Plsplsplsssplspls write smut for Dmitri and my life is yours
Trapped (In my arms)
Synopsis: Dmitri has taken a particular liking to a particular prisoner
Warnings: +18, unprotected sex
Author's note: You didn’t specify your pronouns so I made it as neutral as possible, if you want something more detailed you can always send another request and I'll be happy to write it! <3
Cold light washed the concrete walls of the Russian base. Footsteps approached the cell.
Dmitri stopped in front of the cell.
“Another inspection” Dmitri said softly. “And another conversation, if allowed.”
The prisoner inside lifted the gaze. It had been a few weeks since they started talking, even if they knew that could be dangerous. “Conversation sounds better than chains”
A faint smile curved Dmitri’s mouth. “Then conversation it is.”
Silence settled, not heavy.
“You shouldn’t keep coming here” the prisoner said. “This place will eat you alive"
“I already belong to this place” Dmitri replied. “But you don’t.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” Dmitri stepped closer to the bars. “Every day, strength appears behind your eyes and I can see how hope refuses to die.”
“Hope is dangerous.”
“So is indifference.”
A hand slid between the bars, stopping just short of skin.
The prisoner hesitated, then closed the distance.
Fingers met in a electric way.
Dmitri’s voice dropped. “I want to help"
“And what if helping costs you everything?”
“Then everything is worth it.”
“Why?”
Dmitri didn’t answer immediately. His eyes spoke first, they were so sincere.
“Because I see someone standing in a cage that should never exist.”
Their hands tightened
Silence broke into breath. Breath broke into closeness.
“Don’t say things like that” the prisoner whispered.
“Then don’t make me feel them.”
A small, shaky laugh escaped the prisoner. “That’s not fair.”
“Life here isn’t fair.”
He opened the cell and got inside.
Faces drifted closer, pulled by something stronger than caution, their foreheads brushed and warmth spread where cold had lived too long.
Dmitri murmured, almost lips against lips “Tell me to stop”
No one stopped.
The kiss began carefully like testing a fragile miracle. Then it deepened, urgency blooming, restrained emotions finally breaking through invisible walls. Dmitri leaned in as far as possible, refusing to let the moment fade.
The kiss grew desperate, slow and intense all at once, filled with everything unsaid: fear, hope, longing, survival.
It deepened, desperation and restraint merging into something intense and all consuming. Fingers tangled in hair, pulling heads closer as lips crashed together in a frenzy of passion. The prisoner's hands slid under Dmitri's shirt, trailing up the firm planes of his back and over his shoulders. Dmitri obliged, pulling back just enough to yank his shirt off over his head and toss it aside. His chest heaved with labored breaths, muscles flexing. The prisoner leaned in, running, tongue running along Dmitri's collarbone before nipping at the sensitive skin. A low groan rumbled through Dmitri's chest. His hands slipped under the hem of the prisoner's shirt. When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting heavily. Dmitri took a moment to admire the sight of the prisoner's flushed face and kiss-swollen lips. Then he reached for the buttons of the other's pants, popping them open one by one. The prisoner watched hungrily as Dmitri pushed also his pants and briefs down over his hips, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. Without hesitation, the prisoner dropped down, hand wrapped around that impressive length. Tongue and head came into contact, lapping up the salty essence before taking him. Dmitri let out a guttural moan, fingers tangling in the prisoner's hair as he began to move. He pushed deeper, sliding in and out of that hot, wet cavity until his cock hit the back of the prisoner's throat. The prisoner relaxed and took him deeper, letting Dmitri set the pace.
"Fuck" Dmitri hissed through clenched teeth. "Your mouth feels so good. But I need more." He pulled the prisoner up pressed against the cold stone wall. Dmitri ran a finger down circling the tight hole in the ass before pressing inside. The prisoner let out a sharp gasp, muscles clenching around Dmitri. He positioned the head of his cock at the prisoner's entrance, pushing forward slowly until just the tip popped inside. The prisoner groaned, clutching at the wall. Soon Dmitri was sliding deeper, inching forward until he was buried inside. They both let out low moans at the sensation. Dmitri gave the prisoner a moment to adjust before he began to move, pulling back until just the tip remained inside before slamming forward again. The prisoner pushed back to meet each thrust, lost in the pleasure of being filled so completely. The stimulation quickly pushed the prisoner towards the edge. "I'm close" fingers scrabbed at the rough stone. "Don't stop." Dmitri didn't need any more encouragement. He pistoned his hips faster, slamming into the prisoner's ass with abandon. With a cry, the prisoner came hard. That extra tightness was enough to send Dmitri tumbling over the edge right after. He buried himself deep one last time before spilling his seed deep inside the prisoner's hole. His hips bucked erratically as he rode out his orgasm, gasping and moaning against the prisoner's sweat slicked neck. When they finally came down from their high, they collapsed against each other in a sweaty heap. The prisoner turned in his arms. "That was...intense". Dmitri smiled. "Mmm. It was." They stood there for a long moment, savoring the afterglow of their adventure. Then, reluctantly, they began to separate. Dmitri started dressing up, with a smile. "I should go" he said finally, tucking himself back into his pants. "But I'll be back." The prisoner returned his smile, but it was tinged with sadness. "Be careful". Dmitri just disappeared back into the shadows.
What do you think about a smut plot involving house hooking up with an old colleague's daughter?
Pull me in
Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, swear words
18+
The first time House sees her, he almost doesn’t recognize the eyes.
Almost.
They’re standing in the hallway outside Diagnostics, talking to Cuddy. She’s holding a file to her chest, posture straight but nervous in the subtle way that only people who learned professionalism too young carry it.
House is leaning against the wall with his cane, bored, unimpressed, pretending not to listen, until Cuddy says her last name.
He straightens.
Just a little.
Too little for anyone else to notice.
But she notices.
Because she knows that look. Her father used to wear it when he heard House’s name spoken aloud.
“…She’s starting as a consultant on complex autoimmune cases,” Cuddy continues. “She worked overseas, excellent record—”
House cuts in, voice lazy. “And let me guess. You’re here because you are trying to prove your father wrong.”
She blinks.
Then slowly looks at him.
Up close, he can see the resemblance better now. Not in her face, in her expression.
“You must be House” she says.
He smirks. “And knowing your father you probably already hate me.”
“I don’t hate you” she replies evenly. “I’m just…aware of your reputation.”
“Oh good. So you’ve heard I’m charming.”
Cuddy rolls her eyes and walks away, leaving them alone in the hallway.
The silence stretches.
She studies him openly now.
“You knew my father then” she says.
“Knew is a generous word. We tolerated each other professionally and insulted each other recreationally.”
She almost smiles.
Almost.
“He talked about you” she admits. “More than he admitted.”
House’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “That’s unfortunate for both of us.”
She laughs softly before she can stop herself.
And that’s the moment he realizes he’s in trouble.
They start running into each other constantly.
Too constantly.
She challenges his diagnoses.
He challenges her restraint.
She calls out his cruelty.
He calls out her control.
Every conversation feels like a chess match layered with something unspoken.
One night, she corners him in Diagnostics after everyone else has left.
“You don’t have to be this hostile” she says quietly.
“Yes, I do” he replies. “It’s my personality. Very popular with orphans and tax collectors.”
“You’re pushing me away on purpose.”
He steps closer.
“Would you prefer if I pulled you in?”
They didn’t mean for this to happen, or maybe they did.
They stumble into a janitor’s closet.
The silence is immediate.
Heavy.
Her back is near the door. House is too close. His cane taps once against the floor as he steadies himself.
Neither of them moves.
Her eyes flick to his mouth before she can stop herself and he notices.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that” he says quietly.
“Then stop standing like you’re daring me to.”
He laughs under his breath. “God, you’re dangerous.”
She swallows. “You’re impossible.”
He leans in just enough that their foreheads almost touch.
And then he kisses her.
His hand braces against the wall beside her head. Hers grips the front of his jacket instinctively.
Their mouths crash together.
She gasps into the kiss, fingers curling tighter in his clothes.
He pulls back just long enough to murmur, “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she kisses him again.
Harder.
Her back presses into the door, his other hand hovers at her waist, not crossing lines, but threatening to.
She can feel every hard inch of him through their clothes, and it makes her ache with need.
He pulls back just enough to yank her scrub top over her head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of her, hands cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her bra.
She arches into his touch, nipples pebbling under his palms.
House smirks, fingers deftly unclasping her bra to free her breasts. He ducks his head to take one nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. She gasps, tangling a hand in his hair to hold him closer. His other hand pinches and rolls her other nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core.
She shudders, head falling back against the door as he sucks harder. "God why are we doing this here?" she asks breathlessly. "Instead of your apartment? Or my apartment?"
House pulls back to look at her, blue eyes gleaming with wicked promise. "Because I want you to know that I'm not going to play by any rules" he says. His hand slides down her stomach and goes through her pants to reach her panties, fingers pressing against her clothed slit. "I'm going to fuck you anywhere and everywhere I want. And you're going to love every minute of it."
She flushes, thighs clenching around his hand as she grinds against him. "Promises, promises" she breathes. But even as she says it, she can feel her body responding, growing hotter and wetter at his words.
House chuckles darkly, lips trailing up her neck to nip at her ear. "Oh, I keep my promises" he murmurs. His fingers slip under the fabric of her panties, stroking through her folds. "Especially when it comes to giving a woman what she needs."
She gasps as he circles her clit, hips bucking into his touch. "Fuck" she breathes. "That feels so good."
House hums in approval, pressing two fingers inside her tight heat. "So wet already" he purrs. "I knew you'd be like this. Desperate for my touch. Begging for my cock."
She moans, walls fluttering around his fingers as he pumps them in and out. "Please" she whispers. "I need more."
He obliges, adding a third finger and increasing his pace. His thumb rubs firm circles on her clit, sending sparks of pleasure through her with every touch. She rocks against him shamelessly, lost in the sensation of his hands on her body.
"That's it" House praises, voice low and rough with desire. "Let go. Come on my fingers like a good girl."
She's so close, could tip over the edge at any moment. But she wants more, wants to feel him inside her. "I need your cock" she gasps out. "Fuck me, please. I can't wait any longer."
House groans, fingers pausing their movements. "Patience" he chides, even as he unfastens his pants with his free hand. "Good things come to those who wait."
She whimpers as he pulls his fingers out, watching hungrily as he frees his erection from the confines of his boxers. He's thick and hard, the tip already glistening.
House lines himself up with her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her folds. "Beg for it" he demands, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Beg me to fuck you."
She looks him in the eye, desire and defiance warring in their depths. "Fuck you" she spits. "I don't beg."
House laughs, the sound low and dirty. "We'll see about that." He thrusts forward, sheathing himself inside her with one hard stroke.
They both moan at the sensation, her walls stretching around his thickness. He fills her so perfectly, like he was made for her and her alone. House gives her a moment to adjust before he starts to move, setting a deep, driving rhythm that has her seeing stars.
"Fuck," he pants. "You're so tight"
She can only whimper in response, lost in the feeling of him moving inside her. His hands grip her hips tightly, pulling her down to meet every thrust. The door rattles behind them with the force of his movements, but neither of them cares. All that matters is the heat and pleasure building between them.
"Come on" House growls, angling his hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her see fireworks. "I want to feel you come undone on my cock. Let go and give yourself to me."
She's so close, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her belly. His words push her over the edge, sending her crashing into ecstasy with a scream of his name. Her walls clamp down around him, milking his length as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her.
House follows soon after, spilling hot and deep inside her with a low groan of satisfaction. They stay like that for a long moment, bodies pressed together as they catch their breath. Finally, House pulls back to look at her, lips curling into a satisfied smirk.
"So, you think you can keep up?" He says smiling.
She smiles back, running a finger down his chest. "I'm sure I can manage," she replies. "Though it might take some...practice."
House laughs, nuzzling into her neck with a grin. "Oh, I'll give you all the practice you need" he promises. "Just wait until I get you back to my place."
She shivers at the thought, already feeling herself getting wet again. It looks like it's going to be a very long night indeed.
House x sex worker reader where the two bond over their deep sense of isolation and loneliness
Not so different
Synopsis: After being called several times, reader and House begin to form a connection that goes beyond the job and the words they both want to say, but rarely do.
Warnings: None
“Right on time” he says finally, voice dripping with sarcastic indifference.
You slide into the room quietly. House is there, sitting on the edge of his bed, a cane resting beside him, eyes fixed on some random spot on the ceiling. He doesn’t glance up when you enter.
You swallow and nod, keeping your movements deliberate, professional. You’ve done this enough times to feel confident, even when your hands tremble slightly. He studies you, sharp blue eyes narrowing as he takes in your stance, your posture, the way your fingers twitch ever so slightly.
“You don’t talk much” he observes. “Is that by choice, or are you just bad at small talk?”
You give a neutral shrug. “I get paid for other things.”
He smirks faintly. “Efficient. I like that.”
The session proceeds mostly in silence. You do what you’re supposed to do; he makes dry, occasionally cutting remarks, but there’s an unspoken understanding: boundaries exist, and they’re being respected. By the end, House leans back, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary.
“You’re competent” he says flatly. “And competent people are rare around here. I'll call you again.”
You nod, collecting your things, leaving without another word.
The next time you see him, House isn’t as sharp at first. He simply watches. You follow the usual procedure, and he lets you work. The silence is almost comfortable, broken only by the occasional muttered comment.
“You ever get tired of pretending?” he asks suddenly, breaking the rhythm. “Of showing up, doing what people expect? Or is that just your version of life?”
You pause, surprised, why was he trying sk much to make you talk. You’ve encountered many people who are curious, judgmental, even nosy, but rarely do they ask questions like that.
“I… don’t know” you admit cautiously. “Sometimes. But I survive.”
House gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Survival gets lonely though, doesn't it?"
There’s a flicker in his eyes that you recognize, a mirror of your own sense of isolation. You want to say something, but the session ends before words come. He doesn’t dismiss you this time, he watches as you leave, almost as if he’s reluctant to let you go.
By now, you notice he doesn’t just watch you,he waits for you. Sometimes he cracks jokes that you barely respond to, other times he doesn’t speak at all. He suddenly said something after one of the usual sessions.
“People always talk about connection like it’s some big deal. You can connect to someone, sure, but most of the time, it’s just… temporary. Hollow.”
You pause, realizing he’s looking at you, not through you. “Temporary doesn’t have to mean hollow” you say.
He smirks, clearly amused that you challenged him. “For you, maybe. For me… I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.”
You knew that he was saying that because he knew that you could understand. He didn’t strike you as the type to open up to anyone, and he sure as hell wasn’t. You find yourself thinking about him outside the appointments, wondering about the man behind the cane, behind the sarcasm. He’s just as lonely, maybe more, and somehow that’s… comforting.
A few weeks later, there’s no pretense at all. House greets you with a grunt, a look of casual interest, and you step into the room, feeling a strange anticipation.
“I saw you at a café the other day” he says abruptly, “You were alone, solitude suits you, you know? Brings out the color of your eyes"
You roll your eyes but feel a warmth in your chest. “And you? Do you hate company, or just find it amusing?”
He leans on his cane, studying you. “Depends on the company".
He looked at you like he was looking at the right type of company.
Something shifts in that moment. The work you do is no longer the focus,the conversation itself becomes the connection.
You glance at him, realizing he sees the truth beneath your exterior. “I like solitude...But loneliness, not much, I pretend I don’t care, pretending is exhausting” you admit. “But sometimes it’s easier than facing it.”
He nods, almost imperceptibly.
You leave that day with a strange flutter in your chest. You realize he’s no longer just a client or a job. He’s… a companion, in his own flawed way.
Weeks pass, and the pattern has solidified. You come, he’s there, but the work fades into the background. The conversations linger longer, the silences are not empty but charged.
One evening he looks at you as you enter. “You’re late” he says, though there’s no bite in his tone, just observation.
“I lost track of time” you admit, surprised by how casual the truth feels.
House leans back, cane in hand, studying you. “Late for work? You're starting to become a rebel”
You smirk. “Is this even a job anymore?"
He tilts his head, blue eyes sharp and assessing. “I still pay you don’t I?”
You stay longer that night than usual. The conversation dips into confessions, shared loneliness, the ache of existing without being truly seen. And somewhere in that quiet room, both of you find a fleeting comfort in the presence of someone who understands.
summary: after an injury in the field, you patch spencer up with a skull-print bandage. he gets a little jealous, you get a little deflective, and a quiet moment passes at 30,000 feet where you both admit more than you mean to.
genre: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort
tags/warnings: reader is elle’s sister, spencer sustains a minor injury (man runs straight into a dumpster like a doofus) so blood is mentioned, accidental hand touching, jealous!spencer (for like 5 seconds), meddling morgan & prentiss, mentions of shoplifting lollll, mutual pining, emotional repression, two grown idiots with crushes, sort of an almost confession scene on the jet?, coffee as a love language yet again, no use of y/n
a/n: inspired by accidental touch trope requests/ideas from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight + @reidsrightsock | my beloved emotionally avoidant grungy girl, let him INNNN!!! (is yelling at my own character allowed?) anyways, zoom in on the bandaids in the first pic for a surprise ☠️ | GIF credit to @reidgif !
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
You hear the fall before you see it.
The suspect you’re after takes off down the alley behind the service entrance, and Spencer — for some reason you’ll scold him for later — chases after him solo, cutting sharp around the corner as you and Morgan split right. You’re ten steps behind the guy, your boots slamming the pavement, when something sharp echoes through the air.
Then comes the yelp. Not from the suspect — but from Spencer.
You round the corner and spot him already on the ground, one hand braced on wet concrete, his other arm curled toward his ribs.
You skid to a stop. Knees bend. Instinct overtakes pride.
“Jesus, Reid.” You crouch beside him, heart pounding. “You okay?”
“I think so,” he mumbles, dazed. “I lost traction and kind of… ran into the dumpster.”
“Of course you did.” Your eyes do a quick sweep. No visible blood except for a shallow scrape on his forearm. He’s clutching his ribs — bruised, probably, but not broken.
Morgan jogs up behind you after cuffing the suspect and getting him into the car. You stand, stepping aside to give him room. But not before offering one last, deadpan murmur:
“Very graceful, dumpster boy.”
Spencer looks up at you with that dumb, open face of his — pained but earnest — and somehow manages to smile.
—
An hour later, the team’s back at the precinct going over witness interviews. The suspect Derek arrested turned out not to be the unsub — he might have information though, so the chase wasn’t all for naught. You’re leaned against a wall with your arms crossed, trying not to glare at an officer who can’t seem to remember proper interview protocol, when you catch sight of Spencer through the open door to the conference room.
He’s sitting at the edge of the room, out of the way, absently rotating his wrist while he reads over the case file. His sleeves are pushed up unevenly. You can see the ugly scrape on his arm from here — angry red and slightly swollen — and you can tell he hasn’t had time to clean it properly yet.
He grimaces a little as he adjusts how he’s holding the file. His fingers flex once. Then again.
You look away.
But not before something tight pulls in your chest.
And that’s when it hits you: You care.
You care, and it snuck up on you.
You’re already planning to raid your suitcase for antiseptic and the stupid novelty bandaids you keep on hand for bad days. Not because he really needs them, but because you need an excuse to make sure he’s okay.
And you hate that. You hate that this… thing — whatever the hell it is that’s started bubbling up between you and Reid — has become something you have to manage.
—
Back at the hotel, you unzip your go-bag on the bed and dig through ir. Your fingers brush past a bureau-issued standard first aid kit, a half-crushed granola bar, two unsharpened pencils, and a pack of cigarettes you keep hidden even though you haven’t smoked in months.
You tell yourself you’re being practical. You’re just avoiding having to listen to Spencer bitch about an infected abrasion for the next three days. You’re doing the entire team a favor, really.
The bandages are near the bottom. Black and white skull-print, stolen from a dimly-lit Hot Topic during your late teens-era rebellious shoplifting streak. You stare at them for a second then toss them on the bed.
You should let him clean his wounds himself. He’s a grown man. He has hands. The same first aid kit. An actual Doctor in front of his name (okay, not a medical one, but still). He doesn’t need you.
Then again, that’s never really stopped you before.
You grab the peroxide next and toss it beside the bandages.
Meanwhile, your mind starts to drift. Not far, but far enough to land on him. To the week after trivia night, when he left a worn, dog-eared copy of The Demon-Haunted World on your desk before a morning flight.
You didn’t say thank you. But when you cracked it open at cruising altitude and found all his messy margin notes scribbled inside, you had to physically stop yourself from smiling.
You shake yourself out of the memory and reach for a roll of gauze.
There was also that dumb moment in Seattle — hotel hallway, 1:00am, him with his toothbrush standing outside your door begging for toothpaste.
You’d had some, of course. But you made him work for it. Held the tube out like bait and cooed, “Say please.”
He blinked at you like you’d short-circuited something in his brain, then smiled. Really smiled.
“Please?” he pouted.
You squirted a perfect little curl onto the bristles and shut the door in his face with a smirk.
You blink back to the present and slide in the last addition to your collection of supplies: a pack of sour gummy worms. For a moment the gesture embarrasses you, but fuck it. He probably needs them, and you know he shares your affinity for sour candy.
You look down at the pile on the bed: Skull bandages. Wipes. Gauze. Antiseptic. Gummy worms.
A whole fucking care package of things he didn’t ask for.
You don’t want to think about what it means. About why you’re doing this.
But your hands are shaking a little as you gather it all into your tote bag, and that’s what fucks with you most of all.
—
You knock twice, short and sharp. When he opens the door, he looks surprised to see you. Not confused — just surprised, and maybe even a little relieved.
His hair’s damp from a recent shower, soft and messy. His tie is gone, exchanged for a soft, wrinkled long sleeve t-shirt and plaid flannel PJ pants.
He blinks. “Hey.”
You lift the small tote in your hand. “I come bearing antiseptic.”
He glances down at it. Then back up at you. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Oh please. You already know I don’t do anything because I have to.” You sidestep him and move into the room without waiting for an invitation. “This is a purely selfish visit, trust me. You’re terrible at first aid, and ideally I'd like to make it through the rest of the case without hearing you complain about an infected dumpster scrape.”
He shuts the door behind you. “I wasn’t going to complain,” he grumbles.
“Mm.” You toss the bag of supplies onto the bed. “Sure you weren’t.”
He sits on the edge of the mattress and you follow, close enough that your thighs are nearly touching. He clears his throat and reaches for the tote — at the exact same second you do.
Your fingers collide, both of you brushing the bag’s handle. A light touch. Nothing, technically. Completely innocuous. But it stops you both like a switch flipped.
His fingertips skim yours — warm, gentle, careful — and instead of pulling away, neither of you move at first. Just… pause. Linger.
It’s not the contact. It’s the hesitation. The unspoken, I felt that. Did you?
The AC unit kicks on, pulling you back to reality, and you both drop your hands at once.
“I can do it,” he mumbles, reaching again. “It’s really not that bad.”
“I know it’s not,” you mutter. “But I don’t trust your clammy hands not to spill my peroxide, so I’ll handle it.”
A smooth recovery, if you say so yourself.
He hesitates — just long enough to be noticeable — then rolls his eyes and pulls his sleeve up. The scrape on his forearm looks angrier now than it did earlier — red and raw at the edges, a faint purple bruise blooming underneath.
You open the peroxide bottle and soak a cotton pad. He watches, quiet, like he’s trying to read something in your expression. You ignore it.
When you press the pad to his skin, he flinches.
“Sorry,” you whisper. You don’t mean for it to come out so soft.
He shakes his head, face neutral. “It’s fine.”
It isn’t, but he doesn’t move again. Just watches you work, still and careful. You keep your gaze locked on the scrape, avoiding his eyes like the bubonic plague.
After you’re satisfied with your clean-up job, you unwrap a large skull-print bandage and smooth it over the wound with deliberate precision. Your fingertips drift across the inside of his forearm — just a ghost of touch.
He inhales, sharp and quiet.
You feel that sound more than you hear it. It crawls under your skin and makes a permanent home there.
You say nothing.
But he’s looking at you now — really looking — and you don’t know what to do with that. His eyes are too soft. Too earnest. Like he wants something from you you’re not ready to give.
So instead, you pull away and hand him the bag of gummy worms as if it’s a lollipop in the pediatrician’s office after the flu shot. “Here,” you say. “For being such a brave little boy.”
He blinks at the bag. Then at you. “You’re giving me candy?”
You move toward the door with a casual shrug. “I had extra. Plus they might be kind of stale, so fair warning.”
You don’t wait for him to reply. You’re halfway into the hallway by the time he calls out:
“Hey—”
You pause and turn slightly back to take in the sight of him. He’s sitting up straighter now, one hand braced on the mattress, the bandage visible on his arm like an unmistakable sign of your presence.
“Thanks,” he says, a little breathless. “Really.”
You nod once. “Don’t read into it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he says. But his voice is a little too soft, because you know he already has.
You shut the door behind you before he can say anything else.
And when you reach the elevator, your hands are still shaking.
—
The precinct coffee is somehow both burnt and watery, which feels like a personal insult this early in the morning.
You’re leaning against the corner of a metal filing cabinet, sipping yours with quiet disgust, when the local detective — Harris? Hamilton? no wait, Harding — ambles over like he’s got nowhere else to be.
He’s tall, square-jawed, ex-military. Nice enough. A little too chatty. Most definitely self absorbed. The kind of guy who thinks every woman secretly wants to hear about his bench press numbers.
You clock Spencer across the room, sitting on top of a desk pushed against the wall, legs swinging under him. He’s writing notes with one hand, the other tucked beneath his thigh against the desk, skull-print bandage visible on his forearm where his sleeve’s pushed up.
Harding gestures toward your coffee. “You know, I’ve got a stash of the good stuff in my office if you’re interested.”
You arch an eyebrow. “What, like Folgers instead of swamp water?”
He chuckles, clearly thinking you’re flirting back. “Even better. Single-origin beans from Costa Rica. Ground them fresh this morning. I’d offer to share, but you’d owe me.”
You smirk. “What’s the going rate? My left kidney?”
Behind Harding, across the precinct, Spencer stopped writing. He’s sitting on both hands now, scowling.
Harding leans in slightly. “Maybe just your number,” he says. “Share that and I’ll keep your organs out of it.”
You’re about to reply with a dry brush-off when suddenly, another voice cuts in:
“She’s not really much of a sharer.”
Spencer’s suddenly at your side. Mug in hand, face neutral. Too neutral.
Harding blinks. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were—”
“We’re not—” you say quickly, at the same time Spencer says, “It’s fine.”
It’s not fine.
There’s a weird pause. You can feel Spencer’s body heat too close to your shoulder, his presence heavier than usual.
Harding raises his palms in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”
“You didn’t,” you say, voice flat, and Harding walks off mumbling something about paperwork.
The silence that follows is sharp-edged. You finally glance over.
Spencer’s still watching Harding retreat. His jaw flexes once.
“You done peeing on the perimeter?” you bark.
He blinks and looks at you. “What?”
“You heard me.” You sip your shitty coffee. “That was the most passive-aggressive cockblock I’ve ever witnessed. And I grew up with Elle, so that’s saying a lot.”
His ears go red. “I just… didn’t think he seemed like your type.”
You narrow your eyes. “Oh really? And what do you think my type is?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then — like he knows he’s out of his depth — mumbles, “I’m not sure yet.”
You look at him for a second too long, then shake your head and start to walk away.
“Thanks for the unwanted assist and ruining my shot at decent coffee,” you toss over your shoulder, dry and cutting. “Next time, try not to sound so jealous when you do it.”
You don’t wait to see his reaction. But you feel it behind you anyway — hesitation, a breath caught in his throat, like maybe he hadn’t even realized he was jealous until you said it out loud.
—
You spend the rest of the day doing what you do best: compartmentalizing. You bury yourself in paperwork, case files, caffeine. Spencer keeps his distance, which is fine. Great, actually. You don’t want to talk about it. Hell, you don’t even want to think about his territorial golden retriever act, or the moment your hand brushed his the night before.
No. You’re stoic as ever.
Derek Morgan, on the other hand, is many things — and subtle is not one of them.
It starts when Spencer’s grabbing coffee at the break table in the corner of the precinct. Derek sidles up next to him and pretends he’s looking for creamer.
“You good, kid?” Derek asks.
Spencer doesn’t look up. “Fine. Why?”
“No reason,” Derek says. “Just, you’ve been weird today. Weirder than usual.”
Spencer shrugs. Adds packet after packet of sugar with too much concentration. “Just thinking.”
“Uh huh.” Derek leans against the counter. “Thinking about the case, or about Detective Harding trying to get your girl’s phone number this morning?”
Spencer stills. Doesn’t look at him.
Derek grins. “Thought so.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Spencer mutters.
“Nope,” Derek says. “Didn’t have to.” He nods toward Spencer’s arm. “Nice bandaid, by the way. That Bureau-issued?”
Spencer shifts, pulling his sleeve down instinctively. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, huh.” Derek takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Nothing’s starting to look like an awful lot like something, Reid.”
Spencer doesn’t answer, just stares at the coffee like he’s hoping it’ll offer him a way out.
Derek softens slightly. “Look, man. You don’t have to say anything. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
Spencer looks up at that. “What do you mean?”
“She’s not the kind of person you can flirt with without consequence,” Derek says. “And you’re not exactly built for casual, kid. So just… be careful with her. Or be careful with yourself.” He shrugs. “Ideally both.”
Spencer’s quiet a long moment. Then finally says, voice low: “I think I’m already being too careful. Maybe that’s the problem.”
—
Meanwhile, Emily catches you on the steps outside the precinct. You’re leaned against the railing, finishing your third shitty coffee of the day and trying not to think about anything meaningful.
She appears beside you without a word, sipping on something suspiciously less terrible than the sludge in your cup.
You glance sideways. “That better not be Harding’s you-can-have-some-if-you-give-me-your-number blend.”
Emily raises a brow. “Would it bother you if it was?”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m observing.” She almost smirks. “You know, when we get back to Quantico, you should check out Garcia’s Band-Aid collection. She’s got a bunch that are covered in glitter and hello kitty faces.”
You frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the skull-print bandage currently gracing Reid’s forearm,” she says lightly. “Matches your style a little too well to be coincidence, don’t you think?”
You don’t answer. Just cross your arms and take another sip.
Emily hums and nods toward you. “You patched him up.”
“Someone had to.”
“Sure,” she says. “Except, someone didn’t have to. It was just a scrape. You chose to.”
You glare at her. “Are you trying to give me advice?”
“Nope,” she says. “Just reminding you I notice things. Like when someone who prides herself on not getting attached starts… caring.”
You scoff. “I’m not attached, and I don’t care.”
Emily doesn’t argue. She just takes a final sip of her drink, tosses the empty cup in the trash, and says:
“Okay. But for what it’s worth — if you ever were going to get attached to someone… Spencer’s not the worst option. In fact, he’s probably the best one out there.”
You don’t say anything. But you stay there sitting on the cold stoop long after she goes back inside.
—
The case closes without ceremony.
The arrest is clean. No last-minute standoff, no bloodbath. Just a pair of cuffed wrists and a few exhausted high-fives exchanged between local PD and the rest of your team.
You pack up, debrief, and get to the airstrip before sunrise. It’s still dark out when the jet takes off — that violet-blue hush that feels less like morning and more like the universe hitting snooze.
You toss your go-bag under the seat across from Spencer and collapse into the leather cushion opposite him without thinking. Muscle memory.
He doesn’t look up — just shifts his notebook onto the tray table and moves his cup of tea so it won’t spill. His sleeve is tugged down over his forearm now, deliberately. Like he’s trying to hide something.
The bandage.
You lean back and close your eyes.
A minute passes before his voice cuts through the quiet:
“Did I overstep?”
Your eyes stay closed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Reid."
“Yesterday morning,” he says. “With Harding.”
You snort softly. “You mean when you torpedoed my shot at a decent cup of coffee for no reason?”
His silence confirms it. You finally open your eyes.
He’s looking at you, guarded but genuine. There’s a crease between his brows you know from past experience is the result of spiraling analysis.
You sigh. “You didn’t overstep. You just… kind of outed yourself as weirdly jealous.”
His ears go a little pink. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know.” You glance toward the front of the plane, then back at him. “You ever think about not saying the first thing that pops into your head?”
“Constantly,” he says. “It rarely works.”
You let out a tired huff of a laugh.
Another beat of silence passes. He fiddles with his pen, tapping it against the edge of the table.
“I wasn’t jealous,” he says finally.
You cock an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” he lies. Then, a half-beat later: “I just… didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”
You roll your eyes. “I can handle myself, genius.”
He nods. “I guess I…” He pauses and looks away. “I notice things.”
You blink. “No shit, Reid. You’re a profiler. Noticing things is kind of your job.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean… I notice things,” he says again, quieter this time. Then adds: “About you. I notice things about you.”
You study him for a second. Not the shirt sleeve or the hands or the mouth he always forgets to bite shut — but him. The part of him that sat still and let you take care of him and brushed his hand against yours and accepted stale gummy worms with gratitude.
You should say something cruel. Something sharp-edged and clever to push him back into the safe zone where nobody cares and nothing means anything.
Instead, you say, so quiet it’s barely audible above the hum of the jet engine, “I notice things about you, too.”
You don’t look at him after you say it. Don’t explain. You just lean back into your seat like the words didn’t cost you anything, like your pulse isn’t suddenly louder in your ears.
Spencer doesn’t press. He just goes still, as if he believes wholeheartedly that if he moves wrong, the entire moment might break.
He watches you — silhouette lit faintly by the glow of the cabin, one boot tucked under your knee, arms folded like armor.
He wants to ask what you’ve noticed.
Wants to know which of his cracks you’ve cataloged. Which of his tells you’ve decoded. If it’s the way he taps his fingers when he’s trying not to pace, or how he always offers you the seat facing the exit, or the higher tone his voice reaches up into uncontrollably when he’s nervous.
But he doesn’t ask. Because he knows better than to ask for something you’re not ready to give.
You don’t regret saying it — not exactly. But it sits in your throat like a jagged pill. You hadn’t planned on admitting anything, least of all to him. But then he had to go and say it first, and you’ve always been a little too competitive to let him win even at that, so…
You glance over. He’s watching the clouds now. Trying to give you space in his own quiet way.
“I didn’t mean anything by that,” you say, abrupt. “It’s just fact.”
He turns towards you again. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.” Your tone sharpens. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“I won’t,” he says. And you hate how gently he says it.
You pick at the skin beside your thumbnail and let out a long, scarily honest breath. “I’m not good at this.”
“This?”
“This,” you echo as you wave your arm clumsily at the space between you. “Being… human.”
There’s a silence, then: “You’re better at it than you think.”
You scoff. “You don’t know me well enough to say that, Reid.”
“Maybe not,” he says. “But I’d like to.”
You should snap at him for that, tell him not to waste his time.
But you don’t.
You just stretch out your legs in front of you, lean your head back against the cushion, and close your eyes like you’re done talking.
And you are.
Except—
“Reid?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t pull your sleeve down next time.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Why not?”
You crack one eye open. “Because I like that bandage. Risked my clean criminal record stealing the box from a Hot Topic when I was 19. Hiding it is deeply disrespectful to my efforts.”
He huffs a quiet laugh — surprised and sweet. “Okay.”
You close your eyes again and nudge his foot gently with your boot in silent acknowledgement before pulling back.
That’s the end of it. No thank yous. No lingering looks.
But when the jet lands and you finally slump into your chair in the bullpen, Spencer wordlessly drops off a coffee on the way to his desk.
And drawn on the cup’s sleeve — barely visible — is a tiny, messy, pen ink doodle of a skull and crossbones, signed:
-S.R.
You take the sleeve off the cup before anyone can see it and slide it into your desk drawer for safe keeping.
It’s just a drawing. Just a piece of folded cardboard. Just a dumb little momento that makes you realize nearly getting a misdemeanor over a stupid pack of patterned bandages might’ve been worth it after all.
ᝰ.ᐟ
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summary: you didn’t plan on staying late at the bar, hustling reid at darts, or flirting with him after trivia. you definitely didn’t plan on the coffee waiting on your desk the next morning, either.
genre: fluff (and a teeny bit of angst bc it’s greenaway!reader after all but yeah mostly fluff)
tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, BAU team takes bar trivia night, mild flirting (FINALLY), reader ruffles spencer’s hair and pokes his chest asdfghjklbaqsgfj, drunk garcia, morgan being a little shit, alcohol consumption, mentions of spencer’s past dilaudid use + tobias hankel kidnapping, hangovers, coffee as a love language, no use of y/n
a/n: inspired by this anon request | things are HAPPENING you guys. I tried to weave more of elle’s spunkiness into reader’s character this fic to show how she’s still sharp and sassy even when she’s letting her walls down and oooh I love her so bad. | GIF credit to @reidgif !
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
It starts with the unmistakable sound of heels.
Which would be unremarkable, except for the fact that they’re clicking with purpose — and the only person you know who makes that kind of entrance is Penelope Garcia, glitter incarnate. You don’t even look up from the incident report you’re writing.
“Absolutely not,” you say flatly before she even opens her mouth.
“Oh come on,” she whines, dragging out the syllables like it might wear you down. “I haven’t even asked yet!”
“You don’t have to. It’s Thursday. You’ve been talking about going out as a team all week. You’re wearing earrings so sparkly I was almost blinded by them earlier. I know what this is.”
Garcia gasps. “You noticed!”
You look up just in time to see her drop a too-colorful flyer on your desk like it’s a court summons. JJ and Emily are hovering just behind her, clearly serving as her accomplices.
You squint down at the flyer.
TRIVIA NIGHT – NYC History & 1990s Music Themed!
O’Keefe’s Bar | 8PM | Buy Two, Get One Free Tequila Shots!
You let out a quiet snort. “No way.”
“Pleeeeease,” Garcia begs, clasping her hands under her chin. “We need you. You’re from New York, and your playlists are full of 90s bands, and plus, it’ll be fun! Everyone’s going. Even Rossi and Hotch promised to make an appearance.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t hang out with coworkers outside of work.”
“That’s okay,” Garcia chirps. “You don’t have to act like we’re your BFFs, you just have to contribute your grungy brilliance. We need a ringer.”
“I’m not a ringer,” you say. “I’m a federal agent. And I have plans tonight.”
“Doing what? Staring at your ceiling alone and judging the drywall?” Emily asks. “Conducting a séance in the dark?”
“Yes,” you deadpan.
Before they can mount a second attack, Morgan strolls by with a file under one arm. He gives you a knowing smirk. “Come on, rookie. You afraid we’ll actually be fun?”
“I’m afraid of being forced into karaoke,” you shoot back.
“I’m afraid of your refusal to embrace joy,” Garcia pouts.
That’s when Hotch passes behind them all, not even slowing as he says, “It’s not optional, Greenaway.”
You stare at his retreating back. “Is that a direct order?”
He lifts a hand without turning around. “Interpret it how you want.”
You look over to the far side of the bullpen, where Spencer’s watching the chaos with that vaguely bemused expression he wears like a second skin. He hasn’t said anything to add onto the attack, but he hasn’t come to your defense, either. Traitor.
You exhale like this physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll stay for one drink. One trivia round. I’m not singing karaoke, I’m not taking shots, and I’m not playing any drinking games.”
Morgan grins. “Good enough for me, sugar.”
You flip him off without looking up. Garcia squeals in delight and Emily mentions pre-gaming with Rossi’s office liquor. JJ mutters something about needing to hydrate.
You rub your temples.
—
O’Keefe’s is louder than you’d like. It’s one of those dive bars with Christmas lights pretending to be ambiance and the faint smell of fryer oil clinging to every surface. Someone’s playing Mariah Carey on the jukebox. Someone else is yelling about baseball stats near the dartboards.
You already regret everything.
The team pours in like they own the place. Morgan leads the charge, claiming a long table near the trivia setup. Garcia’s practically vibrating in her retro-print dress, pointing out the score sheets and little buzzers. Emily heads straight for the bar with a mission: tequila. You linger behind them all, half-tempted to fake an urgent phone call and disappear.
Spencer hangs back, too. Not near enough to make it obvious, but close enough that you feel his presence.
He watches as you survey the place with your arms crossed and your expression unreadable. Your boots stick slightly on the laminate tiles near the entrance and you mutter something under your breath about the existential nightmare of sticky floors. He smiles at that.
“You okay?” he asks, gently.
You shrug, still scanning. “Just trying to map out the fastest route to every available exit.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I think there’s another through the kitchen, though I’m pretty sure using it would be a health code violation.”
“I’m willing to take that risk if needed.”
When you approach the bar, the rest of the team is already ordering — beers and shots and colorful sugary things that make you want to vomit on sight.
“Double rye. Neat.”
Garcia stares as the bartender slides the whiskey in front of you. “You really do hate joy.”
You ignore her. She orders something blue and glittery. Spencer, beside you, clears his throat. “Ginger ale, please.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That your typical bar night go-to?”
He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t quite meet your eyes, either. “I don’t, uh, really drink much anymore.”
Something about the anymore pricks at you. You tuck it away for later. He notices.
“It’s… kind of a long story,” he says, and it almost sounds like an offering. Like an I’ll tell you later.
You nod once. “Noted.”
The drinks arrive and you make your way to the table. JJ’s waving you over, pointing to a plastic clipboard where the team name still reads TBD.
“Suggestions?” she asks, tapping the end of the pen.
“Don’t say Penelope’s Angels,” you mutter. “Garcia’s already pitched it three times.”
Garcia pouts. “It’s cute!”
Morgan suggests cheekily, “The Derek Morgan Fan Club.”
Emily throws a pretzel at him.
You lean forward, glance at Spencer. “Any ideas, Doc?”
He blinks, then shrugs. Then, out of nowhere, says, “E Pluribus Nerdum.”
Everyone turns.
“What?” Emily says, one brow raised.
Spencer blinks, the picture of sincerity. “It’s a pun. On E Pluribus Unum — ‘out of many, one.’ It’s the motto on the Great Seal of the United States, adopted by congress in 1782. Only—this is, you know, “Out of many nerds… us.””
Morgan shakes his head. “You’re such a weirdo, man.”
“But it’s better than your idea,” Emily teases. “I like it. Let the nerds have it.”
You snort into your drink. JJ scribbles it down as the too-perky trivia host starts calling for teams to check in.
The first category is New York City history, and you groan as JJ passes you the clipboard. The questions come fast: Who was the mayor of New York during the 2003 blackout? What was Times Square originally called? What band headlined the first concert in Central Park?
You answer two in a row without hesitation. Spencer looks impressed. Morgan hoots. Garcia says you’re officially forgiven for skipping happy hour two weeks ago.
Later, between rounds, Spencer leans a little closer.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but you’re a little scary when you’re having fun.”
You glance sideways. “You think this is me having fun?”
His mouth quirks. “Admit it, you are. And it’s terrifying.”
You pop a fry in your mouth. “It should be.”
But the thing is — you kind of are having fun, in your own, quietly hostile way. And Spencer, you realize, has barely taken his eyes off you all night.
You tell yourself it’s just because you’re a curiosity. Elle’s sister. The new girl who doesn’t smile much. The profiler who isn’t a genius yet still answered half the trivia questions before he could. Nothing more. But the way he’s looking at you — like he sees through all your armor — is starting to get under your skin.
A question about NYC subway planning comes up and Spencer answers it so fast you swear he must’ve been alive in 1904. When Garcia gapes, he shrugs. “I wrote a paper on metropolitan infrastructure patterns when I was eleven.”
You stare at him, baffled and slightly charmed and a little disarmed. “Of course you did.”
He shrugs again. But this time, there’s the ghost of a grin.
—
A few hours pass in a blur of secondhand smoke, ambient jukebox static, and rounds of questions you mostly pretend not to care about.
You order your second drink — a dirty gin martini this time, extra extra dirty — and watch as JJ giggles at something Emily said, Garcia arm-wrestles Morgan with frightening sincerity, and Rossi chats with a table of older gentlemen about cigars. Hotch left about an hour ago after muttering something about needing to get home to Jack.
It’s chaos. Friendly, stupid chaos. And somehow, you’re still here, not totally hating it.
“You want to get some air?” Spencer asks, voice low, like he’s afraid of interrupting the way you’ve been staring at the door for the past three and a half minutes.
You glance at him and nod. “Lead the way.”
The patio’s half-abandoned, just two guys smoking at the far end. Spencer leans against the wooden railing, ginger ale in hand, and you realize his hair looks different tonight — combed through, as if he attempted to style it in the Quantico bathroom after the night’s plans were made, but still sticking out messily in the back. The sleeves of his shirt are crookedly rolled and pushed up to his elbows. It’s like he tries so hard to look put-together but has to fight against the gravitational pull of the universe in order to make it halfway there. You tell yourself it’s not completely charming.
“I don’t usually stay this long,” you say after a beat. “At things like this.”
“I know.”
You turn your head. “You do?”
He shrugs. “You’ve kind of made it clear you aren’t into this sort of thing.”
You narrow your eyes, and he smiles into his glass.
“I’m not going to tell you that you need to try harder, you know,” he says.
That catches you off guard.
“I just mean, you don’t need to be more than who you are. If this is all you can give us, then it’s more than enough. You don’t have to try to be someone you’re not to fit in with this team. You already do.”
You scoff softly. “How very optimistic of you.”
He glances over. “It’s not optimism. Everyone wanted you here, and you’re here. You stayed. You didn’t fake a phone call and disappear out the kitchen door like you clearly considered when the night began. You’re even letting yourself have a little fun.”
You blink. “That’s quite the assumption.”
Spencer shrugs again, a shy grin curling at his lips. “I read somewhere once about this thing called “profiling.” Apparently it can be pretty accurate,” he jokes.
The corner of your mouth twitches.
“You ever think maybe I’m just waiting to find the right moment to make a break for it?”
He tips his glass at you. “I think if you were, you’d have found it already.”
You pause, watching him. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach out and gently ruffle the back of his hair where it sticks out unevenly. “Your grooming habits are a war crime, Reid.”
He startles. Actually startles, like you’d tased him.
“I—what?”
You smirk. “You missed a spot back there, Doctor.”
Spencer is frozen. You watch him try to recalibrate, blinking like a machine that just got fed the wrong code.
Because you don’t usually touch people. And he knows that. You know it, too. And the realization hits a beat too late.
Shit. What was that?
You pull your hand back like it burned you and take a step to the side, putting space between you again, pulling the drawbridge back up.
“It was bothering me,” you say flatly, walking it back. “So I fixed it. Don’t overthink it.”
“I… wasn’t going to,” he lies, and his voice is softer now. Almost confused.
A long silence falls between you.
Then, maybe to fill it, he says, “You asked me earlier about the ginger ale.”
“I did. But you don’t have to tell me,” you reply sincerely.
“I don’t mind.” He shifts slightly, the toe of his shoe dragging across the concrete. “I used to drink socially, but after last year, I mostly stopped.”
You glance over. He’s not fidgeting. Not avoiding your eyes.
“Yeah?” you ask, soft but not tentative.
He nods. “I got kidnapped during a case in Georgia. The unsub had dissociative identity disorder, and part of the kidnapping involved injecting me with a drug — Dilaudid.” He says it plainly, like he’s reciting a report, not his own history. “I was only gone a few days, but afterwards, it was… hard to stop. It’s been over a year now, and I’m clean, but I try to avoid anything that might make it easier to slip. Alcohol included.”
There’s a beat — not awkward, just still. You nod.
“I’ll still let myself have a drink once in a while,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “But tonight didn’t feel like an occasion that warranted it.”
You look at him again, and something in your chest does that strange, stupid twist you’ve learned not to name. Because he didn’t have to tell you any of that. And he didn’t tell it like a performance, or a bid for sympathy. Just… like it mattered to him that you knew. It’s not lost on you that he told you even though you wouldn’t have asked about it again, or that it’s clear he doesn’t offer up this information to just anyone.
You clear your throat. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, Spencer.”
Spencer. The sound of your own voice echoes in your ears. Have you ever even used his first name before now?
Your unexpected softness seems to jar him, but before he can respond, Emily opens the door to the patio from inside and yells something about ordering loaded tater tots. You both wave her off.
Spencer shifts, then glances at you again.
“I don’t dance,” he says abruptly.
You look up at him quizzically. “O…kay? Thanks for the announcement?”
He chuckles. “I’m just putting that out there before Garcia inevitably tries to drag us inside for a conga line or impromptu salsa lesson. I caught a glimpse of her trying to make something like that happen inside before Emily closed the door.”
You smirk. “Well, I’m not going to dance either, so, strength in numbers.”
“Not unless the prom ends in arson. Or gallons of pig’s blood dropping from the ceiling.”
That makes him laugh.
You finish your martini and lean a hip against the railing beside him. “So you never dance?”
“Never,” he says with a shake of the head.
You reach out and poke him lightly in the chest with two fingers. “Come on, Reid. You’re telling me no one’s ever dragged you out to the floor for one song?”
He stares at the spot you touched like it was seared into him and blinks a few times before remembering he still needs to answer you.
“No one… who lived to tell the tale,” he mumbles with a quiet grin. Another joke, just for you. You laugh a little too hard before you catch yourself and step back again.
You glance through the window, using it like a mirror to steady yourself. Inside, the team is still going strong. Morgan’s doing impressions. JJ’s trying to win a dare against two losers at the pool tables. Emily’s grabbing another round of shots. Garcia’s dancing on a chair and sipping something bright pink with a paper umbrella hanging off the side.
“We should probably go save Garcia before she sprains something.”
Spencer nods, still blinking like he hasn’t recovered. “Only if you agree not to poke me again.”
You consider for a moment before murmuring, “No promises.”
You duck your head and lead the way inside.
And behind you, Spencer follows — slow, stunned, and still glancing down at the hand you’d touched him with.
—
Back inside, the lights seem a little warmer, the room a little blurrier at the edges. You’re not drunk, not exactly. But the martini fuzzed out some of the static in your head, and now the whiskey in your hand — your final drink, you’ve decided — hums a low current under your skin. You stretch your spine, blink twice, and feel something that almost resembles comfort.
Garcia intercepts you with a plastic tiara and a plea to sing backup on “Like a Virgin.” You stare her down in silence for a full five seconds until she shrugs in defeat and says, “Your loss, babe,” then grabs JJ instead and twirls her toward the mic. Morgan’s trying to scam a free drink from the female bartender using nothing but charm and biceps. Emily is now crushing one of the pool guys in a game of beer pong. Rossi has vanished entirely.
You slide back into your seat and sip the whiskey slowly. Spencer’s beside you again. He nods at your glass. “Second or third?”
“Third. And final,” you say. “Probably.”
He smiles, then observes as you dip a hand into your black leather purse and grab a tube of lipstick, flicking the lid off with practiced ease. You swipe the dark red across your bottom lip, then the top, then smack them together. Your hands are steady. You’ve always been good at precision under pressure.
Spencer watches the whole thing like it’s a card trick.
“That was… impressive,” he says quietly.
You glance at him sideways. “What, my lipstick application?”
“Doing it without a mirror,” he clarifies. “That can’t be something most people are successful at.”
You hum. “I’m not most people.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re really not.”
It’s not the words themselves, but the way he says them — like they’re some truth he’s just now understanding. You look away, steadying your glass against your lip before you speak again.
“That sounded dangerously like flirting,” you say, flicking your gaze back to him.
He startles, blinking. “Did it?”
You shrug. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna report you to HR.”
His laugh is soft and awkward, and the tips of his ears go pink. You wonder how many women have ever flustered him like this, wonder what it would feel like to do it on purpose.
You won’t. But you could.
Because the thing is, he sees you. Not just the scowl and the eyeliner and the strategic disinterest — but the rest. The quieter ache you feel beneath it all. And worse, he doesn’t seem scared off by any of it.
Spencer points toward the dartboards hanging on the wall towards the back of the bar. “You any good?”
“At darts?” you reply, eyes sharp, already getting up and making your way towards the boards. “Are you seriously asking me that? Me, sharp objects, and schooling drunk men in bars?” He blinks at you blankly. “Of course I'm good at darts, Reid.”
The battered wood frame is splintered in one corner, one sad dart dangling by the tip. You pull it loose and twirl it once between your fingers.
“Used to hustle college guys,” you say casually. “They always assumed the girl in fishnets couldn’t aim.”
“Did you… wear fishnets to bars specifically to fluster and hustle men?” Spencer asks, half-scandalized, half-impressed.
You throw the dart — bullseye. “What do you think?”
He laughs again, boyish and quiet and a little breathless, then carefully tosses one of his own. It surprisingly lands just left of center.
You raise a brow. “So you’re pretty good, too.”
“It’s mostly just physics,” he says with a shrug.
You roll your eyes with a quiet laugh and take another sip of your drink. The whiskey burns a little now — a reminder to slow down. You’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself, and that’s always when you make the worst mistakes.
You don’t talk for a while. Just throw. Sip. Throw again, before you and Spencer dive back into conversation about nothing and everything at the same time. The bar’s gone quieter now, the buzz of trivia long since faded into background music and clinking glasses. You throw again, then lean against the wall.
You glance past him, back toward the table — now deserted except for Garcia’s tiara and a few empty glasses. The rest of the team is gone, and you didn’t even notice them leave. You glance up at the clock and realize it’s after 1am.
“Guess we closed the place down,” you murmur.
Spencer nods. “Guess so.”
You exhale slowly, feeling the weight of the night settle in your chest. The comfort of it. The danger of it.
Spencer shifts. “This, um… this was nice.”
You glance at him. “You mean the darts, or the part where I threatened to stab Morgan during trivia?”
He smiles faintly. “Both. All of it.”
You grab your jacket and tip your head toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go before Garcia shows back up with a second wind and tries to make us sing karaoke.”
Spencer nods but doesn’t move — just watches you with that weird, quiet intensity he has, like he’s trying to memorize something without being obvious about it.
And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of the heat behind your knees. The weight of your hair. The way your pulse seems to catch when he looks at you too long. The fact your eyes just lingered on his perfectly pink bottom lip for half a second too long.
You clear your throat. “You’re kind of a strange guy, Reid.”
“You’re kind of a terrifying girl, Greenaway.”
That makes your mouth twitch into a lopsided smirk. But as you both head for the door, you feel it in your bones: a low, unspoken shift in gravity. Like something’s started, and you’re pretending not to notice. Like maybe he’s pretending, too.
The sidewalk outside is slick with a misting of rain, air thick with the smell of beer and city heat. You step up to the curb and wait for one of the cabs down the block to notice you. Spencer’s beside you, not saying anything. He doesn’t fidget, but he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s working something out in his head. Hands tucked in his pockets. Shoulders a little hunched.
“I’m fine, you know,” you say. “You don’t have to stand there doing your best impression of a security camera.”
That earns a small laugh. “I wasn’t.”
“You were. You’ve got that face.”
He squints. “What face?”
“The one that looks like you’re about to quote a peer-reviewed study on post-midnight cab safety for single women in urban areas.”
He huffs, ducking his head. “There is a study, actually."
“Of course there is.”
A cab pulls up with a low whir and a flash of headlights. You open the door but hesitate before climbing inside, one hand still on the frame.
“Night, Reid.”
You half expect him to fumble a goodbye, or spurt out some awkward fact about the history of taxis. But he just watches you go. You slide into the backseat, and for one strange, fleeting microsecond, you wonder what would’ve happened if you’d asked him to come with you.
The driver merges into the street, and you twist in your seat, just once, to glance back.
Spencer’s still there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched. Watching the cab pull away like he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.
—
Your head doesn’t hurt, exactly — more like someone turned the contrast up on the entire world. The overhead lights are too sharp, the elevator ding too shrill, the bullpen voices too loud.
Okay fine, it does hurt. Still, you’ve had worse mornings.
You make it to your desk on time, which is more than you can say for most of the team. Once they do start to filter in, Garcia, clad in sunglasses indoors and clutching a jumbo-sized neon green Gatorade, perches herself dramatically on the arm of Prentiss’s chair, both of them visibly suffering.
You’re just starting to get your files open when you notice it: A to-go coffee cup, neatly placed on the corner of your desk. Not the usual break-room sludge you’ve grown accustomed to. No — this is from that little hipster café three blocks down, the one with indie playlists and criminally overpriced lattes. The logo’s inked in soft black on the side. Your name is scribbled in messy letters across the cardboard sleeve. Underneath it:
Bullseye. –S.R.
You stare at it for a second too long. The coffee’s still hot, and it’s just how you take it on your worst mornings — dark roast, black, with an added shot of espresso. Strong enough to punch you in the chest. You close your eyes on the first sip, and it’s exactly what you need to undo that third drink from last night.
“Well, well, well.”
You don’t have to look up to know where that’s coming from, or why. Morgan’s voice is all grin and zero mercy.
“Looks like someone had a very interesting night.”
You open one eye. “Careful, Morgan. I have a headache and at least one knife in my bag.”
He chuckles. “I’m just saying. Last I checked, you and Reid were still at the bar long after the rest of us called it.”
Garcia gasps from across the room. “You closed the bar down? Without me?!”
You arch a brow and sip your coffee. “We were playing darts in the back. No one told us the party was over.”
Morgan wiggles his eyebrows. “Darts, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
You snort. “Jesus, Morgan. You’re worse than a high school rumor mill.”
He grins, watching you like he’s trying to catch a tell. “You’re not denying it. You two end up in the same cab home?” he asks with a wink.
You lean back in your chair and pause for a beat, queuing up your retort. “Oh please. If I’d gone home with him, I’d look a lot more exhausted than I do right now,” you say matter-of-factly.
Clearly, that’s not the type of euphemized denial anyone expected to hear. It gets a choked laugh out of Garcia and an impressed little “damn” from Emily.
Morgan smirks, then raises his hands in mock defeat and whistles. “Alright, alright. Point taken. Nothing happened. But if you’re talking like that, then pretty boy’s got more game than I expected.”
You return to your coffee and pretend not to notice how Spencer’s been listening from the far corner of the bullpen this entire time, head buried in a file until he lifts his eyes to meet yours. You don’t look away. Not immediately.
You tilt your coffee cup towards him in silent thanks, and he nods.
Something about the way he ducks his head — the way his fingers twitch faintly on the edge of his folder — tells you he’s thinking about last night, too. And about what you just said.
You let yourself imagine it for one second too long.
Bullseye.
If he wants to make another shot, you might just let him.
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
The hospital never slept. It buzzed with beeping monitors, echoing footsteps, and the low hum of whispered conversations. Somewhere in the middle of that chaos, Thirteen moved with calm precision shoulders squared, eyes sharp, mouth pressed in that unreadable line she wore like armor.
She wasn’t cold. Just… careful.
You noticed her before anyone else on House’s team. Not because she was loud, but because she watched everything. Not just the patients, but the team. Including you.
House never used your name, only a rotating list of sarcastic nicknames. The rest of the team was friendly enough, but distant. You were new, still proving yourself, and it was easy to feel like you were one mistake away from being torn apart. Especially under House’s glare.
But Thirteen? She didn’t say much, yet she noticed. When you fumbled with a chart, she casually corrected it before House could see. When House barked a question in the middle of rounds and you hesitated, she subtly nudged the answer toward you with a glance. And after a particularly grueling shift, she handed you a protein bar without a word.
You wanted to thank her. You didn’t know how.
The first real conversation you had was after midnight, in the diagnostics room. House had stormed off to play piano or abuse his liver, and the rest of the team had vanished. You sat alone, staring at the whiteboard, willing your brain to connect the dots. Thirteen wandered back in.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” she said.
“Just thinking.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Thinking’s good. Collapsing? Less good.”
You managed a tired smile. “Do you ever get used to this?”
“To the hours? The pressure? The stress dreams about making a mistake that kills someone?” She shrugged. “You get used to pretending you’re used to it.”
That was the moment it started.
It wasn’t dramatic or sudden. There was no big emotional breakthrough. Just small, steady things. She started checking in more, never directly. A look across the table during diagnostics. A second coffee cup next to yours on the break room counter. The way she always stood a little closer when House was being particularly cruel.
Then, one day, your voice was hoarse, scratchy from lack of sleep and too many cold patients in one day. Thirteen passed by, set a sealed container on your desk, and kept walking.
You blinked at it. “What’s this?”
“Soup. Eat it. Don’t make it a thing.”
“You cook?”
She didn’t turn around. “I have layers.”
From then on, she started peeling back a few more of those layers. Quietly. Carefully. One night during a slow shift, out of nowhere, she said, “I have Huntington’s.”
You froze.
“I’m not telling you for pity,” she added quickly. “I just think… if I disappear one day, you deserve to know why.”
You swallowed hard. “I’d notice if you were gone.”
She smiled then, faint but real. “You better.”
And then there was the day you made your first big mistake.
It wasn’t fatal. The patient didn’t die. But House laid into you like a wrecking ball. He tore apart your logic, your technique, your confidence, all in front of the team. You barely held it together long enough to get to the supply closet before the tears hit.
The door creaked open a few minutes later. Thirteen stepped inside.
“He’s a bastard,” she said softly. “But he’s not always wrong.”
You didn’t look up.“That’s supposed to help?”
“No. But I’ve been there. You learn from it. That’s how you don’t screw up the same way twice.”
“I just… I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“You were. It just wasn’t enough. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you new.”
You sniffled, wiping your sleeve across your face. “You ever want to quit?”
“All the time,” she said. “But then someone codes, and I realize I still want to be the one standing over them, trying.”
Later that night, she drove you home without asking. Handed you a change of clothes,her own, way too big, and told you the couch was yours. “You get nightmares?” she asked.
You hesitated. Then nodded.
“I’ll be in the room down the hall. Door’s open.”
You didn’t sleep much that night, but the nightmares didn’t feel as heavy with someone close by.
From then on, something shifted. You started texting during late shifts. Ate lunch together when you could. She shared her music with you,and dragged you to a boxing class when you admitted you hated therapy.
“Sometimes you need to punch something,” she said. “Or someone.”
She was the first person you told when your parent got sick. You tried to hold it together, to act like everything was fine, but she saw right through it. She didn’t say anything right away, just handed you a coffee and sat with you in silence for twenty minutes.
When you finally broke down, she let you cry on her shoulder.
“I’m not good at the comforting thing,” she said.
“You’re doing fine.”
Somehow, she became your anchor.
She taught you how to survive House’s chaos. How to deflect his attacks. How to read his weird patterns of behavior. She was the one who warned you when House was in a worse mood than usual, who taught you how to tune him out without getting fired.
Once, House referred to you as her “pet project.”
You bristled.
She just smirked. “Better than his.”
Another time, someone at the hospital asked if you were Thirteen’s sibling. You started to deny it. She answered first.
“Practically.”
That word stuck with you for days.
Then there was your birthday. You hadn’t planned anything. You barely mentioned it. But she showed up in the break room with a small cake and two plastic crowns.
“Pick one”she said. “Or I will.”
You laughed, for the first time in days.
“Happy birthday.”
You didn’t cry. Not then.
You saved it for the night a patient died, a young one, just a year older than you. The entire team was shaken. House didn’t say a word, just disappeared. Everyone else went home.
Thirteen found you in the locker room.
“I should’ve caught it,” you whispered.
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
You broke then, shoulders shaking. She sat next to you, her arm brushing yours, and let you fall apart. Didn’t offer advice. Just stayed. When you were done, she handed you tissues and said, “We go again tomorrow.”
It wasn’t all heavy moments.
Sometimes, you teased her about her terrible taste in movies. She’d retaliate by stealing your favorite snacks from the break room fridge. You developed your own rhythm, jokes that only you two understood, glances across the room when things went sideways, shared frustration at House’s mind games.
And one night, sitting on the hood of her car outside the hospital, you turned to her and said, “You’re kind of the sister I never had.”
She didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Yeah"
She never said she loved you. She wasn’t the type. But she showed it, in how she kept watch when you were exhausted, in how she always had gum when you were too anxious to eat, in the way she looked at you when House went too far.
You never questioned it after that.
Because no matter what the world threw at you, House’s cruelty, your own self-doubt, the chaos of Princeton-Plainsboro.
Can I get something of Taub trying to relax at the end of a particularly long and brutal day? I don't care one way or another if it's angsty or silly or cute, anything really! :) Thanks for considering my request!
Relax
The door shut with a dull click behind him. Chris didn’t lock it right away. He just stood there for a few seconds, motionless, as if the simple act of removing his keys from the lock had drained the last of his energy. The silence of the apartment welcomed him like a cold breeze, not comforting, not hostile, just…indifferent.
He exhaled slowly and leaned his head back against the door, eyes fluttering closed. The fluorescent lights of the hospital still danced behind his eyelids, burned into his brain like afterimages from a welding torch. He hadn't eaten since noon. His feet ached. His back ached. His soul ached.
With slow, tired hands, he loosened his tie and let it fall to the ground, where it curled like a dead thing on the hardwood floor. He stepped out of his shoes one at a time, barely mustering the coordination to pull them off, and shuffled into the kitchen.
The fridge opened with a creak. Inside, the usual: old takeout, a couple beers, half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from a week ago, maybe two. He reached for the wine, sniffed it, and made a face. Then he grabbed a glass anyway.
It wasn’t the wine he wanted. It was the ritual.
The first sip made him wince, but the second went down easier. He carried it into the living room, passing by a stack of unopened mail, a wilting plant, and a jacket he hadn’t hung up in days.
He flicked on the small salt lamp in the corner, amber light spilling softly over the arm of the couch. Then the lamp on the side table. He dimmed the overheads, adjusting the light to something less sterile than the hospital, something warmer, kinder.
He lit a candle.Vanilla cedar. The scent was subtle but calming, weaving through the stale apartment air. He took another sip of the wine and walked to the stereo in the corner. A few taps of the dial and it came to life, filling the room with low, slow jazz. No lyrics. Just soft trumpet and piano, gentle percussion like heartbeats in the distance.
He stood there for a moment, soaking it in.
The couch welcomed him with soft resistance. He sank into it like someone falling into water and let his body settle. His eyes wandered across the room: muted tones, dim lighting, a half-dead TV screen waiting to be woken up.
He placed the wine on a coaster, something he’d always done out of habit more than neatness. Then he reached for the throw blanket and pulled it over his lap, tucking it in, almost like he was trying to swaddle himself in something secure. His fingers ran absently over the frayed edges.
He reached for the remote and turned the TV on. A sitcom was playing. Something canned and bright, with a laugh track that echoed like mocking voices in the hollow of his skull. He hit mute.
The laughter vanished, but the scene kept playing. Characters smiled at each other. Hugged. A father and son reunion. More hugs. He watched it with blank eyes.
He shifted under the blanket, trying to settle into comfort. He reached for the heating pad he kept behind a cushion, plugged it in, and placed it across his lower back. He let the warmth seep in, dulling the pain in his spine. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
A long breath shuddered out of him. He stared at his phone resting on the coffee table. He reached for it and hovered a thumb over Rachel’s contact. Didn’t press it. It wasn’t right.
Instead, he scrolled through the contacts. Stopped at one: Foreman.
His finger hovered.
He didn’t have a good reason. He wasn’t sure what he would say. Just…something. Anything. Maybe if someone else spoke, the pressure in his chest would break. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like his ribs were collapsing in.
He tapped the name and held the phone to his ear. One ring. Two. Four.
Voicemail.
He hung up before the beep.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Just that small act, calling someone, had taken more out of him than he expected. He dropped the phone onto the cushion next to him, face down. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for a while.
Then he tried again.
He took another sip of wine. He clicked off the TV altogether and let the soft jazz take over. He reached for a small book of poetry on the side table, a collection someone had once given him as a gift, still mostly unread. He flipped through the pages, stopping on one. He tried to read it. His eyes passed over the lines, but they didn’t sink in.
He set the book down gently and stared into the middle distance.
The wine glass sat untouched on the table now, forgotten. His hands clasped loosely between his knees. His head hung low.
A sharp inhale broke the silence, then another. His shoulders trembled once, then again, and then gave way to quiet sobs he tried to keep small. He didn’t want to cry. He never wanted to cry. But there was no one here to see him. No one to judge. He was alone in his own space, and still the shame burned through him.
He didn’t wail or scream or fall apart in any dramatic way. He just shook quietly, a man who had held it in too long, who’d said “I'm fine” too many times. His tears hit the floor, silent as snow. He pressed his palm to his eyes, trying to push the feeling back into his skull.
It didn’t work.
He let his head drop all the way to his hands. His breathing came in uneven bursts. His body curled slightly inward like he was trying to disappear.
Minutes passed.
Eventually, the sobs subsided, leaving behind only the sound of his breathing and the soft buzz of the heating pad. The music still played,slower now, melancholy piano chords filling in the silence he couldn’t.
Chris wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He sniffed, cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. Still hunched, but less so. He reached again for the wine glass and stared into it. His reflection shimmered faintly in the liquid, distorted and tired.
He didn’t drink it.
Instead, he stood slowly and walked back to the kitchen, emptied the glass in the sink, rinsed it, and set it in the dish rack. Then he opened a cabinet and pulled out chamomile tea,a last minute resort for peace. He boiled water, watching the kettle without really seeing it.
When it was ready, he poured it carefully, dropped in the bag, and cupped the mug in his hands as he returned to the couch.
He inhaled the steam. Let it warm his face.
He wrapped himself in the blanket again, this time pulling it higher, around his shoulders. He sipped the tea slowly, letting it burn his throat just enough to feel real. The candle flickered gently, shadows dancing on the far wall.
No TV. No phone. No distractions.
Just the mug in his hands, the quiet sounds of the stereo, and the flickering light.
The city outside didn’t care that he was trying. That he was holding himself together with the frail threads of habit and heat and soft light. But he was. God, he was trying.
And when sleep eventually came, it wasn't in a bed, but right there on the couch, still dressed, half curled, tear streaked. The heating pad shut off with a soft click. The stereo played one last note before the playlist looped again. The candle’s flame thinned, flickered, held.
Chris’s breath slowed. His body finally still.
And in the quiet, soft shadows of that small apartment, that was enough.
Oh ok so it turns out ive been borrowing grief from the future ! it turns out ive been preparing to lose the things i love rather than basking in the light of them while they last. Maybe i should nt do that
Okay everyone, I've written three books on wattpad, they're not House MD related tho some of the characters have their looks. I was hoping for someone to read them, they're called "The Landlord" "The Policeman" and "The Model". The characters are the same but each book is focused on a different character. My wattpad profile is "ximberryx" PLS I BEG YOU. IF YOU LIKE CRIME AND SOLVING MYSTERIES THESE BOOKS ARE FOR UUUU.
2087
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
blakekathryn
amandla
