𝙷𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎.
𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞? 𝙷𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗.
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𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝 (𝟷𝟾+)
𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: ~𝟹.𝟺𝚔
𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 | 𝚂𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 | 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢:
𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎—𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍.
𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜:
𝚂𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢, 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔, 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝
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The hotel room is quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional muffled sounds from the hallway.
Spencer’s lying on top of the covers, tie discarded, dress shirt wrinkled from the day. He’s got a case file open in front of him, but he hasn’t looked at it in over twenty minutes.
Not since your last text lit up his screen.
(Miss you. Wish I could sneak into that stiff little bed of yours and wrap myself around you.)
He stares at the words for a long time, biting back a smile. His heart’s pounding a little harder than it should for a text message.
He adjusts his glasses, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before typing back.
(Statistically, sharing a bed does improve sleep quality—assuming you don’t steal the covers.)
You:
(I do steal the covers.)
(And your shirts.)
(Oh, and your attention.)
He huffs out a quiet laugh. He can still hear your voice when he reads your words—teasing, affectionate, familiar.
He misses you more than he’s willing to admit to the rest of the team.
He misses your warmth, your hands in his hair, your foot hooked over his calf in the middle of the night.
Spencer:
(You already have all my attention. I can’t stop thinking about you tonight.)
There’s a pause before your next message comes through.
(What kind of thoughts, Doctor?)
His breath catches a little.
He sits up slightly, heart rate ticking upward, his fingers hesitating again.
This… isn’t his usual.
He’s articulate in facts, fluent in history, poetry, even philosophy—but he’s never really been this way over text. It feels vulnerable.
Intimate in a different way than even physical closeness.
But it’s you.
And he wants you to know you’re on his mind.
(I was thinking about how soft your skin is. How you press your lips just under my jaw when you’re trying to distract me. It usually works.)
The read receipt pops up instantly.
(God, Spence.)
(Tell me more.)
He exhales slowly, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the blinking cursor. A nervous flush creeps up his neck, but he doesn’t stop.
He leans into it.
(I keep thinking about your fingers dragging down my chest. The way you sound when you whisper my name in that voice you only use when we’re alone. The way you arch into me when I kiss you slowly—like you’re not in a rush, like you want it to last forever.)
Your response is immediate.
(Spencer, I’m literally breathless right now. You never talk like this.)
(Do you know how much I love it?)
(How much I love you? *)
His chest tightens.
That word—love—it lands softer than it used to, like it’s already stitched into every breath between you.
He smiles, thumb brushing across the screen.
(I’ve never done this before. But with you? It’s different. I want to give you everything—even if I have to learn how in texts at 1:12 AM from a hotel room 400 miles away.)
There’s another pause. Then your response:
(Come home soon. I need your hands, your mouth, your everything.)
(But until then… keep going. Tell me what you’d do if I were there right now.)
He takes a shaky breath, heart racing—not from nerves, but from how alive he feels in this moment. You’ve reached through the screen, through the miles, and anchored him. This distance doesn’t feel quite so unbearable now.
(Only if you promise to text me what you’d do, too.)
Spencer, for all his logic and reason, finds something beautiful in the new math of it:
You. Him. Wanting. Waiting.
A different kind of intimacy.
A new kind of proximity.
And all of it is yours.
Your texts have slowed, not out of disinterest, but anticipation. Spencer can feel it. There’s a quiet heat building in his chest, a low, constant hum of wanting you—missing you. It makes him restless in a way he rarely is.
The screen lights up again.
(Spence.)
(You know what I really want right now?)
(A real-time version of this. FaceTime me?)
His stomach flips.
He swallows hard and sets the phone down, fingers moving to open his laptop, hands slightly trembling with nerves—but not in a bad way. In the you way. In the you’re asking for me way.
He clicks the video call button.
It rings once. Twice.
Then there you are—on screen, lit by the soft glow of your bedside lamp. Hair messy, lips slightly parted, wearing the sleep shirt of his that you always steal. His pulse stumbles.
“You look…” he starts, then clears his throat and smiles, a little dazed. “You look beautiful.”
You tilt your head, gaze soft but laced with something more. “You look like you’ve been thinking about me for hours.”
“I have,” he admits, voice quieter. “I can’t stop. I keep imagining what it would feel like to have you lying next to me. Skin against mine. Your voice in my ear instead of through a screen.”
You shift under the blanket, and he notices your bare shoulder, his breath hitching slightly as you lean into the frame.
“Well,” you say, voice low and warm, “I could help you imagine better.”
Spencer’s mouth goes dry.
He’s never done this. Not live. But he’s never wanted something like this so badly either.
“I’m, um… not sure I’ll be any good at this,” he says softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I want to try. For you.”
You smile—that beautiful, slow smile that makes his heart ache.
“Just talk to me, Spence. Like you were before. Show me you’re here.”
He nods once, steadying himself. Then he shifts the laptop slightly on the desk so you can see more of him—his long frame stretched out on the bed, the undone top buttons of his shirt, his flushed cheeks, his blown pupils.
“I’d start by kissing your collarbone,” he murmurs. “Right here—” he touches his own skin, just above the first open button. “Then lower. Slow. Until you were breathless. I’d want you to feel everything. No rush. Just… us.”
You exhale audibly, eyes flickering with heat.
“Then I’d run my hands down your sides. You always shiver when I do that. Do you—” he pauses, biting his lip—adorably, like he doesn’t realize how that looks on him. “Do you still sleep without anything on beneath that shirt?”
You shift again and pull the blanket down slightly, just enough to show the curve of your hip, the bare skin beneath.
“Why don’t you guess?” you whisper.
Spencer’s breath catches. His voice dips low, his confidence building from the way your eyes are glued to him.
“I’d kiss you there next. Let my fingers trace every inch of you until you were whispering my name like a secret.”
You slide your hand beneath the hem of the shirt. Spencer tracks the movement like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
His voice cracks slightly, but he doesn’t stop. “Touch yourself. Just a little. Let me see what I do to you—even from here.”
Your breath stutters.
“Say my name,” he murmurs. “Please. I want to hear it.”
And you do—his name a whisper, a prayer, falling from your lips like you need him. It nearly undoes him.
He palms himself through his pants, slow, deliberate, still watching you, completely overwhelmed but in the best way. “I didn’t know this kind of distance could still feel this intimate,” he says, a little breathless. “But watching you like this… knowing I did that to you—I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
Your hand stills as you look at him—wide-eyed, breathless, undone.
Neither of you finish—not yet.
It’s not about that.
It’s about the way your breathing syncs with his. The way he whispers, “I love you,” without meaning to. The way you whisper it back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
And later, as the silence settles and your eyes grow heavy on the screen, Spencer doesn’t hang up. He just lies there, watching you sleep through the grainy video feed, whispering soft things to no one but you.
“I’ll be home soon,” he says, barely audible.
“And when I am—I’ll show you everything I couldn’t say tonight.”
I'm sweating
which little plushie are you? 🧸
tysm for the tag: @amrplastique 💓
tags: @catchmeonyourceiling @lovethornes @daystarpoet @beaucereza @chxrrybxmbi @dolcecuore @auntiejohn @binibby @bvrnesher @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @certaimromance @effortlesslysweet @aezuria @mothswan @lydiasfalling @peanutalergy @xoxorory @xoxoivy13 @laufeysvalentine @minorlyatfault @jjsblueberry and whoever wants to join <3
thanks cutie<3
oh!!!
so lifelike!!! n pretty <3
Spencer is generally very routine with his eating habits. He knows himself well enough to know when he's hungry, and plans his meals around that. He's regimented enough that he rarely deviates from that. 3 square meals a day, usually a snack between each one, scarfed down at his desk.
He's always got something sweet and longlasting for him— a lollipop or a gobstopper for when he gets peckish and wants to gnaw on something around 16:00.
Alongside his own snack, he always has a little something extra in his messenger bag, not for him.
Next to it, tucked into the little pouch, something savoury for you— a packet of chips, or trail mix. Whenever he notices you're getting antsy (often around 3 hours after lunch, but he doesn't want to sound creepy and point it out), he'll wordlessly fish it out and slide it across his desk on to yours.
You're not dating. Of course not. But he notices. He packs food for you.
going feral over this.
learning sign language so you can make inappropriate comments to spencer while at work and you sign “want to suck your cock” and spencer just looks at you all bewildered like “since when did you know ASL?”
dirty talking to spencer in ASL genre: sfw with sexual innuendos word count: 1,8k a/n: a lil something while i'm working on kinkfest :)
Spencer Reid is a man of many talents. People say — well, specifically, Spencer once told you that learning a new skill is easiest around the age of ten and how the process will be more difficult once you reach the age of eighteen. Something about neural connections forming rapidly, the unconscious system, the critical period… To be honest, you lost your focus the moment he mentioned the new skill he’d learned: sign language.
Spencer was excited to tell you about this new skill. He already knew a handful of languages, from Russian to Yoruba, but what appealed to him most about ASL was the hand motions. How he didn’t need to pronounce any of the words. You still chuckle to yourself when the memory of him pronouncing a Spanish sentence pops up in your head. How vividly you could picture Elle correcting him. There was nothing funny about him using ASL, though. In fact, you remember the way your throat tightened and your cheeks heated when his hands started moving — long fingers, decorated in veins, flexing into different symbols at a speed that other beginners would envy.
“That means ‘I love you, and that sweater looks pretty on you’.”
You had laughed. Had leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you,” you replied. A hot pink flush made its way onto his face, a shy smile tugging on his lips.
“Does this mean you’ll be speaking to me in sign now?”
i melted
pokemon trainer! spencer to join my penelope :3
i originally wanted to give him a rowlet then I remembered blipbug exists and was like damn they look like eachother 😭 also spencer and bug pokemon just makes sense to me.
also pokemon trainer spencer would absolutely be fascinated by unown! he would love researching them and decoding all their messages
awwwww :((((
fuck i cannot
#jelle crumbs (8/?)
1.16 | The Tribe
You know who does that, JJ? I hope you do.
