly an hour?â
âMhm. After that I start charging you for emotional distance.â
A quiet huff of laughter leaves him, softer than usual, but itâs something. Still, he shifts his weight like he doesnât quite know where to go next. Like standing still might let something catch up to him.
You tilt your head slightly, softer now. âHey⌠are you okay?â
Spencer doesnât answer right away.
His gaze drops somewhere between you, unfocused, like heâs flipping through thoughts too fast to grab just one. You can almost see the calculations, the quiet sorting, the way he tries to find the most accurate answer instead of the easiest one.
A few seconds pass before he exhales.
âIââ He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. âI will be.â
Itâs honest. Not reassuring, not entirely comforting, but real. And youâve learned thatâs what matters with him.
You nod, stepping a little closer, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. âOkay. âWill beâ is acceptable.â
His shoulders loosen a fraction at that. Not fully. Just enough to breathe a little easier.
âI think I justâŚâ He rubs at the back of his neck again, damp curls catching between his fingers. âI should probably sleep. Reset a little.â
âYeah,â you murmur. âThat sounds like a good plan.â
Thereâs another pause, smaller this time. Hesitant.
Then, quieterâalmost carefulââWill you⌠come with me?â
Itâs not a big question. Not really. Youâve done this countless times before. Fallen asleep together, limbs tangled, his breathing evening out beside you.
But thereâs something different in the way he asks it now.
Less routine. More⌠needing.
Your expression softens instantly. âOf course.â
Something in him settles at that. Not all the way, but enough that the sharpest edges dull.
âOkay,â he says, almost to himself.
He shifts, gesturing faintly down the hall like heâs not entirely sure how to transition from standing here to actually moving. You donât wait for him to figure it out. You slip past him, bumping your shoulder lightly into his as you go.
âCâmon, genius,â you tease gently. âDoctorâs orders. Bed.â
A quiet breath of amusement escapes him, and this time the smile lingers just a little longer.
He follows you.
The bedroom feels softer somehow. Dimmer. Safer.
You tug the blankets back and climb in first, settling into your usual spot without thinking. Spencer hovers for half a second before joining you, movements slower, more deliberate, like heâs still shaking off the outside world piece by piece.
The mattress dips under his weight. Thereâs that same brief hesitation. Then he shifts closer.
Not dramatic. Not even fully intentional, maybe. Just instinct. His arm slides around you, tucking you in against his side, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist.
You hum softly, adjusting so you fit better against him, your cheek brushing his shoulder.
For a moment, neither of you say anything.
You can feel it, though. The tension still coiled in him. Quieter now, but not gone. His fingers flex slightly against your side, like he doesnât quite know how to let go of everything yet.
Your gaze flicks upward.
Heâs staring at the ceiling. Wide awake.
Yeah. No. Not happening.
A small smile tugs at your mouth.
âYouâre terrible at this,â you murmur.
Spencer blinks, glancing down at you. âAt what?â
âSleeping.â
âI just laid down,â he protests mildly.
âMhm. And youâre already thinking too loud.â
His lips twitch faintly. âI donâtâthink loudly.â
âYou do when youâre trying not to.â
That earns you a slightly more real look. A little more present.
Good. But you have another idea.
You shift suddenly, twisting out of his hold just enough to grab one of the pillows from behind you.
Spencer frowns, confused. âWhat are youââ
You hit him.
Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to surprise.
The pillow makes a soft whump against his arm.
He stares at you. You stare back.
ââŚDid you justââ he starts.
You hit him again. That does it.
âOkay,â Spencer says slowly, pushing himself up onto one elbow, eyes narrowing just a fraction. âI see whatâs happening.â
âDo you?â you grin, already backing up on your knees across the bed.
âI was under the impression we were going to sleep.â
âRevised plan.â
He watches you for a second longer. Then, something shifts.
Itâs subtle, but you catch it. The way the tension in his shoulders loosens, replaced by something lighter. Sharper. Awake in a different way.
âYou know,â he says, reaching for a pillow of his own, âthere are several strategic disadvantages to your current position.â
âOh yeah?â
âYes. For oneââ
You donât let him finish. You swing the pillow, aiming for his chest.
This time, heâs ready for it. And just like that, the room changes.
Laughter breaks through the quiet, sudden and bright, as Spencer catches the pillow and immediately retaliates. The first hit he lands is clumsy, glancing off your side, but the secondâ
âHey!â you laugh, scrambling away as he moves forward.
The bed dips and shifts under both of you, turning the whole thing into unstable territory. You grab another pillow, swinging wildly, barely dodging his reach as he tries to corner you.
âYou started this,â he reminds you, breath already a little unevenâbut lighter now, threaded with something almost playful.
âAnd youâre losing,â you shoot back.
âI am not losing.â
âYou absolutely areââ
Your sentence dissolves into laughter as he lunges, catching the edge of your pillow mid-swing and using it to yank you forward. You barely twist out of it in time, scrambling off the bed entirely with a soft thud of your feet hitting the floor.
âOh, thatâs cheating!â you accuse, already darting backward.
Spencer sits up fast, pushing his hair out of his face, eyes brighter nowâreally bright, the kind that only shows up when heâs fully, genuinely in something.
âThatâs not cheating,â he argues, grabbing his pillow and sliding off the bed after you. âThatâs adaptation.â
âYouâre literally making up rulesââ
âYou didnât establish any rules!â
You laugh again, breathless, backing toward the door as he advances. Thereâs something delightfully unfair about him like thisâlong limbs, quick reflexes, a surprising amount of coordination when heâs not overthinking every step.
âYouâre supposed to be bad at this!â you protest.
âThat seems like an assumption you made without evidence.â
âYou trip over air, Spencer!â
âI trip when Iâm thinking,â he corrects, already closing the distance, pillow raised like a very soft weapon. âIâm not thinking right now.â
âOh, thatâs terrifyingââ
You dart sideways just as he swings, the pillow grazing your arm instead of landing square. You laugh, breathless, circling back toward the bed like itâs home base, except heâs already anticipating that, cutting you off with a step thatâs just a little too quick.
Unfair.
âYouâre taking this too seriously!â you accuse with a laugh, backing up until the mattress bumps into the backs of your legs.
âI take all competitive activities seriously.â
âThis is not a competitiveâSpencer!â
He lunges.
You try to dodge, really you do, but he catches your wrist mid-retreat, momentum carrying both of you forward. The mattress dips hard as you fall back onto it, a surprised laugh punching out of you as he follows, one knee landing on the bed beside your hip, the other sinking into the blankets for balance.
The pillows are forgotten somewhere in the chaos.
You twist beneath him, still laughing, trying to shove him off, but heâs already got youâhands catching your wrists, pinning them lightly above your head as he leans over you, hair falling into his eyes, glasses slightly crooked.
âGot you,â he says, a little breathless, a little triumphant.
âYou cheated,â you counter immediately, though the words dissolve into another laugh.
âI adapted,â he corrects again, but thereâs a smile tugging at his mouth nowâreal, unguarded, lingering.
You both go still for a second.
Not fully. Your chests are still rising and falling too fast, breaths mingling in the small space between you. But the movement slows. The laughter fades into something softer, quieter, like the room is catching up with you.
Spencer doesnât let go of your wrists right away.
His gaze flickers over your face, like heâs remembering where he is. Who heâs with. The shift happens again, subtle but unmistakable, the playful edge softening into something warmer. Something heavier.
âHi,â you murmur, softer now.
His lips twitch faintly. âHi.â
âI missed you,â you say softly.Â
âI missed you too,â he says, and it lands softer than everything elseâlike something he didnât realize he was holding onto until it slipped out.
Your chest tightens in that quiet, familiar way.
You donât rush it. You just⌠shift.
One of your wrists twists gently in his grasp, and he lets it go immediatelyâof course he does, thereâs no resistance, no hesitation. Spencer has never been someone who holds on when you pull away.
But youâre not pulling away.
Your freed hand slides up, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and you tug him down.
The kiss meets him halfway.
Itâs warm and intentional. Your lips brushing his first, testing, and then settling when he exhales softly against you like something in him just⌠gives. He melts.
His grip loosens on your other wrist, not dropping it entirely at first, just easingâlike heâs making sure you donât want to move again. When you donât, when your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt instead, he lets go completely.
His hand slides down, slow and careful, tracing the line of your arm before settling at your side.
The kiss deepensânot dramatically, not all at once. It builds. Soft turns into something warmer, something that lingers a second longer each time your lips meet. His breathing shifts, uneven at the edges, like heâs still catching up to the moment.
Like he didnât expect this. Like he needed it anyway.
You hum faintly against him, and that does somethingâsomething visible. His hand tightens just a little at your waist, pulling you closer without thinking, pressing you more firmly into the mattress beneath him.
Grounding. Needing.
When he pulls back, itâs not far. Just enough to breathe, to look at you, curls falling messily into his eyes.
Thereâs still a trace of that earlier tension in himâbut itâs changed now. Softer. Warmer. Redirected into something that hums low under his skin.
âIs thisâŚâ he starts, voice quieter, a little rougher now. âIs this your official treatment plan?â
Your lips curve, brushing his again, lighter this time. âMhm. Very advanced technique.â
He huffs a small breath of laughter, forehead dipping briefly against yours. âPeer-reviewed?â
You laugh. âExtensively.â
Another kissâshorter, but more certain.
His hand shifts at your waist, thumb brushing absent, slow circles like heâs thinking without meaning to. The rest of him follows in small waysâhis weight settling more comfortably over you, one knee adjusting against the mattress, his body fitting closer instead of hovering.
Less distance. Less thinking. More here.
You slide your hand up from his shirt to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the edge, and his eyes flicker shut for a second at the contact.
When he kisses you again, thereâs less hesitation in it. Still gentle, still Spencer, but steadier nowâlike heâs chosen this instead of stumbled into it. He sighs when he pulls away, a deep and satisfied sound that makes you smile again.
okay so male!reader x spencer reid. (nsfw? if you want (please). S7 spencer perferably.) They are already dating which the whole team knows because spencer is a possive af.
basically, m!reader is literally spencer's very own sunshine. Like m!reader is just so happy (you can bet he is a bratty bottom too) So they work together and m!reader is basically so so bored on the jet he starts to ramble to reid about god knows what. Spencer is just like "yeah alright- I just want us to be at the hotel already."
I will let you decide the rest. (If you cannot tell, I have done asks before and I will continue because I love spencer and i need more "x m!reader"s)
WAIT YES ILL DO THIS BUT WHAT ASK DID YOU ASK?? As soon as you answer this I'll get to work
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