summary: hiding your relationship with spencer isn’t easy when the hotel walls are thin and the sex is giggly.
genre: smut, fluff word count: 1k
tags/warnings: secret relationship between coworkers, stupidly in love spencer & reader, oral (f receiving), p in v, trying and failing to be quiet during sex, nosy BAU team, no use of y/n. 18+ MDNI
prompt: here a/n: ahh the final whisper week fic! thanks for hanging out with me all week long 🫶🏼
main event post ♡ whisper week masterlist
The hotel is hushed in that late-night way that makes even your heartbeat sound suspicious, so when you hear a soft knock at your door, it nearly startles you. You’re halfway to it when a whisper slips through the frame:
“FBI, open up.”
You bite down a laugh, unlock the latch, and Spencer’s there, already smiling.
“You’re late,” you whisper, tugging him in by his tie.
“I was being stealthy,” he murmurs, then kisses you before you can say anything else.
It starts easy — giggly and soft — but you feel the switch when he exhales against your mouth. He presses you back against the door, one hand cradling your jaw, the other skimming your waist as if to confirm you’re really here.
“We have to be extra quiet,” he whispers. “This hotel has particularly thin walls.”
“Then don’t make me laugh,” you respond, immediately giggling again when he starts dotting your face all over with kisses — the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your hairline, the corner of your mouth.
It’s a practiced routine by now: Spencer’s tie loosens, your shirt buttons surrender, and he lifts you into his arms before laying you down on the crisp hotel sheets that suddenly feel way too formal for the way he’s looking at you.
Kisses trail down your throat, careful where he knows you’re ticklish. When you gasp his name, it’s too loud and you slap a hand over your mouth, scandalized by yourself. He makes a dying-man noise, eyes bright with something fond and feral. “I said to stay quiet,” he teases, then presses two fingers to your lips. “I can help with that, you know.”
You go lightheaded at the implication and take them in, a slow, ridiculous suck that frays his composure. “You’re impossible,” he whispers adoringly. “Perfect, but impossible.”
He withdraws his fingers and continues his descent down your body, his mouth finding you quickly, almost too gently at first. You fist the sheets, then his hair, then the headboard behind you when it’s too much and not enough all at once, and he just… stays. Keeps going. Lifts his head only to breathe out praise before dipping back between your thighs, intent and unhurried.
When you start to pull away from how good it is, he keeps you steady, soft grip at your hip, humming like a promise against you. The sound vibrates straight through your bones. He slides two fingers inside, careful, and you come apart against him within moments. It’s not loud — you swear it isn’t — but you feel him chuckle against you when you clamp a hand over your mouth again, just in case.
“Hi,” you breathe when the room finally puts itself back together.
He kisses your knee, your thigh, the edge of your stomach. “Hi.” He’s flushed and undone and, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
You pull him up your body and kiss him with what’s left of your composure, feel the hard line of him against your hip. You thumb his belt open and he goes very still, checking your eyes the way he always does. You nod. Yes. Always yes.
“Look at me,” he whispers, fitting between your thighs. One hand cradles your jaw; the other laces your fingers above the pillow. The first push steals your breath and he hushes you with a kiss you feel all the way down your spine.
“God,” he mouths against your cheek, and you hook your leg over his hip in answer. He shifts an inch, angling your knee exactly where he wants it with his palm and groans into your throat. You both shush each other, laughing helplessly into a kiss like teenagers.
It crests fast because it’s him and because the night is short and because the way you feel about each other has never been a subtle thing. You fall apart around him with his name in your mouth and his hand tight around your fingers. Spencer follows a heartbeat later, lips and teeth against the curve of your neck to keep from waking the whole floor. He stays inside you for a long second that feels like forever, then eases out and gathers you close, leaving an open-mouthed kiss at your jaw.
“So stealthy,” you whisper with a giggle.
—
Morning puts both of you back in suits at the local precinct. In the conference room, you and Spencer review the crime scene map with straight faces like you weren’t just memorizing every inch of each other’s skin in a hotel bed six hours ago.
The team watches from across the room, smirks barely contained.
Emily doesn’t look up from her tablet. “I spotted Reid sneaking back into his room at 5am.”
Morgan shakes his head, grinning. “She was wearing a cardigan that looked suspiciously like one from Pretty Boy’s collection when I saw her in the lobby this morning. And he keeps tugging his collar up to hide whatever the hell she left on his neck last night.”
Hotch caps his pen, the corner of his mouth almost curling. “As long as it doesn’t affect their work,” he says mildly, “we can be happy for them.”
“Happy for who?” you ask, appearing with a stack of witness forms, all wide-eyed innocence.
“For the local PD,” Emily covers smoothly. “They finally fixed their copy machine.” You shrug and get back to work.
JJ leans in. “Do we tell them we know?” she whispers.
“Absolutely not,” Emily says. “The illusion is half the fun.”
Morgan grins. “Ten bucks says they get married and still try to cover it up.”
Hotch cuts in: “Stop gambling on your coworkers.”
Spencer re-appears with two coffees, setting one down in front of you, and you thank him without looking. He reaches to untwist your lanyard, and both of you freeze for a half-second — muscle memory betraying you — then step apart in perfect sync.
Across the room, JJ and Emily trade a look, and Morgan’s grin widens.
Profilers know a tell when they see one — and they also know when to leave it be. Not secret so much as quiet, and for now, that’s enough.
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
this ficlet was written for my whisper week 1k celebration event! follow along from September 7-13 for more 🫶🏼
in which you and Spencer go out with the team and they get to see you together for the first time outside of work
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff (18+ mdni)
content warnings: sexual comments, more possessive and jealous spencer, new relationship, bau!reader, reader gets mildly harassed
word count: 1.39k
a/n: so much possessive and jealous spencer this month i think im learning things about myself. more tomorrow too.
“Why did we agree to go out again?” You asked, trailing behind Spencer as you entered the bar. The silky material of your blouse fluttered in the breeze of the doorway, leaving you to shiver and step closer to your boyfriend.
He squeezed your hand reassuringly, coming to a stop while he browsed the crowd for the rest of the team. “Socializing is good for team morale, especially after a bad case,” he reminded you.
Biting your tongue, you wanted to tell him that catching up on sleep was also good for team morale, but he’d already told you to pick your feet up twice on the way to the bar and didn’t need the reminder of how tired you were. “There was nothing wrong with our original plans for tonight,” you mumbled, walking over to a booth when you’d finally found JJ.
Everyone else had already arrived, most of them came straight from Quantico, but you were lucky enough that your apartment was within walking distance, meaning you got to stop at home before heading out for the evening. “What took you two so long?” Derek was the first to speak, waggling his eyebrows at the two of you suggestively.
Garcia was the first to react, thwapping his arm with her clutch, “Inappropriate!” She snapped, looking at you apologetically while you shrugged in response. Innuendo from Derek came with the territory, he’d been making them about you and Spencer since before you ever got together. Except now he wasn’t too far off.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” you said to JJ, who was getting out from her side of the booth to sit with Derek and Penelope. Presumably so you and Spencer could sit next to each other.
She waved you off and took her new seat. Spencer slid into the booth next to Emily, letting you have the end seat. Casually, your boyfriend put his arm around your shoulders, a casually intimate gesture that everyone at the table noticed but nobody addressed directly. “Are you okay?” Emily asked you, leaning over the table to see past Spencer.
Nodding, you propped your elbows up on the table and rested your chin in your hands. “She’s tired,” Spencer answered for you, squeezing your shoulders gently.
“Amen,” Derek said, tipping his head back in the booth and sighing.
You looked around a bit, noting that two prominent members of your party were missing, “Where’s mom and dad?”
JJ raised her eyebrows, “Hotch had to get home to Jack and Rossi claimed he wasn’t in the mood to drink poor man’s liquor.” Otherwise known as Dave-speak for he was going to drink some really old scotch, alone in his mansion.
Turning to Spencer, you nudged him gently, “I’m gonna go get a drink, do you want anything?” You shook off his arm when he declined your offer, gathering your bag and walking over to the bar. Waving at the bartender, he nodded at you in acknowledgment. While you waited, you glanced over your shoulder at Spencer. He was peeking around the booth seat, keeping a watchful eye on you.
After you placed your order and handed over your card, you leaned up against the bar, tipping your head back and perusing the different programs playing on the screens. It didn’t take long for someone else to notice your presence—two someone’s, in fact. “Look at that bod, man,” a man said from behind you, whistling softly. You could’ve brushed it off, pretended like they weren’t ogling you even though you had a pretty good hunch, but eventually, they described the way your jeans hugged your ass. They were right, but you wore these jeans so your boyfriend could ogle you, not some drunkards in a bar.
Tapping your heel against the floor impatiently, you were completely oblivious to the way all of your friends were watching the scene play out. The two men behind you making shapes with their hands that were meant to mimic your body, “I’m gonna go get her,” JJ said, pushing her glass away and starting to get up.
Before she could stand, one of the men made a motion like he was going to smack your ass, and Spencer stood up faster, practically jogging over to where you were waiting. “Hey, princess,” he greeted you, giving you warning that he was near before he slid his hand down your back, slipping his hand into your jean pocket and leaving it there.
That particular pet name was new, he’d spent the last several weeks trying out different variations—baby, honey, angel—and gauging your reactions to them. This one made you feel warm all over, sending blood pooling to your cheeks.
“Hey, man,” one of the guys tried to get Spencer’s attention.
You assumed Spencer wouldn’t be willing to give him the time of day, but you were surprised when he turned his head to face them. You stayed facing the bar, taking your lower lip between your teeth and giggling when Spencer pointedly squeezed your ass. “It’d be best if you just walked away,” he said pointedly, turning his attention back to you while you assumed they left.
Accepting your drink gratefully, you leaned over the bar to sign your receipt, and sighed, “That was hot.” You brought the glass to your lips, taking a sip from the straw and peering up at Spencer.
He groaned, quiet enough that only you could hear him, mostly rumblings that translated from his body into yours. “You have the eyes again,” he observed, moving his hands so they were stationed on either one of your hips, holding you possessively.
You lowered your glass and the corner of your mouth quirked up in amusement, “The fuck me eyes?”
Spencer rolled his eyes in response, “I still hate that you call them that, but yes.” He’d detested the phrase since the first time you used it three weeks ago, but he was completely silent when you asked if he had a better name for them.
Laying it on thick, you stuck your bottom lip out, “I can’t help it.”
“You need to before we go back to the table with all of our friends,” he said, he sounded serious, but his eyes were dancing with amusement, clearly pleased by the effect his heroics had on you.
You sighed, leaning into him so your bodies were flush with one another. “Spence, honey,” you started, “They know we’re having sex.”
He frowned suspiciously, “How much do they know, exactly?” He asked squeezing your hips.
Innocently, you took another sip of your drink. “What happens at girls’ night, stays at girls’ night,” you reminded him. The only exception to this being whatever Garcia decided to disclose to Derek the next morning.
“How about what happens in our bed, stays in our bed?” Spencer offered, now using his thumbs to rub nauseating circles over your hips.
Grinning impishly, you hummed curiously, “What about the couch?” You asked meddlesomely, “Or the shower? Your office chair? The kitchen counter?”
Your breathing hitched when he dropped his lips to your ear, “What don’t they know?”
“Most things,” you assured him, “Promise.” You weren’t one to kiss and tell, but you were one to kiss and gush about how phenomenal it was. They knew about what he gave, just not how he gave it. Some things were sacred.
“Uh huh,” he responded like he didn’t really believe you, but, nonetheless, he took your free hand in his and escorted you back to the booth. Pink flooding his cheeks when he was met with a round of applause by the rest of the team.
Garcia was clapping most enthusiastically, clearly enthralled by your relationship. “Very well done,” she praised him.
You faltered slightly when Spencer had you slide into the booth seat first, keeping you tucked inside while he sat on the outside. Moving on from the show the two of you’d just put on, the team continued their previous conversation.
Leisurely, Spencer joined the discussion, slipping his hand between your legs and splaying his hand over the inside of your thigh. Everyone noticed, but only one of them said anything about it.
Emily leaned over to whisper in your ear, “I’ll leave in about fifteen minutes, so it’s not obvious when you turn in too.”
in which Spencer tells Derek the story of how he met you, but Derek doesn't buy it
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff
content warnings: guys it's been so long since i read this book any errors have to be ignored
word count: 867
a/n: this is for my beautiful bff who sent me a tweet about dua lipa and then told me it was spencer reid coded and then when i asked if i could steal the fic idea she said yes pls okay arya i love you
“So, what’s her name?” Derek asked slyly, leaning against Spencer’s desk and crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.
The question pulled Spencer away from the article he’d been reading, flipping through the content while he waited to get a report back from Hotch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but the pink flush of his cheeks told a different story.
They were the last three in the office, finishing something that’d had a last-minute deadline change. Morgan and Spencer’s part was done; they were just waiting for the okay from Hotch. “Uh huh,” Morgan said dubiously, “You can’t hide from me, pretty boy. I know you. I know when you’ve got a girl on your mind.”
Spencer rolled his eyes at the implication. Him having a girl on his mind was an infrequent occasion at best, but for the last few weeks, you’d consumed his every waking thought. He understood that Morgan probably figured him out when he started the coffee maker this morning without the pot to catch the liquid gold. Really, the fact that Derek had waited all day was commendable.
Derek nudged at him, “C’mon man. Don’t you want to talk about her? How did you meet?”
Smiling fondly at the memory, Spencer turned away from his computer and faced his friend, “It’s actually kind of a funny story. We met on the metro a few weeks ago,” Spencer recalled.
“A few weeks?” Derek asked with mock incredulity, “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Not really, Spencer thought to himself, he was just enjoying his time with you. Spending time with you was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was always just so easy with you. He told Derek your name, the beauty of it dripping from his tongue as his teammate nodded with approval. “She was running late for work, and she had so many things in her arms that I gave her my seat,” he explained, trying to contain his smile.
Morgan nodded in approval, “A gentleman.” He winked as if to say, I taught him everything he knows.
“Once she caught her breath, she pulled a book out from her purse and started reading,” Spencer said, standing up when Hotch told them they were good to head out for the night.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Derek grinned, “What book was it?”
Spencer glared at him while they waited for the elevator, “I’m getting there.” Really, the opportunity to tell Morgan about a girl he met was rare—it usually was the other way around. “I had my book out already, so I looked down at hers,” he continued. Initially, he just wanted to apprise your taste, but he discovered something even more interesting, “We were reading the same book.”
Derek just stared, dumbfounded, “Like… the exact same book?”
Nodding in excitement, Spencer watched as the elevator numbers went down, “Same edition and everything.” His smile hadn’t faded the whole time they were talking, “Do you want to guess the book?”
“And face your scrutiny? No thanks,” Derek said, pulling the keys to his truck out of his bag while they exited the elevator.
Spencer buzzed with excitement, “Le comte de Monte-Cristo.” He noticed Derek’s confused look, “It’s The Count of Monte Cristo in the original French.”
Morgan’s expression said it all, he was fully appalled. “You were both reading the book in French?”
“That’s not even the best part,” Spencer said, nearly laughing at the shock on Derek’s face, “When I looked over at her book, I noticed we had both just finished the betrothal feast.”
Stopping in his tracks, Derek looked at Spencer with the same wide eyes, “You were at the same place in the book?”
“Same page,” Spencer confirmed.
Derek shook his head in disbelief, “Just tell me you didn’t say something stupid like ‘Looks like we’re on the same page.’”
His smile faltered, eyes flittering around and laughing nervously, “No, I wouldn’t have said that.”
“Kid,” Morgan said, clearly not believing the lie the moment it came out of his mouth. He shook his head, “You can’t just say stuff like that to women.” He started his lecture, “Listen, we’ll go out this weekend, I’ll find you a honey to talk to.”
Spencer shrugged, walking past Derek’s truck and continuing through, “I’m good, actually. My methods worked perfectly fine,” he said, walking to where you were standing.
You leaned against your car, smiling at the sight of Spencer in front of you. “Hey, is that Derek?” You asked, staring at the man who was staring at the two of you, unmoving.
Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer nodded, “Yeah.”
“Why is he staring?” You asked nervously, accepting Spencer’s hug when he opened an arm for you. Waving apprehensively, you sighed in relief when he waved back from his truck.
Humming, Spencer dropped his bag in the backseat of your car, “Maybe he’s entranced by how pretty you are. I know that usually gets me.”
Your cheeks warmed at his compliment, “Did you tell him the story?”
“Yeah,” he responded, stealing a kiss from you before you got behind the wheel, “I’m still not sure what’s so unbelievable about it.”
You’re in love with Spencer from the minute he gets you in his bed. [4k]
c: fem/afab. smut mdni, p in v sex, oral, fluff, aftercare, early intense feelings, spencer in sweetheart mode, flirting.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆
It’s a cold day in November when you see him across the bar. He’s sitting at a table of friends drinking from a tall glass of coke. He’s normal. Non-imposing, undeniably cute, laughing with a smile that shows his teeth. His tie is to his belt and his suit jacket’s been thrown over the back of the chair.
He looks like he might have fun with you, if you can catch his attention. Something about him seems… eager to please.
You watch him, and you watch his friend. He seems more your usual type, muscled, confident. He’s the key. You let your gaze linger on the curly-haired boy until the friend glances your way. You give him a look. Hey, who’s your friend?
You look away once you see an arm rise. There’s elbowing, arguing. You sit relaxed at the bar and twists your straw through cherry spritz, ice cubes tinkling. After a minute you think, Oh, come on. After two you worry you aren’t his type.
Then comes salvation. The curly haired boy slots between your seat and the next, beckoning the bartender forward with a nearly perfect, “Excuse me?”
“Right there with you.”
You wait. He seems cute, but you’re not trying to take him home if he doesn’t have the chops for it. And not because you see yourself as some deadly thing to be pleased, but you can’t spend another night fluffing someone else’s feathers.
“Hey,” he says finally, surprisingly without the nerves you’d read before. He must’ve breathed through them. “How’s it going?”
You lift your gaze from the dark purple of your spritz. The first thing you notice are the beauty marks you couldn’t see before, along his cheeks and hiding among a light shadow of stubble. “Hi, handsome,” you say softly. You can’t imagine him liking a firm touch, but that might become more apparent later on. “Nothing’s going on, I suppose I was just waiting for you.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Mm-hm.”
He puts one arm on the bar. You let your eyes dawdle on his hand. “Are you here alone?”
“I was with a friend,” you confess, lifting your gaze to his, making steady eye contact for as long as he’ll allow you to. His gaze flits to your mouth as you continue. “But she met somebody. I was told not to wait up.”
“So you’re in need of company?”
You tip your head to give him the best glance at you, all eyes and gentle smiles as you nod. “Would that be you?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Cherry spritzer.”
“Can I buy you another one?”
“Just one, please.” You believe in the overarching reach of sexuality, of being with someone, but you don’t believe in drinking and sex, nor allowing a man to pave the way. “This is my first. If I have more than that I’ll be too tipsy to do what I want tonight.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
You tap your nose. The boy —the man— to your delight, seems to like the gesture very much.
The bartender approaches. Your unknown, lovely looking man asks for a coke and a cherry spritzer, extra cherries, though you didn’t tell him too. He nods to your little plate of cherry stems and asks, “Can you tie a knot?” But before you can answer, he adds, “I’m good at it.”
Spencer proves to be good at a few things. Kissing, touching, his face in sweet places and his spit-wet thumb to a nerve. One moment you’re sitting at the bar wondering if he’ll take you home and the next you’re taking a taxi, you’re lying in his bed being stripped of your stockings, being laid on top of. You didn’t know he had it in him, this sweaty, adoring kissing in the dark; there’s a difference between kissing for hunger’s sake and kissing with love, and for some strange reason Spencer doesn’t seem to know the difference.
“Have we met before?” you ask, the ache between your legs sharper than ever as his hand flirts with the boundary of your stomach and the apex of you, begging to go back there and prolong what he’d started.
“No.” His lips are on your neck, kissing as he slips a finger behind your ear. “I’d remember.”
His chest pushes into yours again, triggering a breathy gasp as the button of your nipple takes the brunt of him. He turns your face, that flirting hand abandoning your wanting cunt to squeeze at your sides, your ribs, the soft hill of your breast.
“Do you wanna cum again?” he asks softly. The best part is that he’s earnest, not a second of bravado in it as he lays his lips against your cheek.
You could. He’d done stuff with his mouth you’ve never experienced before, fingertips teasing your wetness as he told you something about tantrics and pleasure, his hand under your knee, holding you open. You’d felt so suddenly out of control and —and honestly, you’d thought yourself half in love with him for the way he was kissing you alone. No shyness, but softness. No rushing, no annoyance when it took you time to tip into pleasure. He’d been delighted when you seized, had sat up to draw the climax out with circles, matching pace to your rising chest.
You slip a hand into his curls and treat him with the same sweetness he’d given you, kissing him like you love him: for whatever time this is, you really do. He’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever fucked. All it took to meet was a snowstorm and a need to escape the rigid cold.
“I think you should fuck me now,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly, not so frantic, no more pulling. “Please.”
He kisses you, kisses your jaw, and doesn’t pretend he isn’t eager as he snatches the condom from the dresser. For a while things are giggly and breathless, nervous for a pause, then achingly tight. You stay and Spencer wraps his arms behind you, kissing your neck as you let your leg fall to the side.
“When did you tell me your name?” you ask, breathless again as his kiss matches his rhythm, slow grinds of his hips, flirting as his hand had been, just a few inches from filling you completely.
“I don’t remember,” he says through a kiss.
“Spencer.”
“Yeah?”
“I just thought I’d try it,” you say, covering your eyes with your hand as his hips flex and he touches that worst part of you over, and over, and over.
Spencer turns your face to take your hand, slowing to a crawl. He checks your gaze, and sinks into you again. Slow fucking, long kisses, his hands rubbing up the juncture of your neck and down again, then stroking your arms, comfort for a pain you don’t feel.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly.
“Just this.”
“No, but what do you want?” he asks, lips pulled into a smile that didn’t quite make it into a laugh. “What feels best? I can get you there again.”
So you end up more on your side than your back. He helps you lift a leg over his hip and then he’s back to kissing you senseless. You can’t think of anything but being kissed, being fucked, it doesn’t just feel like an okay pastime with a vaguely handsome guy heightened by a drink, it’s fucking with intent. He curls an arm behind your back to hold you against him and he lets you have everything.
Something must give you away, a shaking leg, the way you breathe; he knows you’re ready before you do, kissing down your chest as his hand sinks between your hot thighs. Slick or not, he finds where he wants to touch, your eyes filling with heat as he slows.
He draws it out. The second his lips find your chest you trip into cumming for the second time. You hadn’t realised he was close but you cum and he quickly follows, his nose at your collar. He sounds insane. Beggy, breathy moans, a shade from laughter.
“Can I keep going?” he asks just under your ear.
You can’t say yes fast enough. He’s kind, ignoring your desperate tone.
You don’t count the number of times you fuck that night. It’s not clear, really. They aren’t separate occasions. You come down and he’s stroking the skin of your neck as you catch your breath, drawing lines down your arm, murmuring, “You okay?” as you nod and slip a hand behind his back.
He hugs you like he’s known you for years. When you kiss his blushing chest, kiss downward, he turns breathless. It goes on like that for a while. Afterwards, he situates himself between your legs and lets his weight force your thighs into your abdomen, just enough to feel the pressure, searching kisses pressed to your knee.
It’s not that you fuck all night, it’s just different than before. And when he encourages you under his sheets to lay behind you, there’s a part of you that wants his hand to stray between your legs again, no matter how tired you are.
“I’d say sorry for keeping you up, but you sounded like you liked it,” he murmurs in the dark, wrapping a solid arm around your stomach and pulling you tightly to him.
You have no regrets. For perhaps the first time ever, it feels as though all your gasps and teary sighs were adored, and not just smugly kept. “You didn’t notice me falling asleep?”
He laughs at your teasing, his breath kissing the back of your neck. “When did that happen?”
“…I don’t want to fall asleep, now.”
“You don’t have to… I can make you a cup of tea, or…” He draws another line down your arm, ending in a swirl before your elbow. “You could shower.”
Both sound nice, but no. Your legs are still weak from being held, the ache of a good fuck taking home in your stomach. Truthfully, nothing could make you wanna leave whatever it is he’s doing to you now. The shape of his lips warms your shoulder.
“That was amazing.”
“You’re amazing,” he says, wrapping you up all over again. He can’t decide how to hold you. You grab his hand and keep it there under your breasts, letting your eyes flutter closed.
How can he say that? He has this strange way of touching that’s making you feel yards prettier than you usually do, and he’d just fucked you like a dream. You couldn’t manage that sort of pleasure alone.
“Where have you been hiding?” you whisper, toying with his fingers. Might as well do everything you can while you can.
“Nowhere.”
“So where have you been?”
He takes a breath. “Turn around?”
You begin turning and he takes you like a dance, leaning in slowly to kiss you, until his smoothness gives way to a smile. He pulls back. In the barest lick of light from the window, you can see a blush spreading across his nose.
“Sorry. I should ask, I shouldn’t just kiss you,” he says, cupping your cheek.
How might you go about marrying this boy? You decide to play it cool, kissing him until you fall asleep in his arms, your lips still parted for another lazy press of his as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders.
—
You wake to something new. There isn’t a man against you hinting for a morning tryst, nor an empty bed, a note to let yourself out when you’re ready. There’s a real, gentle hand on your neck. It slides to your shoulder and rubs.
“You okay?” a voice asks.
You force your eyes open, blurry vision further occluded by a face.
His hair is damp. Like he showered a while ago. Spencer’s hand travels to the back of your neck and touches accordingly. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but it’s almost one. I was worried you might be sick.”
You close your eyes, smiling, better when he scratches the back of your neck with short nails. “I was up late.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
You wait for him to tell you why you have to leave, any manner of excuse, but nothing comes.
“So are you? Okay?” he asks gently.
“I’ll leave soon.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say. If you’re not sick, you can go back to sleep.”
“And just lay in your bed all day,” you murmur, disbelieving.
“If you wanted to. Or… you can shower, and I can make you something to eat.” His thumb takes to your cheek. One night stand sex can’t be something he does often, or there’s a real possibility that he’s the first man to ever do it right.
His eyes are so much bigger than you realised. “Do you wear glasses?”
He stammers, embarrassed, “How would you guess that?”
You raise a hand to his face and draw a short line against his nose. “You have the marks here. Were you reading?”
“Just while I was waiting for you.”
“What do you do?”
“What?”
“I didn’t ask what you do, I don’t think we managed to ask each other much of anything,” you say, rewarded for your vulnerability with a chest-aching smile, his canine teeth peeking from under his lips. He still looks kissed, lips a shade of sore you’re sure you’d see on yourself in the mirror.
“I work for the government,” he says, catching your hand to cradle your wrist, “for something called the behavioural analysis unit.”
“Like, statistics?”
He lets your hand fall against his chest, a thin grey t-shirt under your knuckles failing to hide the shapes of him, of which you’d explored at length last night. You kissed as much of his chest as you could and it hadn’t felt like enough, Spencer leaner than you’d realised with a stomach on the soft side, easy to kiss relentlessly.
Your mouth is drying thinking about it. Spencer watches you wordlessly, before saying, “I guess it is like statistics, especially for me. We try to think about serial criminals in terms of their motives. It’s an attempt at math for something not usually quantitative.”
“And you’re good at it.”
“I’m good at math, yeah.”
“Probability of a,” —your breath betrays you, slightly too hopeful as it catches— “morning kiss if I brush my teeth first?”
His eyes light up. He leans down carefully, and gives you a chaste, firm kiss.
You forget that you’re naked, not worried about being shy. The sheets fall away from you as you lift up to meet him. He holds them to your naked waist, the other hand skirting just below your breast. You wish he’d touch you like he did last night, but he isn’t so forward. His kiss is kind. You frown as he pulls away.
“I had a really great time, last night,” he says, tip of his thumb setting your nerves aflame as it drifts over your skin. “Really great.”
“Me too.”
“And you’re okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing hurts?” he asks.
“No, of course not.” Your confusion clears. “No, you weren’t like that. I think my legs might be aching but that’ll go away in the shower.”
“I can run you a bath, if you want. It’s a half bath so you might not be able to stretch out, but it’ll help.” He gives you a smile. The familiarity between you doesn’t want to ebb.
“Shouldn’t have showered without me,” you say, soft, lest playful be something he doesn’t want on a new day.
“My hair was greasy. Someone kept touching it.”
You sit up. Spencer’s hands fall to yours.
It’s hard not to play with someone’s hair when it’s in their face, and when they’re trailing kisses in warm places. He doesn’t blame you really, you can see it in his eyes.
For a pause, you just sit.
This is nice. Not being thrown out, left with that aching gap in your chest like you gave something you hadn’t intended when it started. Sex will never be easy again, you realise, not when you know it can be good.
“You’re not working today, are you?” you ask.
“No, why?” he asks in turn, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Maybe we…” He waits. He’s pretty enough to force your hand. “We could get to know each other,” you say, gaze taking refuge on his hands. “If you want to.”
”Really?”
“I’ve never had that with someone. Maybe we’re, I don’t know, compatible in more ways than one.” You remember yourself, lifting your head, startled by the sheer want in his expression as he holds your fingers. “You’re handsome, and you seem kind. We could have fun.”
“We could have so much fun,” he says, that flushed blush already spreading across his nose again.
You draw a line up his chest. “I might need help getting my back, in the shower. That’s not a tight squeeze, is it?”
“We might have to stand very close.”
You giggle wildly as he pulls you up, worse when he drapes a sheet over you worrying about the cold. It’s treatment you could grow used to.
—
Spencer’s trying to figure out how he got here. You, across the bar sending him looks —Derek swore you were— and the second he got to your chair he realised you were out of his league, but he had nothing to lose beside his pride.
Then there was you, in bed, pulling on his tie murmuring sweet somethings, sweet pleadings, really, taking another kiss as he moved as you asked.
Then you, the morning after. You’d slept for long enough to scare him, but when you woke you were exactly the girl you’d been the night before, only slower. Ever so slightly bashful. We could get to know each other.
Spencer’s not sure how he managed it, but you don’t go home. And on Monday you go to work and come back. On Tuesday he meets you outside of your building to take you for dinner, and you come back with him again, another night up in his arms, tangling his hair with enthusiastic fingers. The sex is good, it is, not just ‘cos his past catalogue of lays were with women who wanted casual experiences solely, or those few times with Ethan where it ended too fast and left him useless. You fuck him like you love him. It’s crazy, except he’s acting the same way.
When you’re not fucking you’re in his lap, or sitting at the coffee table with your face on his thigh driving him crazy, or you’re laying with your feet tucked under him telling him something about you. He is desperate for the details.
Like, this is it. You’ve pulled your chair as close to his as humanly possible and thrown both legs over his, basically sharing his seat as you laugh around a messy mouthful of Thai noodles.
“Don’t look, I’m being disgusting–”
“You’re never disgusting, let me–”
He’s heard you pee. He’s kissed you all over. The human aspects of you don’t bother him.
“Spence, can you–”
“It’s going up your nose–”
“–stop, holy s–”
He pinches your nose clean. “Tada. Kiss now?”
“You wanna share?”
“Yes!”
“No.” You press your hand to your mouth before he can lean in.
He lets you swallow your mouthful. Your ankle is cool in his hand. When people talk about love, it’s about meeting someone, the dates and the phone calls, the big questions. Spencer didn’t know you could do it like this. Every time you go home, you’re asking if you can come back or pestering him to come your way.
“Can I kiss you now?” he asks imploringly.
“No, we’re done kissing for a bit. I want another one of those massages.”
He can’t joke about it or he’ll turn crimson. You enjoyed a polite leg massage, until he got to your thighs, and things got out of hand.
“No massages.” He taps you under the chin, letting his hand travel wherever it wants over the side of your face.
“Fine, no massages. Unless you want one?”
“No, we agreed tonight we’d just– sleep. My boss is onto me.”
You wink involuntarily as he cups your cheek, his fingers pushed lightly over your eyes.
You aren’t fiends, but finding someone who matches as you do makes it hard to abstain from the fun. Last night was tame, though; he’d made sure you were happy and fallen asleep to grateful neck kisses. Tonight, he won’t say no, but these all-hours affairs have to stop. Derek’s suspicious of him, Hotch has the situation entirely sussed, he's sure, and Spencer’s sixty percent sure Rossi saw you both outside of Quantico tonight kissing against a toll booth.
Not that it matters. Spencer has a good feeling you’re not a fling.
“I got you some stuff earlier,” he says.
You pull his hand from your face and ask, “What stuff?”
“Like, stuff you need here. I don’t know what you like, but there’s a cleansing balm– are you allergic to chamomile?” You shake your head. “Um, it might be weird, I got you underwear, just ‘cos of the situation yesterday–”
“I liked wearing boxers, they were snug in a certain region is all–”
“–and some shampoo. That sort of stuff. Just so you can stop suffering with mine.”
“You know what shampoo I use?”
“I deduced it.”
“Ah, yes, mister profiler,” you mumble, bending into your knees to hold his face. “If I hadn’t looked you up online I’d think you were a stalker. How can you guess my favourite ice cream flavour when I never told you?”
He smiles shyly. “I just can.”
“Is there anything else you’ve guessed about me?”
“Every meal with you takes a half hour. You’re easily distracted.”
He laughs as you protest, “You’re distracting! You don’t need to guess that.”
“You distract me, too.”
You gather yourself up and stand over him to kiss his nose. “Spencer,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into his hair, “thank you. You don’t have to buy me stuff, I could’ve just gone home.”
“I don’t really want you to.”
You raise your head to see him eye to eye. “I don't want to either. This is… I like you.”
He hums, wrapping his arms around you. The hugs are rarer than kisses, but only because you’ve shared so many of the latter in the dark. He’s been thinking of kisses as the extension to fucking, that they’re okay as long as it’s done in bed, but the more time you stay, the more kisses you’ve shared for no reason at all. You kissed his cheek on the train earlier and he felt it like a shock, tipping his chin down to peck you on the lips, your arm curled behind his back as the traincar rattled over a bend.
“I like you too,” he laughs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, of course I do.”
“Not just…”
“It’s not just the sex,” he says, waving his hand behind your shoulder as you curl into him all over again. It feels amazing.
“Should we go out, then?”
“We do.”
“No, should we date? We could be partners, officially.”
Spencer can’t take it, scooping you into his lap, though you do sit obligingly on his thigh. He shifts to take the weight.
“Please, let’s be partners,” he says softly.
“Maybe we shouldn’t, it’s still soon.”
“Five days and counting. That’s longer than some marriages, you know.”
“Maybe we can be, like, tentative boyfriend and girlfriend. If you change your mind, no hard feelings.”
“And if I don’t?” he asks.
“Then we get married in Vegas.”
“You could meet my mom.”
“I’d love to meet your mom.”
“Do you really wanna be my girlfriend?” he asks.
“I mean… there’s not such a big difference in dating and what we’re doing, right? This is relationship stuff, we just sort of skipped the awkward first dates.”
“We did,” he says, failing to hide his grin.
You stroke his cheek with your nose.
Your attempt at abstinence doesn’t last, but neither party is to blame. You have to celebrate somehow. So you finish your takeout dinner and wash dishes bumping hips. He locks the door for the night and you, giggling, struggle to change his A/C. When he drags you by the sleeve to the bedroom, he doesn’t intend on jumping right into it, and for a while he doesn’t. You lay on top of him between his parted legs and he spends a sluggish hour stroking your hairline, listening to you talk. But his devotion turns to your ear, and he’s kissing behind it, and you’re hitching yourself up his chest soon enough.
“That cherry spritzer was worth it, huh?” you ask lowly, scratching his jaw as you sit over him.
You really are pretty, amplified by your syrupy smile.
“I guess that depends what you think. Was I as good at making knots as I promised?” he asks.
“I can’t remember.”
“I can remind you?”
“That might be prudent, Dr. Reid.”
“I never should’ve told you about that,” he murmurs, your lips atop his, ready to be parted.
“I would’ve found out eventually. I’m gonna find out everything about you, honey.”
Spencer lets his eyes shutter closed. Me first, he thinks, giving in to another endless kiss. He has the advantage, after all.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆
thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed please consider liking reblogging or leaving a comment/reply it makes my day and I am so grateful<3
summary: you never call anyone when you’re drunk — except tonight, you do. margaritas, glitter, and one reckless drunk dial later, you’re in spencer reid’s car at 1am, wearing his coat and trying not to notice how good he smells.
genre: fluff
tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, alcohol consumption, drunken girls night antics, nosy garcia and jj and emily, sergio mentioned 🐈⬛ (just pretend emily already had him in the s3-4 timeline), knight in shining armor spencer (feat. his blue volvo), drunken confessions, reader has feelings and hates it, hand holding (it’s brief but it happens!!!), mutual pining, slow burn, coffee as a looooove language, no use of y/n
a/n: I think this is my fav greenaway!reader fic so far 🥲 p.s. icymi, reader’s pre-established relationship with emily’s cat is described here. enjoy! xo | GIF cred to @reidgif 🫶🏼 | girls night moodboard here
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
There’s a post-case lull in the bullpen today — the kind of rare, fleeting moment when no one’s been shot, stabbed, or mentally destroyed in the past forty-eight hours, so there’s actually a minute to breathe.
You’re halfway through finishing up the paperwork for a consult when you hear them approaching — the sound of JJ’s sparkling laugh, Emily’s sharp wit, and Garcia’s high heels clicking too fast.
You don’t even look up. “No.”
“You don’t even know what we’re going to ask yet,” JJ says, grinning.
“We’re having a BAU girls’ night,” Garcia adds brightly, planting herself in a firm stance next to your desk as if she’s about to present a TED Talk on the power of friendship. “And before you try to slither your way out of it, you should know that my margarita recipe is technically banned in five states. You’ll love it.”
“I don’t do girls' nights.”
“Oh trust us, we've learned,” Emily deadpans, arms crossed. “That’s why you’re far overdue to finally join us.”
You glance up. “Is this supposed to be, like, an intervention?"
“Think of it more like exposure therapy,” JJ offers.
“I’m still saying no.”
Emily tilts her head, clearly done playing nice. “If you skip out, you’re losing your Sergio visitation privileges.”
Your jaw drops. “That’s emotional manipulation!”
Emily shrugs. “Think of it as an incentive. No girls’ night, no more hangouts with Sergio. He said so himself.”
Goddamn traitorous cat.
You sigh through your nose, clicking your pen closed. “Fine. But if one of you tries to make me play truth or dare, I will not hesitate to pull my taser out.”
Garcia beams. “Perfect. You can bring the tortilla chips.”
—
You show up twenty minutes late on principle.
Garcia’s apartment smells like lime zest, and she greets you in pajama pants covered in tiny unicorns. There’s a pitcher of margaritas on the coffee table alongside a tray of tacos arranged in disturbingly symmetrical rows.
JJ is already sipping her freakishly fluorescent drink while Emily flips through Garcia’s DVD shelf like she’s analyzing evidence.
You hesitate in the entryway. The apartment’s warm and inviting, lit by fairy lights and the orange glow of the kitchen. The Broadway version of “Mamma Mia” screeches out through the speakers.
This is not your scene.
But before you can bolt, Garcia presses a glass into your hand and says, “Here. It’s mysterious and spicy. Like you!”
You sniff the drink suspiciously. It smells vaguely of an extremely strong jalapeño margarita, but when you inspect it further, you realize it has glitter in it. “Did you make this in a mad scientist’s lab?”
Garcia grins. “If my blender classifies as a lab, then yes.”
—
You don’t mean to relax, but it happens in increments anyway.
One taco. A second margarita. A conversation about Hotch’s ability to seemingly go hours without blinking. Another margarita. It’s all very chill, until it isn’t. Until your eyeliner smudges, your boots come off, your knees end up tucked under you on the couch, and your internal monologue starts sounding suspiciously fuzzy.
Emily dramatically reenacts her high school goth phase. JJ throws a pillow at Garcia for revealing that she once went on an accidental date with Reid at — of all places — a football game. Somewhere around margarita four — or is it five? — your cheeks start to ache from smiling. You feel it in your ribs, too. The loose warmth, the way laughter bubbles up before you can catch it. You’re a little dizzy, a little soft around the edges.
You find yourself curled into one end of the couch, almost too at ease for your own good. Emily’s on the floor beside the coffee table, arms crossed over a throw pillow. JJ’s leaning into the crook of the couch, her socked feet up on the cushions, and Garcia is pouring another margarita from the pitcher and humming along to the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack.
Your cup’s empty. You’re flushed and warm and pleasantly dazed, and your usual armor has been shed somewhere on the floor with your boots and dignity.
JJ stretches as she turns to look at you straight on. “So. How’s it going with Spence?”
You blink. “I’m sorry?”
Emily lifts her eyebrows like this is the exact question she’s been waiting for.
Garcia stirs. “Wait, what’s going on with you and Reid?”
“Nothing’s going on with me and Reid,” you reply too quickly.
“That was convincing,” Emily teases.
JJ grins. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
“I’m not trying to fool anyone,” you insist, straightening up. “He’s just—he’s—” You wave your hand in a vague, unhelpful gesture. “He’s Reid.”
Garcia tilts her head with a soft gasp. “You liiiiike him!”
“No, I don’t.”
“You definitely like him,” JJ corrects.
“I tolerate him,” you lie. It’s a clumsy dodge, and you know it. You’ve been dodging for weeks now — glances, conversations, and the slow, creeping realization that he might be the first person in a long time who makes you feel safe.
“Mm-hmm,” Emily says, sipping.
Your voice falters. “He’s just… very sincere. And weird. And kind. And smart. And—” You cut yourself off.
“Oh my god, you think he’s cute!” Garcia yelps.
You scowl into your drink. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it,” JJ says, clearly enjoying herself now.
“Our resident boy genius isn’t quite my type, but I can totally see it for you,” Garcia says. “He’s got, like, perfect bone structure, and great hair, and freakishly large hands, which, you know what they say…”
You groan. “Can we not talk about his hands? I’m trying to maintain some level of plausible deniability here.”
Garcia laughs so hard she almost spills her drink.
You sink lower into the couch cushions, face flushed, heart stupidly warm. There’s a voice in the back of your head telling you this is dangerous — that comfort is a slippery slope — but it’s quieter than usual tonight. Drowned out by limes and laughter.
JJ nudges you. “Seriously, though. He’s been looking at you lately like you hung the stars.”
You scoff. “He looks at everyone like that.”
“That’s not true,” Emily says softly. “He doesn’t look at any of us like that. It’s just you, Greenaway.”
You meet her eyes. There’s something knowing in them.
That scares you more than you’d like to admit.
—
The margaritas catch up to you all at once. One minute you’re arguing over who’d survive longest in a zombie apocalypse, and the next you forget how to work the volume buttons on your phone. Your face is hot. Your tongue feels fizzy. The room tilts when you close your eyes, but not in a bad way — more like the soft spin of a carousel. You could almost float if you weren’t so weighed down by the sudden ache of wanting something you haven’t let yourself name.
You try to stand and misjudge your center of gravity so badly you have to sit back down, laughing breathlessly into a throw pillow.
You’re drunk.
Not blackout, not messy. But… undignified enough that your usual armor is largely shed and your self-restraint is floating somewhere above you, waving a white flag.
Emily’s already called a cab and offered for you to share, but her place is totally across town from yours so the logistics make no sense. JJ’s on the phone with Will, who’s on his way with sleeping baby Henry in the backseat. Garcia is passed out on her own couch hugging a sequined throw pillow.
You blink down at your phone.
You could call a cab. You could walk — ok, that’d probably be a bad idea given the time and your current level of intoxication, but you could. You could pass out in Garcia’s bed and take the metro home in the morning as soon as it opens.
But you don’t want to do any of those things.
You’re not usually a drunk dialer. You’re not a “help me” kind of girl. But tonight you’re a margarita-softened, tequila-loosened version of yourself who forgets that her walls are supposed to stay up.
So when you open your contacts and your finger hovers, there’s really only one name it wants to land on.
You don’t even think about it.
You just press call.
The line rings once. Then twice. You briefly consider hanging up — but then:
“Hello?”
“Reid,” you say, voice low. “Are you awake?”
There’s a beat. You can almost hear Spencer’s eyebrows furrowing.
“Do sleeping people usually answer their phones?”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Another pause. Then, gentler: “Yeah. I’m awake.”
You smile, stupid and sideways. “Hi.”
“Hi. Are you okay?”
You squint up at the fairy lights strung along Garcia’s ceiling. “Define okay.”
“…Are you safe?”
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yes, Boy Scout. Perfectly safe. I’m at Garcia’s. There were tacos. And drinks. Possibly several drinks.”
“You’re drunk,” Spencer says.
“No,” you reply, indignant. Then, after a beat: “Okay, yes. I’m drunk. But in, like, a totally charming way.”
“I see,” he says with a smile you can hear in his voice. “How charming are we talking?”
You glance down at your cup. “Mmm, wouldn’t you like to know,” you tease, dragging the syllables out a little too long.
A soft laugh crackles through the receiver. “I would.”
There’s a beat of quiet. You should hang up. You should not be doing this. But your tongue feels loose and your heart feels stupid and you’ve never been very good at restraint when margaritas are involved.
“Spencer?” you say, voice suddenly small.
“Yeah?”
You lean your head back against the couch. “I think Penelope poisoned me.”
“…What?”
“She put glitter in my drink. Glitter. I’m probably dying.”
He huffs a laugh — the kind that sounds like he’s trying not to be charmed but failing anyway. “I don’t think food-grade glitter is lethal, but I’ll look into it.”
“You better,” you mumble. A hiccup bubbles out of you before you can stop it
There’s another beat. You can almost feel him debating what to say next.
Then: “Do you need a ride?”
You blink. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know.”
Your stomach flutters. “I live across town.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Don’t you have, like, books to alphabetize or something? A crossword to finish? A documentary about fungus to cry over?”
He chuckles, and you picture him rubbing the back of his neck, already halfway out the door.
“I want to make sure you get home safe. I’ll sleep better that way.”
You hesitate. Then, more vulnerable than you meant to sound: “I didn’t plan to call you.”
“I know,” he says again — but this time it’s softer. “But I'm glad you did.”
There’s another pause. Then you hear him moving, keys jingling faintly.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“No promises,” you reply, already slumping deeper into the couch.
“Try anyway. For me.”
“Fine,” you huff. “But if I die of glitter poisoning before you get here, I want you to have my record collection.”
“…Really?”
You smirk. “No. But I like how excited you sounded at the prospect.”
Another laugh, then he hangs up.
And you sit there — cheeks flushed, pulse loud in your ears, heart doing something it has absolutely no business doing — and wait for him.
—
You hear the car before you see the headlights. A short, almost polite beep startles you — it makes you giggle, tipsy and unguarded — and you scramble to your feet, boots half-laced, leaning to peek through the window. And there he is:
Spencer Reid, leaning against a car, curls slightly flattened by the wind, one hand shoved in his coat pocket and the other lifted in an awkward wave.
You push yourself up from the couch and bound out the door, hit by the crisp night air and the sheer absurdity of seeing him outside Garcia’s apartment building, standing beside—
“Do you drive a time machine?” you blurt, squinting at the car’s boxy silhouette.
He glances toward the curb. “It’s a 1966 Volvo Amazon. I don’t drive it often, just when the metro’s down or someone needs—” He trails off, eyes sweeping over you. “Are you cold?”
You’re not, not really. You’re warm all over, blanketed by tequila and adrenaline. But you say, “Maybe,” just to see what he’ll do.
He shrugs out of his coat without a word.
You blink. “Reid, I was joking. I’m fine.”
“Too late,” he says, already draping it over your shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”
—
His car is different from what you expected, but it somehow makes sense for him. Faded light blue paint. Vinyl seats. No center console. The faint scent of books and bergamot and something sharper you can’t name.
He opens the passenger door for you, of course.
“Chivalry and a vintage car. You’re full of surprises, boy genius.”
He smiles, shutting the door behind you after you get in.
“You didn’t have to come,” you murmur once he’s in and buckled.
Spencer glances over at you before easing the car into gear. “You called,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the simplest answer in the world: You called, I came.
You smirk, slouching a little in your seat. “You make it sound so… ordinary. As if this sort of thing is a common occurrence for you.”
He shakes his head. “Common? Not even a little bit. It’s not every day I get late-night calls from attractive women asking for taxi service,” he says, eyes on the road.
You blink. Then laugh — sudden and delighted. “Did you just call me attractive?”
He flushes instantly. “I didn’t— I mean, yes, but I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not that it’s not true, just—objectively, you’re—well, yeah. But I didn’t—”
“Reid.”
He glances at you again.
“You’re really bad at this.”
This. Flirting.
“I’m aware.”
You rest your head back against the seat, turning just enough to study him in the passing glow of the streetlights. Hair tousled. Cheeks flushed. Lips bitten pink from nerves. Fingers tapping the steering wheel. He’s all sharp jawline and soft gaze, and it shouldn’t work, but it does.
It hits you then — piercing and low in your stomach — just how fucking handsome he is. It’s in a bookish, nervous, kind-eyed way that no one would expect to be your type but apparently is very much your type.
It’s disarming. And frankly, inconvenient.
“You’re not supposed to be this hot.”
His eyes go wide. “What?”
Shit. You did not mean to say that out loud.
“Nothing,” you mumble. “I think Penelope drugged me. I’m having a moment.”
He chuckles under his breath, cheeks flushing even further, and for a second you almost think he’s going to press the issue — but he doesn’t. He just nods and keeps his gaze fixed on the road.
There’s a lull after that. Your hand drifts to the hem of your skirt, adjusting it absently. His coat swamps your frame.
“I like the car,” you say finally. “It suits you.”
“I don’t know about that,” he replies. “But I always liked the idea of driving an antique car. There’s so much history behind the design and manufacturing. Plus, it’s got more character than a modern car. Manual transmission. No power steering. It doesn’t let you coast — you’ve got to work for it.”
You glance over at him. “Of course you’d like something that fights back.”
He looks over at you, smiling crooked. “Is that why I like hanging out with you?”
The truth in that question almost makes you shiver.
You’re not simple. You don’t make things easy. You fight everything: change, softness, connection. But for some reason, he seems to gravitate towards you in spite of all that. He chooses to spend time with you over everyone else on the team, every single opportunity he gets. He’s gone out of his way for you, more than once now, just because he wants to. And you aren’t blind to the way he’s been looking at you lately, either. You know what that look means, even if you’re still actively refusing to acknowledge it.
“Touché, Doctor,” you murmur after a long moment, turning your gaze out the window.
—
You’re five minutes from your apartment when Spencer breaks the quiet that’s fallen over you.
“You know, it’s not lost on me that you could’ve called anyone,” he says.
“I could’ve,” you agree. “Well, okay, not anyone. Half the people I know in this city are just as drunk as I am tonight, or otherwise occupied.” You exhale, then add, softer: “But I didn’t want to call anyone else.”
There’s a pause as he sucks in a sharp breath. “I know.”
Your heart does something sideways, and you sneak a glance at him — the way his jaw ticks, the way he’s holding the wheel a little too tightly, like if he loosens his grip the car might spin off the road. Or maybe you might.
He pulls up outside your apartment and parks. There’s an extended pause before he lets go of the wheel and looks over at you.
“You gonna let me walk you to your door?” he asks.
You roll your eyes. “More chivalry?”
“Just trying to avoid feeling responsible for a drunken slip-and-fall tragedy.”
You unbuckle your seatbelt and reach for the door handle, but he’s already out, circling the front of the car to your side.
And when he opens it, you hesitate — not because you’re stubborn, or proud, or still drunk — but because he holds out his hand.
Palm up. Steady. Waiting under the façade of helping you up.
You stare at it for half a second too long. Then, finally, you take it.
His fingers close around yours, and you try to ignore the zing it sends down your spine. You try not to think about the last time you touched his hand, in the car on that stakeout a few weeks back. And you try desperately to push down the memory of what his hands did to you in that dream you had while you were sick.
You step out, heels hitting the curb, his coat still draped around your shoulders, your fingers still tangled in his.
He doesn’t let go.
Not yet.
And neither do you.
The two of you stand there for a moment, suspended in that soft, stupid kind of silence that surrounds things left unsaid. His fingers are warm around yours. His coat still hangs off your shoulders, heavy and a little ridiculous, swallowing your frame.
Finally, you speak. “You gonna keep holding my hand or…?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, sheepish, and drops it. “Right. Sorry.”
You’re not sorry.
The stairs to your apartment feel longer than usual. Maybe it’s because of the way he walks beside you: careful and quiet and too polite to make fun of you when you stumble once near the top. You glance sideways. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye like you might fall again.
You won’t.
You’re not that wasted.
Just… drunk enough to think about how nice his coat smells. Just drunk enough to stare at his profile in the glow of the hallway light and think things you should not be thinking about a coworker. Just drunk enough to pause at your front door and feel something flutter, stupid and half-formed, in the base of your throat.
“Thanks for the ride,” you murmur, fiddling with your keys.
“Anytime,” he says softly. “Really.”
You unlock the door, but don’t open it. You hesitate for a beat too long.
You should go inside. You know that.
Instead, you glance up at him, eyes a little glossy from the alcohol. “You wanna come inside for some coffee?”
It’s casual, or at least it’s meant to be. But he hears the subtext in it. You both do.
He doesn’t answer immediately — just studies you for a second, gaze steady, hands in his pockets. You notice the pulse ticking fast in his neck.
“I think you might regret that in the morning,” he says finally, taking a small step back. His voice softens when he adds, “And I don’t want to be something you regret.”
It’s the softest goddamn rejection of all time. It could win awards for how soft it is, really. Wrapped in concern, ribboned with restraint. The kind of letdown that almost sounds like an apology — like he’s trying to protect you from yourself, no matter how badly he wants to say yes.
You stare at him, then huff a breath and look away. “God, you’re annoyingly noble.”
“Someone has to be.”
You shake your head, half-blushing despite yourself, and push open your door.
“I’ll see you Monday, Greenaway,” he says with a shy, lopsided smile.
You nod, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Right. See you Monday, Reid.”
You forget to give him back the coat.
—
Morning arrives far too quickly. You wake up to the sound of something — maybe a knock, maybe just the wind — with your mouth dry and your mascara smudged. There’s glitter on your cheekbone and a dull ache behind your left eye and someone else’s jacket tossed at the end of your bed.
You stare at it for a long moment.
Then you groan, flashes of your drunk dial and too-intimate ride home rushing to the forefront of your mind. Shit, shit, shit. You drag yourself up and head toward the door because there’s a decent chance you forgot to lock it last night and because you still think it might’ve been a knock that woke you.
When you open it, there’s no one there — just a to-go coffee cup in front of your door in the hall, steam curling out of the hole in the lid.
There’s a note scribbled on the sleeve.
Added a shot of espresso. I figured you’ll need it today. Also: No glitter. Not poison. Promise. - S.R.
You press your forehead to the doorframe and lean against it, letting out a quiet laugh, followed by a sigh.
You remember it then — the way you’d stood at your door, keys in hand, his coat slipping off your shoulders, asking him to come inside for coffee.
COFFEE. At nearly 2 in the morning.
Smooooth.
Someone should seriously revoke Penelope’s tequila privileges.
You pick up the cup with a groan and thumb open your phone.
[text, 9:38am]
you: thanks for the caffeine fix
you: and for the rescue last night
you: and for not judging me (you better not be judging me)
you: also, i was very drunk
you: so if i said or did anything incriminating, you imagined it. i am not responsible.
Minutes later, your phone buzzes.
[text, 9:41am]
Dr. Reid: Understood.
Dr. Reid: I'll redact the evening from my memory.
Dr. Reid: But for the record, you were charming, just like you said you’d be. Dangerously so.
You stare at the screen, heat prickling at the back of your neck as you take a long sip of coffee.
Dangerously so.
Nope. You’re not blushing. You’re just hungover. Obviously.
You take another sip, letting the bitterness ground you. Despite your best efforts not to, you think about his hand in yours, and that stupid stunned look on his face when you’d asked if he wanted to come in, and the sound of his voice quietly shaking as he turned you down.
Put that thought down, you think to yourself. Back on the shelf where it belongs.
But it doesn’t go.
It lingers, warm and buzzing, right beneath your ribs.
ᝰ.ᐟ
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BREAKFAST IN BED ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader
summary: you’re sore. spencer’s smug. apparently, breakfast is best served between your thighs.
genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 1.7k
tags/warnings: soft dom!spencer, implied semi-rough sex from the night before, reader is sore from said sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader angel/sweet girl/good girl, spencer is a smug little shit, written with later season spencer in mind, basically porn with almost no plot, no use of y/n
a/n: based on this anon request! this was delicioussss to write. I am a munch!spencer truther to my core. enjoy!!
It’s the ache that wakes you.
Not sharply, and not all at once. Just a slow, blooming kind of soreness that curls warm around your hips and tightens when you shift — bare skin sliding against the sheets, muscles pulling in places that don’t usually pull. There’s a spot high on your thigh that throbs in time with your heartbeat, and another deeper in your core that stirs when you exhale too hard.
Last night comes back in flashes: Spencer’s mouth at your throat, your wrists pinned above your head, the sound he made when you told him not to stop. A little rougher than usual. A little more. He’d warned you, breath hot against your ear, that he wasn’t going to be gentle, and you’d nodded like someone deprived of air being offered oxygen.
You remember the way his hands shook a little when he touched you afterward, how quiet he got. The press of his lips to your knuckles in the dark, like he still couldn’t believe you gave him everything, no matter how many times you did. Like he couldn’t believe you wanted him that much.
You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.
Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.
You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.
Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.
But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.
“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”
“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.
Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”
He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He hums, amused. “Where?”
You give him a look. “Where do you think?”
Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”
“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”
He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”
You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.
“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m aware of that. I want to.”
You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.
He presses a kiss just below your navel.
“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”
Another kiss, lower.
“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.
There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.
You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to—”
“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”
That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.
You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.
“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”
You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.
“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.
You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.
“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”
He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.
“Spence—”
“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.
You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.
“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.
He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.
“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.
You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”
“I know it does, angel girl.”
It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.
He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.
You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.
He doesn’t.
Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.
“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”
“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.
“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”
You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.
“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”
He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.
Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.
He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.
“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”
You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.
He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.
“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.
He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”
You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”
“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.
You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”
He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.
“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”
Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”
Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
masterlist
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𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when you and your favorite profiler get accidentally locked in a cold storage room, it quickly becomes clear that there’s only one way to keep each other warm.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader's pov, mild threat to life, almost complete nudity (underwear only), reader may have one foot in the grave but her shameless commentary never dies (in fact, it gets worse), even when cuddling his half-naked coworker is the only way to survive spencer is an awkward, blushing mess
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.8k
𝐚/𝐧: request
"Tell me honestly, Reid, don’t you really have anything better to do at night than dig into some cold cases?" you asked, cutting through your darkened laboratory like an arrow. You knew it by heart, so no accident threatened you. He, on the other hand, didn’t, so you hoped he’d fall on that stupid face of his in revenge for calling you at this hour.
But maybe you had no right to complain. After all, you were the one who took the late-night call from that stupid face…
“Theoretically, this case doesn’t yet qualify as a cold case,” Reid hurried with an explanation, walking about a meter behind you. You felt his gaze desperately clinging to your back as he tried not to bump into anything. When you finally stopped by a fairly large square-shaped cooler with an entrance, he let out a barely audible sigh of relief. “We usually call cases cold when there have been no breakthroughs or new information for about three years. This one, even though it’s over fourteen years old, was re-examined six months ago. So, it’s a very current case. And it might be connected to the one we’re working on now.”
You rolled your eyes, listening to that lecture.
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for educating me about cold cases,” you muttered.
“The pleasure’s all mine. One is never too old to learn new things,” he replied with a distinct, smug tone in his voice.
“You’ll soon find out what it’s like to be locked in a cooler,” you whispered.
“What did you say?”
“Absolutely nothing. Apparently, the darkness plays tricks on your imagination. So what exactly do you need from there?”
Your hand was on the cooler door, but before opening it, you turned your head over your shoulder toward him. You wanted at least to know what kind of crucial evidence he needed that had woken you from bed.
Spencer hesitated slightly before answering. “A finger.”
“A finger? A human finger?”
“Well, it’s pretty rare for a non-human mammal’s finger to serve as evidence in a murder case…”
“I swear to God, you’re practically begging to be locked in that cooler,” you shook your head slowly, drawing in a breath. A finger. “You dragged me here to help you find a finger. You know, I think I deserve something in return for this.”
Spencer held your slightly flirtatious gaze in silence for a moment, as if pondering something, before giving a dismissive shrug. “Maybe. We’ll think about it once we have the finger.”
You opened the cooler door, immediately wincing at the cold that hit you. Inside were metal cabinets and rows of compartments, each labeled with the case name, year, and contents.
“Let’s go back to just calling it evidence,” you decided, stepping inside. You suddenly stopped, remembering something. “Oh, and don’t close the—”
Before you could finish the sentence, Spencer closed the door.
You stood facing each other, neither of you moving, as the cold began to seep into your bodies. You swallowed slowly. Reid blinked, blankly.
“Why wasn’t I supposed to close the door?”
The goosebumps spreading across your skin weren’t just from the biting cold inside the cooler anymore. No, there was something else. A prickle of unease you quickly shook off.
“No, it’s just…” you shook your head, recalling how one of your lab techs had locked himself in here a few weeks ago. Luckily, the whole team had been around and freed him before he had a chance to feel real panic. Since then, every time you entered, you made sure to keep the door open.
Of course, that didn’t mean the same thing was about to happen now. In the middle of the night. With just the two of you. No one around in case…
“We once had a little incident. Nothing serious, but I’d rather keep the door open.”
Saying that, you walked over to the door, if only to ease your own mind. Spencer watched your movements—particularly the way your hand pushed against the door and… it didn’t budge.
You felt your heart stop for a split second, just as an ill-timed, dismissive snort escaped his lips.
“You’re kidding me,” he said with too much confidence, his posture relaxing as much as the cold would allow. You shot him a brief, withering glare and turned back to the door, pushing again—harder this time.
“You’ve threatened to lock me in here more than once, and now it’s just—”
“Oh, shut up already and help me!”
Spencer needed a good five seconds of staring at you in dumb silence before he realized you weren’t joking. Then he joined you in the struggle against the heavy door.
You could push, kick, and yell all you wanted, hoping someone might be nearby—but none of it changed your situation. You were still locked inside the cooler with no real prospect of getting out.
Spencer backed away from the door like he needed to escape it, running a hand through his hair and breathing heavily, like he was trying to steady himself.
“Okay,” he started muttering under his breath, more to himself than to you. Even with your back turned to him, you could tell he was pacing in the confined space like he was trying to solve a riddle. Socrates, when what you really needed was the Hulk. “Okay, okay… first step is always, always don’t panic. We have to stay calm and think this through together. What are you doing?”
“I have a phone,” you replied, standing on your toes near the door to hold it up as high as possible, as close to the exit as you could manage. “I’m trying to get a signal and actually do something, instead of pretending you’re giving instructions to a crew of preschoolers on a sinking ship. Did you forget we both work for the FBI?”
For a brief moment, he stared at you speechless because of your sharp words, which often found their way out of you in the face of serious, dangerous situations. But maybe that kind of mental slap was exactly what he needed — or maybe there was simply too much panic in him to get angry.
He stopped pacing around.
“And what about the signal? Let me try.”
You stood on your toes again, silently thanking yourself for all those years spent walking in heels and the skill that came with it. Then you handed the phone over to Spencer, so he could at least put those ridiculously long limbs of his to some use.
You watched him with such hope and focus that you stopped noticing how badly your body was shaking. And it was shaking hard. Every breath in that place tasted like inhaling the blade of a knife, every passing second nearly burned your skin with cold.
Eventually, Reid lowered the phone and shook his head.
Was this the time for another round of yanking at the doors and screaming?
You froze in place in helplessness, your arms wrapped around yourself like a blanket. You regretted nothing more than having worn only a thin shirt that night. Oh, why couldn’t it have been the middle of a brutal winter and you both walked in wearing coats, wrapped in scarves?
Spencer waved his hand in front of your face, pulling you out of your momentary daze.
“You can’t just stand still,” he warned. His eyes were wide with a panic that alternated between quiet and loud, never leaving either of you, but also filled with urgency, pressure. He only relaxed slightly when you followed his lead, marching in place and trying to get your hands moving too. They were probably the most frozen part of your body. “Any kind of movement is recommended right now. It increases blood circulation and temporarily raises body temperature.”
You watched him shake his limbs — in any other circumstance it would’ve looked completely absurd. You let out a heavy sigh.
“It’s minus twenty in here. Even your danse macabre won’t help us,” you pointed out.
“Why not? I’m already starting to feel a bit livelier. Lively enough to wait until someone comes and lets us out.”
“Good for you. The only thing I feel is no feeling in my feet.”
“That’s because you’re not trying hard enough.”
“And what do you think I should do? Start doing jumping jacks?”
Spencer parted his lips and tilted his head to the side. A second later, he tried to jump while spreading his arms and legs, managing it with absolutely no coordination. He probably hadn’t done that exercise in years.
Despite your situation, you snorted at the sight.
“Sweetheart, you're going to hurt yourself more with that than the hypothermia ever could.”
He looked at you with genuine, deep sorrow.
“We’re on the same team. You could at least try to support me mentally.”
Your disbelieving sigh filled the frosty air.
“Okay,” you muttered. “I’ll try, since it matters to you. But I’m not turning into a sexy cheerleader—I’ll do it my way.” You nodded toward the camera in the corner of the room. “The people who end up watching the footage of our tragic death are going to pee themselves laughing at what you’re doing. You’ll totally make their day.”
Your comment, even though sarcastic and meant to resemble a joke, made you both look at each other in silence. You had used the phrase our death, and while five minutes ago it might’ve sounded distant, it suddenly felt alarmingly real, possible. There was nothing you could do to save yourselves from this situation. The only thing left was to wait until someone showed up to rescue you. So you had to last in there as long as possible, conserve as much of the warmth escaping your bodies as you could.
“I know what we have to do,” you sighed finally, tightening your arms around your chest. Spencer looked at you questioningly. You nodded in his direction. “Take your clothes off.”
He looked as if he hadn’t heard you.
“W–what?”
“I said take your clothes off,” you repeated patiently, showing that you weren’t joking and that your attitude was neutral. “I’m not saying this as a pervert, but as someone who knows a thing or two about science. These frozen clothes are pulling the heat out of us and don’t offer any protection anymore. What will give us protection and help retain heat is skin-to-skin contact. We’ll create an insulated thermal bubble. In simpler words—god, I never thought I’d say this to you—take your shirt off and come here.”
You knew Reid knew what you were talking about. This was Spencer Reid, after all—of course he understood basic thermodynamics. And yet, he just stared at you with those wide brown eyes, like Bambi watching his mother get shot right in front of him.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. You could see him trying to form some kind of protest, to say something—anything—but he couldn’t. Because what you were saying was true. It was the only option you had left.
Eventually, he blinked nervously and croaked,
“Why do I have to go first?”
The frustration that filled you was so strong, it made your head drop loosely forward.
“For god’s sake, Reid. You’re not in bed with a woman you like—you’re in a freezer.” You gave him a look and continued before he could pretend otherwise. “And besides, you’re going to have to take mine off too, and I figured you’d handle that better if you were still dressed.” He looked completely lost, as if your words had short-circuited every thought in his head. You pointed demonstratively at your shirt. “My buttons are tiny, and I can’t move my fingers anymore. I won’t be able to undo them—but you still can. Thank your jumping jacks.”
Spencer looked around the cold chamber, as if he expected an emergency blanket to suddenly appear in the corner, or an exit hatch, or at least some metaphorical hole in reality he could slip through. Or maybe he just needed a moment away from your impatient stare. Eventually, he sighed in defeat and stepped toward you. You never buttoned your shirts all the way to the top, so at least the task was slightly easier. He reached for the first button, the one just beneath your collarbone. His fingers were red from the cold, shaking so badly he could barely grasp the tiny thing.
But when he finally did, he didn’t unfasten it right away — instead, his gaze drifted sideways. You frowned, assuming embarrassment had finally won over him, but that wasn’t the case. He looked toward the camera.
"I'm just stating for the record that I’m only doing this so we don’t freeze to death."
You snorted right in his face.
"Those cameras don’t even record sound. As far as they’re concerned, you’re just pawing at my cleavage with zero context."
He tore his gaze away from the bit of skin now visible beneath the undone button.
"I don’t!" he blurted defensively.
"So better do. You’re taking so long, I’m starting to suspect you’ve never undressed a woman before."
He shot you a glare sharp enough to cut glass — one you were more than ready to return — but he quickly dropped his eyes again.
"Very funny," he muttered coldly.
"No, not funny. Actually, very caring. I’m provoking you on purpose — get your blood pumping. If it weren’t twenty below zero here, you’d be bright red already."
"Oh, how very noble of you. And who's going to do the same for you?" he shot back.
You shrugged, genuinely unsure.
"Well, someone definitely should. I even have a candidate in mind, but he’s not doing a great job so far. Honestly, he’s just not trying hard enough."
You saw Spencer roll his eyes toward the ceiling with disbelief as he listened to your rambling. But at least when you were talking, your teeth weren’t chattering — so you had no intention of stopping.
He had just two buttons left and seemed determined to focus on them instead of feeding into your antics, which, of course, you didn’t appreciate.
You nudged his boot with yours, teasing.
"Someone’s trying to ignore me. But that’s okay. You’re very busy right now. Probably mourning the fact that I actually wore a bra today."
His gaze snapped to your face as if he'd just been struck by lightning — which, honestly, wouldn't have been the worst thing, considering it might’ve warmed him up a little. His eyes immediately met your smirking, half-mocking, half-genuinely amused expression.
He let go of the now fully unbuttoned fabric of your shirt and took a deep, dramatic breath before gesturing toward his work with a hand as if he were an artist unveiling a masterpiece.
“There you go,” he declared in a high-pitched voice that he very consciously tried to lower.
That only made your amusement worse. For a moment, you almost forgot you were trapped in a giant freezer. Almost.
You sighed in defeat, the weight of the situation settling back onto your shoulders. The cold suddenly felt sharper again.
“Jokes are over. Your turn,” you announced flatly, and without warning, reached for the buttons on his shirt, unfastening them quickly and efficiently.
He stared at you, his shirt now completely open, brows raised so high they were nearly at his hairline, as if he hadn’t even noticed it had happened.
“You said your fingers were too frozen to do that.”
“I lied.”
“Y-you’re... you’re... I don’t even know what you are anymore!”
You were just about to fire back when your expression suddenly tensed with concern.
“Are you running out of vocabulary?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. He blinked at you in confusion. “That’s concerning in your case. The cold must be slowing your cognitive functions.”
“Well, it’s clearly accelerating your…licentious defiance of every known social protocol.”
“I take back what I said about your vocabulary,” you muttered.
He pulled his shirt off his back — you were so cold you didn’t even notice the difference. You turned it inside out, the side that had been touching your body and was still somewhat warmer; Reid did the same with his.
You laid one of them on the floor to lie on, and the other you were going to use to wrap yourselves in. You couldn’t do it sitting up in a way that would cover both of you — maybe with your lab coat it would’ve worked, but you didn’t have it with you. So you were forced to lie down on your sides, facing each other.
For a moment, you just looked at him (he didn’t seem to be breathing, his eyes locked on you like on a watch in a hypnotist’s hands), wondering what position would maximize skin-to-skin contact.
Eventually, you pressed your chest to his, placing your hands behind his neck. Your chin settled on his shoulder — which in some way also protected your heads, right? After all, so much heat escaped through them. Just in case, you also covered them with his shirt. It carried the faint scent of his cologne, but your senses were too dulled by the cold to really smell it.
You stayed like that in silence for a moment.
“Do you…do you feel any warmer?” Spencer asked.
You didn’t even stop to think.
“Maybe I would if you weren’t afraid to touch me and actually hugged—”
You broke off, because he really did grab you tighter, pulling you closer to his bare chest and tightening his hold around your back. You sighed quietly, because for a moment, you did feel warmer.
The thing is, only for a moment. You sighed again, this time with pure gloom.
“Maybe a little,” you said, unconvinced. “Okay, practically not at all. But maybe it doesn’t have to be felt to be working. Besides, it’d be kinda dumb to stop now, right? Not after we did a striptease for each other.”
A sound escaped his mouth. You had trouble identifying it.
“Are you laughing?” you asked, genuinely surprised.
You felt him nod in confirmation.
“I just realized you’re both the worst and the best person to be stuck in a freezer with,” he admitted, leaving you even more confused.
“The worst, I get,” you said. “But the best?”
Reid hesitated to respond, and you started to wonder if he’d died (you hoped he hadn’t) (personal reasons). Then you dropped your ironically nonchalant mask for a moment to nudge him slightly, just to check if his consciousness had changed.
“I mean,” he spoke up suddenly, easing your concern, “you’re ruining my dreams of dying in a tragic, epic way in a very comedic fashion.”
At first, you wanted to snort, but you kept up appearances.
“I am not,” you disagreed. “It’s still a very epic way to go. Dying in the arms of a beautiful maiden.”
“Trapped in a freezer?”
“No one’s going to remember the freezer part if you’ve got an attractive woman by your side. Much more cinematic. Easier to turn into a statue later.”
“I don’t want them turning us into a statue in this position.”
“Agreed. We'd make a much prettier stained glass window.”
“You think so?”
“Mhm. But I hope we’re completely naked in that stained glass. And that my hair looks better. But that’s a side issue. I mean, can you imagine them hanging us in some breathtaking old cathedral, and I’m wearing a Victoria’s Secret bra? No disrespect to the brand, but it just doesn’t fit the vibe.”
“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re absolutely right. Besides, Victoria’s Secret would probably want a cut for using their brand name. They’d profit off our tragedy.”
Your voices had grown monotonous, somewhere between murmuring and humming, most of your words aimed at the skin of his shoulder. You liked the absurdity of the topic you’d chosen. You liked his calmness and the way he was holding you, the way he’d let his guard down. It crossed your mind that you wished you were somewhere else now—somewhere warmer, somewhere your lives weren’t at risk. But everything else could stay exactly the same.
And suddenly, right along with that thought, a sound rang out. A sound that reached your ears with a delay and caused a moment of disorientation. For so long, it had been just your two voices—then all at once, a third element pierced the silence that had briefly fallen between you. You remembered just entering the cooler, how you told Spencer not to close the door and he’d closed it anyway.
The door.
You untangled yourselves from each other with dizzying speed, but there was no shame in the position you’d been found in (at least not on your part—you couldn’t speak for him) only the urgent need to confirm that what you’d just heard was real. Someone had opened the cooler door.
You sat up quickly. Spencer’s shirt slid off your bodies.
The door was, in fact, open—and standing in it was a member of your team, the blond-haired Winchester, whose eyes were always rimmed with dark circles and who constantly looked like he’d just finished a three hour crying session—but that was just his natural expression even when he was happy.
He looked at you both, eyes widening—then quickly flicked to the ceiling, awkwardly.
“Are you, um, guys… okay?”
Moments later, you were already out of the cooler, and you honestly felt like kissing the walls and floors. But before doing that, you shot Winchester a grateful look. He was the one who’d gotten himself locked in the same cooler a few weeks ago.
“How did you even know we were in there?” you asked.
Meanwhile, Spencer was standing like a shadow behind your teammate, holding his freezing shirt in his hands—clearly trying to avoid the young man’s gaze and attention, silently bonding with him in the mutual awkwardness of the situation. Unfortunately, the kid misread Spencer’s behavior and shrank into himself, as if standing face-to-face with his half-naked boss wasn’t already a nightmare in itself.
“After I got locked in there last time, I kept thinking about what would happen if it were someone else—and there was no one around to get them out,” he began, eyes fixed on his shoes. “So… I installed a thermometer inside that sends a notification when the temperature suddenly rises. It always goes up when someone enters and stays up until they leave. I saw it spike today, saw it was you guys, and decided to check it out.”
You looked at him and exhaled, not knowing how to even begin thanking him.
“You deserve a raise, Winchester,” you announced.
“But if anyone asks what for, please say it was for overtime,” Spencer mumbled.
You just waved a hand at him.
“Don’t listen to him. Say whatever you want. And come here,” you said, opening your arms and stepping forward, ready to crush him in a hug.
For a split second, pure terror flashed across Winchester’s face. With ninja-like reflexes, he ducked and slipped past you under your arm, leaving you hugging empty air.
“The raise is enough, seriously!”
a small post-reading author’s note:
winchester = literally whitaker from the amazing show the pitt a returning character in the diva!reader series!
i saw your requests were open so i hope im not imposing by asking for one? im so invested in the dilf!spence agenda that ive been kept awake at night thinking of the little family of three maybe visiting diana reid? maybe so they can meet, either for the first time or to meet up for a holiday of some kind? of course only if you’re okay with it! much love xx <3
like father, like son | s.r.
in which you and Spencer bring your son to meet his grandmother for the first time
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff
content warnings: alzheimers except diana's pretty lucid, boy dad!spencer
word count: 1.18k
a/n: my internet is fixed but at the cost of comfort in my own home but anyways spencer reid fluff will save me. surely. anyways. i'm so happy to finally be writing this request it caught my eye when you sent it and the day of reckoning has come. i hope you like it <3.
Unclipping your son’s car seat, you felt Spencer’s watchful eyes on you as you picked him up. The newborn scrunch was gone. You’d blinked, and suddenly Jamie was four months old, his curious brown eyes watching the leaves rustle around him. The infant was still groggy from his afternoon nap, but Spencer wanted him to be well rested, minimizing the number of variables.
You weren’t even sure if you’d be going in. There was a chance you’d gone through the chaos of getting your little family out of the house to get nothing in return, but every day since you’d become a mother, you found appreciation for the little things. His little gummy smiles brought you ridiculous amounts of joy, the contagion of his emotion spread to everyone who met him.
“Hey,” Spencer said softly, keeping his voice level so he didn’t startle the baby. “Are you gonna be alright if I go in for a little bit?”
Nodding, you bounced the baby on your hip, reaching into the car for a burp cloth. “Yeah,” you assured him, “I’ll just hang out with my guy.”
Jamie gurgled in what you assumed was joy, resting his head on your shoulder before going back to kicking his legs. He cooed when Spencer leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to his head before leaving one on your lips.
You watched him walk into the building, more nervous for this than he had been the day Jamie was born. Swaying in the parking lot with your son, you eyed the sign in the garden warily. For the most part, Diana was happy in Brookfield, and it was nice to know that she was so comfortable in a place you’d chosen for her.
Today wasn’t the first time you’d brought him by to meet her, but three weeks ago Diana was having an adverse reaction to a change in her dosages and you had to leave Spencer to help her, taking James back home until Spencer called you to be picked up. He’d slept in the nursery that night, laying in the recliner and doing more watching than sleeping. You tried to convince yourself that the two events were unrelated, but nothing you told yourself had done any good.
With every minute that passed, you grew slightly more anxious that today wasn’t going to work out either. Something would go wrong. Diana couldn’t see people or Jamie would have a blowout or something.
Before you could work yourself into a complete tailspin, you looked at the door to see Spencer coming back outside. He had a soft smile on his face as he approached you, grabbing the diaper bag so all you had to worry about was carrying Jamie. “Come on,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the door and holding it for you.
You’d been here to visit enough times to know your way to Diana’s room, but something about today felt different, so you let Spencer lead the way through the facility. He made his way through, looking back to make sure you were following and smiling at the sight that met him every time. Jamie hummed at you, placing his hand on your cheek in a way that melted your heart, “We’re gonna go see Grandma.”
As soon as you turned the corner, your heart clenched. Diana was pacing in her room. You worried that something was wrong, but Spencer kept going and you kept following. “Mom?” Spencer said, trying to get her attention from the doorway, keeping you from view.
“Oh, Spencer,” Diana said, “Megan told me you were here, but she didn’t…” Her voice trailed off when the baby cooed, revealing your presence even if she couldn’t see the two of you. “He’s here?”
Your heart fluttered. If you hadn’t been holding the baby there was a chance you would’ve been elated enough to jump for joy. She remembered. Diana remembered you coming to see her while you were pregnant, and she remembered you and Spencer telling her the baby was a boy. “We brought him to see you,” Spencer informed her, nodding slightly and stepping out of the way so she could see you both.
Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it as it gaped in shock. “You should have called first,” she insisted, waving you into the room and trying to get you to sit down, but James would get restless if you didn’t keep moving. He wasn’t old enough to start crawling yet, but he sure did want to move.
At her insistence, you sat down and she took the spot next to you. Spencer stood over the three of you as a self-appointed bodyguard, smiling at the scene that was playing out in front of him.
To your surprise, Diana first occupied herself with fussing over you, giving you a one-armed hug and using her free hand to lift your chin. “Oh, honey,” she hummed, studying your face and making note of the exhaustion on it. “You look so tired. He’s helping you, right?”
You nodded in response, “Yes.” You adjusted the baby in your arms slightly, looking from your son to his father, “He’s a very good dad.” Your comment was pointed, making sure you said the words loud enough for Spencer to hear you.
Diana smiled at your answer, taking the opportunity to get a better look at your son before looking at her own. “I always knew he would be,” she told you, her overflowing fondness for her own boy was prominent in her tone. “Did you stick with James for the name?”
Spencer hummed a response, “We call him Jamie mostly.”
“What a wonderful name,” she said, looking down at your son. There was something so special about it, watching the two of them meet for the first time. To be able to see Jamie’s curious brown eyes meet her blue ones made your heart sing, all of your anxieties about their meeting were immediately quelled by this moment alone.
You smiled shyly, “Do you want to hold him?”
Her smile broadened, “Well, maybe for just a little bit. I might be out of practice.” She straightened herself up, letting you hand Jamie off and taking him in her arms. Your son cooed up at his grandmother, reaching a hand up and gurgling when she provided her finger for him to wrap his hand around.
Spencer was crouched in front of them. Ever the protective father, he was ready to help at any moment. It might not have been obvious to his mother, but you could see it in his expression. “What is it?” He asked her, watching as her expression changed into something he couldn’t read.
“He looks just like you did,” she admitted, looking between her son and her grandson, marveling in the similarities between the two of them.
Tears pricked your eyes at the scene in front of you, and you reached your hand out, laying your palm face up on your knee for Spencer to take while his mother started recounting stories of him as a child.
spencer that has the weakest pullout game and can’t help but cum inside reader cos she feels so good
it was the first time you and spencer reid had fucked without a condom. he didn't expect it to feel so different, so good, with you wrapped around him, nothing there to seperate the two of you.
he was deep inside you, hips pushing up against the backs of your thighs as he thrusts inside of you, the sound of skin hitting skin and your sopping pussy filled the room. but of course, that was drowned out by spencers moans, his whine, his curses, his whispers. his small,
"oh my god, you feel so good"
"youre so perfect like this"
"making me feel so good sweetheart"
"fuck, i love you so much,"
his voice cracked between words. you heard him so perfectly, with his head buried in your shoulder. your skin was wet with his spit, a result from the wet, sloppy kisses he'd place in the curve of your neck on a particularly good thrust, or after his quiet praises.
your fingers buried in his hair, the other holding onto the smooth of his back. one of spencers hands held him up, his other palm rested on your waist. his voice raised in pitch, moans breaking with desperate pleas.
"baby, please, please can i cum? can i cum inside you? oh my- fuck please let me cum in you please," he rambled almost senselessly, drunk on the feeling of you.
an excited, erratic nod of your head and your whispered, "yes, please yes spencer, please cum in me," were enough to set him over the edge.
spencer came hard, legs shaking as his hips stalled pressing against your own, breathing labored and heavy. he was sure to kiss 'thank yous' into your soft skin. it felt so dirty, but so good, it would be such a shame if this happened again.
