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ladybirdswritings · 4 months

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Pride & Prejudice - Coriolanus {Young} Snow x Reader

Summary: Spending more time with the miserable Mr. Snow, against your will, only proves to you exactly why he is a man you have sworn to loathe for all eternity. Steamy Pride & Prejudice retelling with young snow and you! Alternate universe, au!snow <3

Notes: so happy you all loved the first part — so i guess i’m continuing ahaha. as always, thank u for leaving comments and loves as it keeps me motivated! also, feel free to lmk if you’d like to be added to the tag list <3

two

The mist of September’s end and October’s greeting is a thick, heavy blanket in the air. You only scowl at it as you pick up your tiered skirt from where it drags against emerald moss and dirt. A storm is nearby.

You would melt into this very soil if you could. Become one with the lilacs and peonies if it meant you’d never be prevailed upon to marry again by the force of your mother.

Mama is unwell. As always but, with more fervor now. The dance was most successful for Jane. She and Sejanus have been exchanging kind letters with pomegranate stained kisses garnishing the print. Even so, mama is viciously unhappy.

The cherrywood cabinets slam louder when you pass, and her eyes narrow at any mention of the gathering. Perhaps your behavior was a great embarrassment for her. If only you were as divine as Jane.

The house is lively, far too lively for your liking at this settling hour. Sisters here and sisters there. They busy themselves with the grand piano and awful singing. It isn’t long until one of the twins rushes forward with a sealed envelope clasped tightly in hand.

“Mama! It is for Jane!”

You snatch the paper from her palm, worrisome that she will ruin it with how tightly she squeezes. Beyond this, you are most eager to see the development in your own personal romance novel starring your dearest sister. Mama slaps your hand away in turn, tugging it back into a monstrous grasp that nearly shreds it to minuscule little pieces.

You see the breath halt and dwell comfortably in her throat, unwilling to part or falter. This is most important to her, trivial matter as it is.

So long as Jane is happy…

You gaze on at the girl with petal-pink cheeks and bright eyes — her smile is a thing of beauty and joy at the mere idea that Sejanus Plinth could admire her.

“Mama! What does it say!”

Her hands tremble like hummingbirds now, and your frown stitches itself promptly upon your pretty face. Oh no, he is certain to have changed his mind.

At least he was kind and gentleman enough to inform dear Jane by letter.

That joy, excitement and eagerness once swimming within your mother’s eyes has dissipated to sheer horror.

“When did we receive this?” She whispers, a ghastly and terror laced sound.

“This morning!” One of the twins happily offers, twirling her chocolate ringlet tight enough to knot.

Mama cries out a sound of agony, shoving the paper hard against Jane’s chest — enough so that she stumbles. She is a frantic thing, running round your quaint living space like that of a farm animal who has lost its head.

You are fueled by your own confusion, constricting your mind to only wait upon Jane. She shakily reads the crumbled thing — hesitance becoming her. Her eyes shift then; a look of joy, excitement, fear — then dread.

“What is it?” You whisper, watching as mama mutters nonsense and brushes the collection of scattered breadcrumbs from the countertop — eyes wide as the moon aglow at midnight.

“Mr. Plinth and his sister, alongside Mr. Snow and sir Plinth’s dear — rich uncle, have all planned to meet with us this evening. They’ve taken a carriage, and have made arrangements to arrive by sundown.”

Four pairs of eyes, in perfected unison, glance into the grassy plains where the sun has begun to set.

You do not intend to giggle at the irony, perhaps it is a thing fueled by nerves just as your mother. Yet it floats from your sweet lips like a prayer, slender fingers rushing to suffocate it.

It is undeniably numerous, however. How could it be anything but?

The way your dearest blood all melts at the brim for the gaze of three men whom are only important by cold silver is a thing of great mystery to you, something you do not understand. It is not just mama and Jane and the entirety of your own family however. No, it is all of society. You only wonder what it would be like for a woman to reach beyond the horizon line — to be great. To not be forced upon a man of all creatures to be of true importance.

Mama rushes past, so quickly your hair becomes unruly. She presses her palms firmly against your cheeks — your face piecing together like a swift minnow from the nearby fish pond.

“Oh heavens — if you do even the littlest act so to embarrass me, I am certain to die of great illness. My nerves are far too weak, you must behave for me! Be as sweet Jane is. Sir Plinth’s uncle is of the richest gentleman in Newbury, 5,000 a year! You must converse with him, do it for your dearest mother. Oh! And brush that wild hair from your face, girl. He will think you to be a witch — keep guard at the window.”

Her words are a tangled, knotted mess of all the things you despise. Even whilst tucked away into a place where you do not truly listen, you know well she is asking you to be social for gain of a husband.

You frown, grateful when the headless chicken runs off from you again. Your hand fussses with the wisps rested amongst your forehead — and you obey mama’s orders by sauntering to the creaky old chair that faces the fogged front window.

The fog is a veil, a curtain hiding from you only dread. You are grateful for it now, though it does no good for your locks and tresses. Your eyes dart to the torn book beside you — and you consider disobedience as an alternative to this state. You know well what will happen if you stray, so you do not dare it.

It is an awfully timely and punctual arrival — perhaps ten ticks of the grand, tower clock before the stallion’s snouts peek through the fog. Just as the golden halo sets beyond them.

“Mama!”

You call, but she only waves you away with a busy hand as she continues fussing with the knit table mat. You will not bother it again. You shrink, hiding all but curious eyes behind the lace curtain.

Sejanus is grinning, nervously you think. Then the scowling sister, a small, old creature with a sunken gaze — and the miserable one. They approach, you sink further.

“God Sejanus, smile any more for the poor thing and your pockets will start betraying you.” Grace sneers, voice sewn tightly with disgust at the less fortunate situation your family finds themselves in, glancing around at the quaint, pathetic home. It is as if she believes one breath of hers will cause it to collapse to the soil — to her polished feet.

“Please Grace, she is the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Oh, uncle, her eldest sister is very agreeable as well. Don’t you agree, Snow?”

Oh, he’s asked the cold thing who’s far too proud and rich for a humble party. You’re curious.

“Perfectly tolerable, I suppose. But not pretty enough to tempt me.”

Oh…

Your mischievous, sneaky grin melts into that of a hard line — ample with annoyance. How arrogant of him to say. As if his blonde locks and blue eyes make him any different than the handsome officers that pass by now and then. As if he is some prize. You scowl, Grace’s laugh an unpleasant sound.

Four hard knocks and you are quickly up to your feet.

Mama rushes to you immediately, slapping your hand enough so that it stings greatly and fades the color crimson.

“You were meant to watch! Places, take your stance girls!”

It takes beyond the greatest force to drag your feet to stand beside Jane. Mama checks each forced position anxiously before she tugs the door open wide — with a horrible, eager grin.

“Welcome!”

They trail the moss and dirt onto your oak floors, not bothering to wipe it away on the torn cloth you call a carpet. No need, they believe. The house is pathetic already as it stands. No dirt shall make it any less worthy than it already is.

In unison, a curtsy of greeting becomes all of you. Prim and proper and perfect just as mother groomed you all to be. For preparation of husbands.

Good god, the blonde looks even more dreadful now. Cold eyes darting to the old, harmless hound that chews on a racket ball. He winces at the sight of dust and chipped oak wood furniture surrounding. He looks down upon this place as if it is beneath him.

He far from belongs here.

“Sit, please sit! I’ve already prepared us supper!” Mama practically pushes Sejanus with most nervous palms, and his shadows follow suite.

Though you dream of running through the open door and fading into the mist to never be found again — you obey; sauntering into the archway with tired eyes and reluctant feet.

“My lady…”

Oh.

The short man with bushy brows and coal colored, untamed locks pulls your seat back enough so that you may sit upon it. To your dismay, the miserable one takes place in front of you. His eyes are cast downward to the far from fine silverware laid before him.

“Thank you sir.” You whisper, the chair feeling as though it is determined to suffocate you the longer you sit upon it.

“Oh, Jane — everybody, please meet my uncle, Mr. Casca Highbottom of Bristol.”

You only nod at the grinning old man, and mama rushes back like a midnight breeze through the archway — setting plates filled to the brim with but all of the food left for the entire month. Even so, it remains poor to a gazing eye. Though it matters not how little garnishes the porcelain, for when you catch gaze of miserable Snow pushing his few peas around in disgust, you cannot help but narrow your sight.

How can he be so proud? Certainly, if a humble gathering invited you in for a warm meal in this awful mist — you’d be most grateful for even a singular pea on your plate. Let alone twelve.

Grace laughs at the sight of Snow displeased — placing a soft palm against his knee beneath the cherrywood table. He spares her laugh a glance, and his lip twitches in what appears to be an amused smile. They talk lowly to each other, you notice it from where you peer behind your glass. She must be fond of him what with the way she touches him and leans closer with each word he speaks. You cannot possibly imagine why. Perhaps they are just alike. Rich, rude things.

“So — I dare ask if any suitors captured your heart at the party then?” Grace, she speaks to you now. You snort, ready to offer words of disdain and disgust toward the lot of men and their sweaty palms. Your mother’s cold glare silences you.

“No… they did not.” You mutter in quick defeat.

“Hmm, how dreadful…” it is mock sympathy, noticeable to both you and Jane.

Tension thins to a mere string lacing the table together. Silence blanketing even more so than the mist as worn silverware and mama’s embarsssing tangents erupt in painful harmony. You are grateful for Jane who manages to pry her eyes from Sejanus for a single moment so to save you from mama’s disapproving glare at your silence. She is selling you to the short man, it seems. She has been for the entirety of this meal.

“It is not as though gentlemen do not flock to my dear sister…” Jane starts. “It is simply that she is far too preoccupied with her books to notice them. She is an avid reader, adores her novels you see. She possesses great talents because of it!”

You hoped Jane would be so kind as to avert the attention. Yet it remains stable upon you, the available wife — as cattle with clipped ears. You feel as though you are livestock being powdered and pressed for the market. If the short man is buying, you’d rather be butchered.

He is awkward and stout and his jokes are uncomfortable as they are just rude. He is far from a gentleman and all the reason you deny each hand bestowed to you in the first place. For reason of men like him.

“You write?” Snow inquires.

Those cold, devoid eyes are locked upon you — and despite wishing to send him away to never return so you may be free of his arrogance, you only peer up at his gaze through fanned lashes to see them commanding an answer of you. Awaiting one.

“Occasionally, sir.”

His gaze doesn’t falter, nor does the gaze of Mr. Highbottom, even as he presses a boiled potato to his tongue.

“What of?”

What a silly question, you think. What else would a woman of your age and lack quill about?

It baffles you to find him curious. Perhaps he does not wish to seem obviously rude any more so than he simply is — perhaps he is only creating small talk.

“What else, sir? My thoughts and desires, my ideas. Romance — dramatics…”

“Oh but she just despises poetry!” Mama interjects, as if to end the conversation and refocus it upon your eligibility. Even when she speaks, Snow does not spare her a single glance. His eyes, they still rest upon you.

“You do? I thought poetry to be the food of love.”

You dare a snort then, suffocating a fit of laughter with a spoonful of food. You take your time chewing it, only offering more words when you realize that the conversation does not seem to be at its end. No. It cannot be. Not when he looks at you in a such an expectant manner.

“A poet writes of women in the gaze of all men, which I do not believe to be a true show of adoration. Perhaps it is the food of love — if you want to suffocate it. Stone it till it remains no longer.”

His next words come quick, immediately almost. As if he is grasping at the first chance to reply, much to Highbottom’s dismay whom snaps his mouth shut after losing the opportunity. Every eye in attendance is on the both of you.

Do they think you to be an enigma? You wonder…

“What do you recommend then? To encourage affection between two people…”

You do not know why he asks you this, but you can only assume it is because he wishes to embarrass you. Grace’s sharp gaze morphs into that of an amused smirk. Why would he ask the only woman seated what encourages affection when she cannot obtain it on her own?

You are certain then of his intentions. To mock you in front of Plinth’s sister, his uncle. In front of your blood. He does it so subtlety that if you were not bright as you are — you would most certainly miss it. He is a fool, a great fool because miraculously — you can reciprocate.

“Dancing… even if one’s partner is only tolerable.” You almost sneer with a tilt of your head and raise of your sharp brow.

If something truly clicks within him, it is most quickly dissipated. Most tricky to see. Sejanus clears his throat, and Highbottom — rude creature, erupts into a fit of laughter with a mouthful of food. Your mother is nervous, she joins him.

Grace only gasps, and Jane’s soft features are laced with confusion at the thing only you five are lucky enough to understand.

You remain stoic, challenging his eyes and his tense, twitching jaw with proudness.

“Shall I fetch dessert mama?”

Your mother nods through fits of forced laughter, and you take the opportunity to lift upon your feet. The chair scrapes against the creaky panels and nearly topples as you rush into the quaint kitchen and away from him.

It brings you joy knowing that he has nothing further to say.

You are smiling, terribly overflowed with pride as you place canned, sugared peaches upon ten porcelain plates. How proud he must have felt to speak lowly of you, a girl he spared little words to at a party he refrained from dancing at for it was too poor for his liking.

You disliked him then — but a chat with miss Lucy-Gray Baird while passing by in town confirmed all of your prejudice. She claims to have been treated most coldly by him whilst he was courting her. He offered his hand, then fled into midnight when he grew bored of her. Only the next morning.

He is as any other man is. A heartless hound. His behavior in your small home only further proves your prejudice is with more than enough reason.

You take longer than you should selfishly, and when you return — your gaze locks upon Sejanus who is entirely enamored by the sapphire gaze of Jane.

Mama aids you in placing down the plates you juggle. It is a poor dessert, but one that is most delectable.

“Oh well, your daughter is most precious. Funny, too! How uncommon for women.”

“Oh please uncle, we all have our wit. She is just peculiar, I daresay.”

Mama laughs at Grace’s words, and you only offer a polite, tense smile before being seated once again. It is you now that pushes your food around your plate, fading into the mist truly as you remain silent.

They speak of things you care the least bit for — all irrelevant matters to your mind. You are grateful when wine is poured, you nearly inhale it and garner a slap on your hand once again from mama.

You need it to get thought this.

Highbottom and mama speak of you, she tells him lies. How much you wish to be wed, how eager you are to find a lover. All contradictions of Jane’s earlier lick of truth. The rich fool believes her, his eyes cast upon you like poisonous darts. Slowly suffocating you.

Sejanus is preoccupied entirely by Jane — and the miserable one chats lowly with the scowling sister.

“Well, how about some music and dance? Lizzie, off to the piano!”

Your youngest sister lifts — eager to press her hands against the keys. It will be a mediocre melody but one that offers enough sound so to dance. You wish to stay glued to the table as they leave you to the living space — but mama tugs at your braid harshly, you have no choice other than obedience.

Sejanus kindly offers Jane a hand — and you feel as though you will just sink entirely into the floor as Highbottom approaches. Your heel turns you swift as you try and find even a small bit of space in this little home.

A navy vest with a crimson rose tucked into its pocket cages your escape. You never thought to see the day you’d be grateful for the cold blonde who cuts in front. You nearly collide with him.

“Dance with me.” He commands.

How baffling…

You do not notice the tension settled within your features until your brows ease in confusion. Your chin is pointed upwards — enough so that he can be equal to your gaze.

“Are you asking this of me — or ordering sir?”

His jaw ticks once more, but he does not follow up with any more words. The cleared throat of the short man behind you is enough reason to pick the far less uncomfortable poison. You’d rather be fueled by annoyance as opposed to discomfort and dread. One dance is all.

“Fine.” You mutter, sealing your fate and betraying your swear to be far away from the man whom you loathe entirely.

He is a pale thing up close. Birth marks kissing silken skin, soft as the moss kissing your shoes. You are grateful that this dance does not require touch — only the occasional closeness.

You follow him to where Sejanus and Jane stand — his head nearly reaches your ceiling. His palm hovers over yours, eyes downcast on your pretty features. Grace is scowling, again.

Your fingers twitch as Lizzie begins the sonnet, and you follow his lead.

It surprises you greatly, how well he dances. Though his mouth is a hard line, and his eyes are like round lumps of charred coal. He is noiseless.

“Are we to dance in dread and silence, Mr. Snow? I dare comment on this awful weather, now you may follow with a remark about the food. How much you despised it.”

You catch a glimpse of him, a suppressed twitch of his lips. As if the words offended him. Maybe amused him. You step forward and then back, frayed skirt floating against the movement. He follows suite.

“I could comment on how you dance. I am happy to inform you it is more tasteful than how you cook. Please do advise me on what more you want me to say to you.”

You stumble by his words — and his eyes dart to your clumsy feet. They are stable soon enough, circling him like a shark in vicious waters. His words upset you.

“Mama and Jane prepared the meal. I only prepared the peaches; but I do believe that if a family was kind enough to welcome an abrupt attendance with a warm meal — I would not be so complacent about its contents. You see — we are not all so fortunate to have garnered inheritance, Mr. Snow.” A cold melody, but one he would be a fool to ignore. It is all true.

Now it is him that halts. He steps forward, dipping his head low. Your eyes wander to his gloved palm — it clenches then flexes outward; all evidence of his annoyance with your words.

There you both stand, Sejanus and Jane alongside the twins, mama and Highbottom swirling around you. You do not know where Grace lurks.

You both are still, he stands a tower above you. His eyes pour heat into your own, admonishing you — offended with your words. It is as if the room is only filled with the two of you, the lace of connection between you just your anger. Even in your short time being familiar, it is strong.

“Do you imply that my inheritance is all the reason for my success?” He forces through clenched — perfect teeth.

“Perhaps I do sir, miss Baird of Newbury certainly agree—”

The hand that lays against your side is snatched into his own. He squeezes it tight now, eyes wide and swimming with disapproval and frustration. It has been resting at the surface, but bound to crack.

“Oh I’m certain she does. I am sure she told you the many tales of her troubles and woes brought upon by her time spent with me. You won’t speak to her again.”

It is you that steps forward now, so laced with upset that you do not notice your poor and worn shoes are stepping upon his tip toes. Up upon the rich and shined leather. Your chin is pointed upward, your stance tense.

“You command me as if I am wed to you sir, but I am not. You have come here, unannounced and unhappy with your humble plate as if we are all but a quaint inn with poor maids. Just because we gather little and obscure and we do not have pockets as generous and full as yours does not make us beneath you, Mr. Snow.”

The music halts, and your eyes shift quickly to find a concerned Jane gazing on — alongside your horrified mother. How crazed you both must look now. Stepping upon his toes with palms clasped — anger and upset becoming you both.

You release his gloved hand and part your soft lips to dismiss yourself — yet a strike of lightning cracking from above the grayed sky is a gift given, a distraction from beyond. Yet alongside it? A curse.

The horses startle, lifting to their hind legs before running far and fast with the carriage. Grace cries out from where she sulked in the shadows, and Sejanus alongside his uncle run after the wild beasts. Your sisters and mama follow.

“What are we to do!?”

“Grace, please be calm. We will fetch them.”

“We cannot travel in these conditions, boy.”

“You may rest here!”

Dread is a serpent that wraps tight round your throat — making the pounding of your heart halt entirely.

It is all a blur, but by the end of the lively conversation it is decided. They will stay. They will all stay. You bow your head, crossing your arms round the beating at your chest so to protect it.

“Excuse me.” You whisper, so low it is taken with the breeze from the open door before rushing up your dilapidated steps; knowing full well that the hospitality offered by mama, selfish reasoning or not, is the last thing a man like Mr. Snow deserves…

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radiant-reid · 2 years

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Birthday Morning

okay so i really wasn't going to write anything but then i got this idea and i could not resist soooo that's why i'm so late, very sorry, and it's technically the 29th

Summary: Spencer's birthday is always a big deal

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Smut and Fluff)

Content Warning: pretty tame p n v smut

Word Count: 2.0k

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Spencer's birthday never was a big deal as a kid. When he was little, it was another reminder that no one wanted to be his friend, and, once his dad left, it went forgotten by his mom, which he never reminded her about because he couldn't stand the guilt of her feeling bad she forgot it.

Things were different now. Y/n had been making sure his birthday was a big event for 11 years, 2 years more than they'd been married.

This birthday, despite not being a milestone number and the constant chaos of life with three kids, Y/n was determined to make it as special as always.

Usually, Spencer is up first, but since he doesn't have to be at work and the girls don't have to be at school, there is no alarm.

Instead, he wakes up to her in his arms, kissing all over his face. It always makes the newly cooling mornings of late October better.

"Happy birthday." She whispers excitedly, leaning back to look at him.

"Thank you." He replies, finally kissing her lips. It was only meant to be simple, but she purposefully deepens it, tracing her tongue over his bottom lip while she buries her fingers in his curls to pull his face closer.

Before he can roll over on top of her and get down to business like they usually do, she stops him, breaking their kiss. "Sit up against the headboard, baby." She requests.

Spencer complies, quickly shuffling up since he's smart enough to figure out what she's playing at. She climbs onto his lap before her lips are back on his.

Taking advantage of the oversize t-shirt (of his) that she's wearing, Spencer's fingertips walk up her skin from her hips, pushing the fabric with them.

Her skin is hot under his touch, and she's already getting needy, but his hands stop when they reach more fabric where she's normally bare.

Y/n pulls back with a smile, pulling the t-shirt over her head and leaving her figure dressed in just the most recent addition to her wardrobe. His first gift of many.

It's lilac lingerie that he's never seen before. Intricate floral-patterned lace details over the cups of the bra and panties with a suspender belt accentuating the curve of her waist.

He could stare at her all day, regardless of what she's wearing but the new purchase makes his brain stop working like he can't figure out if he wants to take a photo or rip it off her.

"Don't destroy it." She requests, slyly grinning at his reaction, leaning in to kiss him.

"Destroy it?" He repeats, tilting his head up to look at her. "I'm going to frame it."

She giggles before leaning so she can whisper into his ear and have him break out in goosebumps. "You know what I'm going to do?" She asks. He just shakes his head. Even though he could probably guess, he's not going to risk her pulling away while he has a perfect view of her ass. "Riding you just the way you like it. And then tonight..." Her hands move while she speaks, one palm flat against his lower stomach. "When we have a little more time." Her other hand rests against his inner thigh, fingertips just short of touching him where he needs it. "We can do that thing."

He moans just from hearing that, throwing his head backward and allowing her total access to kiss down his neck. She does so the way he likes it, sloppily, with wet kisses and sucked marks.

"Y/n." He groans, his voice lowering as he tries to get her to go faster. She drags it out, ultimately for his pleasure, and keeps a slow descent with carefully placed marks along his warm skin until she can't go any further without moving off his lap.

"Touch me, Spence." Her prompt reminds him he hasn't dared to move his hands, too enamored by her every move.

The cups are sheer, and he sees now how turned on she is by her hardened nipples. He thumbs them over the material, noticing her grinding more against his lap as she gets more turned on.

"I have to take this off." He realizes aloud, distraught tone. It's the worst thing that's happened to him all day and on his birthday? Not fair.

She fixes the issue she anticipated them facing. "I took pictures." She assures him. "Lots. Or you could, you know, frame it?"

"I might." He decides, happily leaning back while she takes it off. She's not going to tell him, but there's another set waiting for tonight. "You're so gorgeous." He praises her, stopping her from taking off the panties.

"You are," Y/n counters, sitting up on her knees so she can pull his sweatpants down. She palms over his hardened length in his boxers before he pushes her up so she can take them off. She pumps his cock up and down, heavy in her palm, before repeating her words in a different sense. "So gorgeous."

He pants out a breath. "Come on. It's been too long." He begs, despite the fact it's been less than 48 hours, which he knows is well above average.

She obliges with a giggle, pulling her panties to the side while she sinks down onto him. It's a fullness like no other, nothing has ever or will ever compare to feeling Spencer so deeply inside her.

That's what he loves the most, the fact he's the only one who will ever get to be in her now, and he accentuates it by sucking a mark of his own into her neck. "So fucking tight." He groans, holding her waist.

"So big." She replies, resting her arms on his shoulders as an anchor and so she can play with the curls at the nape of his neck.

It's heaven getting to be inside her velvety walls, but his pleasure only amplifies when she starts moving, grinding her hips up and down to start with.

After she gets adjusted, Spencer takes control, using his grip on her waist to pull her up and down. "Fuck." She moans against his ear, trying to keep it quiet so they don't wake anyone else up.

"You're so perfect." He mumbles, shifting his hips so she sinks even deeper down, making them both groan. Her skin keeps growing hotter as his grip tightens, both of them working in unison to bring each other to orgasm.

She falls further forward into his chest, lips grazing his as they keep their faces close while her movements get sloppier. Spencer knows what she needs, and he takes one hand off her so he can draw circles on her clit.

"Spence." She moans his name out again right against his lips before the rest of the words get caught in her throat.

"I know." He replies. "Cum on my cock."

That's all it takes for her to cum, a few dirty words from her husband with quick, deep thrusts, and she tightens around his cock even more. Spencer's climax is soon after that, and he cums inside her while she's completely seated in his lap.

He holds her tightly to his body while they come down from it. "That was the best wake-up present I could imagine." He tells her.

She laughs, moving off his lap with a little wince from both of them and sitting beside him. "You're welcome."

Spencer kisses her again, one clothed-mouth kiss after another. "I love you."

"I love you, too." She says, moving to climb out of bed. "I'm going to dress, and see if the girls are up, so you should probably put some pants on." She recommends, flashing him a wink before walking into the closet.

The girls, she discovers and expects, are up. Matilda and Mabel are finishing their coloring on Spencer's cards. "I'm going to get Kenzie but you guys can get the gifts if you want." She instructs the 5 and 7-year-old who race off to the hiding place.

10-month-old McKenzie is standing holding the crib bars when Y/n walks in and her face immediately lights up at seeing her mom.

"Hi, sweet baby." She says, picking her up. "Wanna go see dad?" A little squeal of glee comes from the baby once she understands who they're going to see.

The two older girls manage to carry the gifts into the room, and Spencer is happily waiting in bed for them. They drop the gifts on the end of the bed, climbing up to attack him with hugs.

"Happy birthday, daddy." They squeal, tightly hugging him. McKenzie squirms in Y/n's arms, reaching out for her dad and feeding off her sister's excitement. Spencer easily accepts their baby, the five of them cuddling when Y/n sits back on her side.

It doesn't last long with the little attention spans of their little kids. "Daddy, open the gifts," Matilda says, turning back to pick up one wrapped in hot pink. "This is what I chose." She informs him handing it to him.

Mabel picks up the one she picked for him, giving it to him. "Here's mine."

"Thank you both," Spencer tells them, kissing both of them on the forehead. They watch with wide, excited brown eyes for his reaction.

He opens Matilda's first, taking out the pink notebook with dinosaurs on it and a dictionary. He's a little confused, looking at Y/n with an expression only she can interpret as he plays along for the girls. "I love them, Tillie."

"It's a book so you can write us more stories." She clarifies. It's something Spencer started doing to relax when he first went back to the BAU after she was born. "With little pictures, too, please."

"Why a dictionary?" He asks.

"So you'll know all the words ever, duh." She replies sassily.

Spencer laughs at that. "I bet that was mommy's idea, huh?" He asks since she has been telling him the exact same thing since they met.

Y/n hits him on the shoulder. "Was not." She claims, but Matilda's selling her out with a nod.

He opens Mabel's next, wrapped in green, and he's confused again when he sees a dishtowel. "Because you couldn't find one when you spilled your coffee," Mabel explains to him.

"You're very thoughtful. Belle." He says. "Thank you both so much. This is the best birthday ever." His statements earn grins of admiration from both of them.

"You're not done," Y/n tells him, picking the other two gifts up. She hands one of them to him. "This is from Kenz."

She's unaware of what the gift is and what's going on, but Spencer kisses her too. "Thank you, sweet baby." He opens it, laughing and looking at Y/n when he sees the pumpkin-flavored baby food pouches.

"Since you're always eating hers," Y/n says, nudging him on the shoulder.

"I can't help that they're so delicious." Spencer shrugs, unashamed.

She reaches into her nightstand to grab the final gift, handing it to him. "One more."

"I thought I got your gift this morning?" He jokes subtly enough the girls won't understand. "You're kidding?" He asks when he opens the jewelry case and sees what's in it.

Y/n shakes her head, hoping his reaction is a positive one. "Do you like it?"

"I love it." He quickly replies, excitedly kissing her. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." She says. "I figure after your watch strap broke, you might as well finally get a Rolex. Plus, you can go as Hotch for Halloween now."

He giggles at that, still marveling at the stunning piece of jewelry. "Thank you all so much." He says again, wrapping them all up in another family hug.

"You wanna show him your cards?" Y/n asks, resting her head on Spencer's shoulder. The girls pick them up, sitting on each side of him while McKenzie sits in his lap so they can explain their drawings to everyone.

He feels totally complete like he's finally at a point where his life is exactly how he used to dream it would be. He places a kiss on Y/n's forehead and he's slightly teary-eyed when she looks at him. "Thank you." He repeats but it's for more than just the watch worth thousands of dollars and the perfectly chosen gifts from their daughters.

"You're welcome." She replies, wrapping her arms tighter around him so he knows she means it.

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