I feel like if you were not feeling well especially if you had a headache/migraine — Aaron would be so sweet with you he would let you stay in his office because he knows that it’s your safe haven away from home not because it’s just an office but because it’s his office . I feel like he would allow you to go home if needed and he would take you home he wouldn’t let you go home by yourself he would take care of you because that’s just him …
I miss editing so much … I had to sorry not sorry Cyclone 🌀— by T-pain Spencer Reid the man you are I miss editing you so much … 🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥 I’m not sorry ..
SPENCER GOES TO THE STRIP CLUB FOR THE FIRST TIME AND WHEN HE DOES HE SEES YOU …
Pairing — S15 Spencer Reid X Striper!reader
MDNI-18+only
Contains— reader is part of the BAU - sometimes she is a dancer-Stripper at this strip club called Dolls in high hills . Spencer has been pining for r since r joined the bureau. Derek is mentioned as teasing Spencer about the strip club . R in Spencer Kiss .. small age gap read at your own risk r is fem!reader ..
WC — 2.4K
Author notes : writing this got me back into my Spencer Reid era … I hope you enjoy this little fun I don’t know if you would call it a Drabble or not but I loved writing this it was fun in seeing Spencer in strip club— him being curious about and then bumping into you watching you on stage . Thank you for 96 of you I just realized how many of you there were much love to you all any ways enjoy this .
Divider by @uzmacchiato
“Doll’s in high heels”.. wasn’t exactly Spencer’s usual spot to be at on a Saturday night after a case. Hell, he didn’t even know what the hell he was doing pulling into the lot, let alone walking inside.
He’d heard Derek talk about it before — like a joke, like a tease — the way he always said it with that smirk, “You wouldn’t last five minutes in there, pretty boy.”
Maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe he shouldn’t be here.
He even looked it up. The club. The reviews. He read about the history of strip clubs, the social structures, the dynamics between stage dancers and customers — textbook stuff. Detached. Clinical.
But stepping inside was something else.
The air hit him first — thick, sweet, perfume and something else he couldn’t place. Smoke maybe. Heat. The lights were low and red, like the whole place was holding its breath. Music pulsed under the walls. Velvet chairs. Glitter under dim lights.
And women. Beautiful, powerful women.
But none of them were you.
Not yet.
He kept his head down, fingers curled tight in the sleeves of his cardigan. Every step he took made him feel like he shouldn’t be taking another. He didn’t belong here — didn’t know the rules, didn’t understand the rhythm of this world. This wasn’t the BAU. This wasn’t a crime scene or a briefing room or a profile scribbled across a whiteboard.
This was you.
And the second you walked out — heels clicking, chin high, that look in your eyes like you were untouchable — he forgot how to breathe.
God.
You didn’t even see him.
But he saw everything. The way your hips moved like a promise. The way the light caught in your hair. The curve of your smile, just enough to kill a man. The way you commanded the stage — like it owed you everything and gave you more.
And it did something to him.
Spencer wasn’t jealous. Not really. It wasn’t in him. But there was something sharp in his chest, sitting there like glass.
Everyone else could watch you.
But they didn’t know you.
Not like he did. Not the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating or how your hands always fidgeted with your necklace when you were anxious. Not how your voice got real soft when you were tired but still pushing through. He knew the woman behind the glitter. And yet, here he was, frozen, unable to move.
He wondered what you’d say if you saw him.
If you’d roll your eyes. If you’d smile. If you'd pretend you didn’t care and then call him “profiler boy” later with a laugh you didn’t really mean.
Or maybe you’d just walk away.
Maybe this was a mistake.
He almost turned back.
Almost.
But then your eyes lifted — just for a second — right past the lights, past the stage, through the smoke and sound.
And landed on him.
And he swore you saw him. Not just saw — but recognized.
You had just stepped off stage, skin still warm from the lights, the music still ringing faint in your ears. Everyone clapped as you stepped off stage some threw dollar bills some threw roses .
You weren’t even looking where you were going — head down, eyes on the floor, already reaching for the robe draped over the edge of the curtain. You didn’t see him. Not until it was too late.
You bumped right into him.
Your fingers fumbled, breath catching sharp in your throat.
“Spence,” you said, his name falling out of your mouth before you could even stop it, soft, startled, all tangled up in the pulse still racing through your chest. “Jesus. You scared me.”
He looked like he didn’t know where to put his eyes. Shoulders stiff. Hands in his coat pockets, curled up like he was freezing, like maybe this was a dream and he wasn’t really standing in a strip club hallway with you nearly bare in front of him.
“I—” you started, glancing down at yourself, wishing you had something more than a lace thong and the shimmer still clinging to your thighs. “I wish I had something else to cover up with.”
But it was too late.
He’d already seen you.
He saw everything.
Maybe even your dance.
Spencer didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you like he was trying to process a math problem without all the variables. Like he’d walked into a different version of the world.
“How long,” he asked finally, voice low, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to. “How long have you been doing this?”
You blinked. “Spencer…”
He didn’t sound mad. Didn’t even sound judgmental. He just sounded hurt. Like he didn’t understand. Like he was trying to.
“Does Derek know?” he added, almost a whisper. “Do the others?”
“Spence. Please. Can I—can I just get dressed?” you said, not angry, just tired. Just exposed.
He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
But he didn’t walk away.
Instead, he followed you.
You didn’t say anything as you walked down the hall. Neither did he. The only sound was the click of your heels on the floor, softer now, muted, and the way your robe dragged just barely behind you.
He didn’t speak when you opened the door to your dressing room, either. Just leaned against the doorframe, like he didn’t want to leave but didn’t want to come in either.
You turned your back to him, slipped behind the divider, fingers clumsy on the zipper of your costume. The silence made your throat burn.
“I didn’t think you’d ever come here,” you finally said, voice thin as the silk in your hands.
“I didn’t either.”
That was all he said.
But the way he said it?
Like maybe he wished he hadn’t seen it. Or maybe he was scared of how much he felt watching you. Of how long he’d been holding it in.
He asked again, quieter this time.
“Does Derek know?”
You paused, halfway through tying the sash of your robe. You didn’t look at him.
“I’m not sure,” you said honestly. “He’s mentioned the place before. Talked about it like it was just another stop. But I never asked him how often he actually came.”
You finally turned to face Spencer then. The lights in your dressing room were softer than the stage, but he still didn’t meet your eyes right away. Like seeing you like this — backstage, still glittering under harsh fluorescents, still catching your breath — made him feel something he didn’t have a name for.
“Please, Spence,” you said softly, stepping closer. Not touching, not yet. Just close enough. “I feel free when I do this.”
He looked up.
You searched his face for something — judgment, disappointment, anything — but it wasn’t there.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” you said. “I don’t think I even really can. But when I’m up there, I’m not thinking about them. The cases. The blood. The names. I’m not worrying about what’s next. I’m just… moving. Breathing. It’s like my outlet, you know?”
He was quiet for a beat, then laughed — not loud, not mean, not even surprised.
Just soft.
Just him.
“I get it,” he said finally.
You raised an eyebrow. “You do?”
He nodded slowly. “It’s not how I unwind, obviously. But I’ve read studies on it. About the psychology of performance. The control, the release. It makes sense.”
You gave him a small smile, grateful. But he wasn’t done.
“It’s just…” he trailed off, then looked at you — really looked at you. Like everything he’d been holding in was closer to the surface now. “I wish no one else got to see you like that.”
Your heart skipped.
“Spencer—”
“No, I mean—” he cut himself off, ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to fix something that wasn’t broken. “I’m not trying to be possessive. I’m not judging you. I just—”
He swallowed.
“I just didn’t realize how much I’d hate the idea of someone else watching you the way I just did.” Your chest ached a little. Not because he was wrong but because you knew exactly what he meant.
“I want to be the only one to see you like that,” Spencer says finally.
Your hands freeze on the edge of your robe.
You couldn’t believe it — not at first.
Spencer Reid was standing in the doorframe of your dressing room, eyes soft but burning, voice low and uneven, telling you that he wanted to be the only one to see you like this.
It knocked the breath out of your chest.
“Spence…” you said his name like a warning, like a whisper, like a prayer. But he didn’t back down.
He didn’t move.
He just looked at you — eyes tracing every inch of your face like he was scared he’d forget what you looked like, like he hadn’t already memorized it long before tonight.
“I know I don’t have the right to say that,” he added, quieter now. “I know you don’t owe me anything. I just…” He shook his head, lips pressing together like he was trying to hold it in, but he couldn’t. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And then tonight—seeing you like that… watching you command a whole room without even trying—”
He took a breath. Shaky. Honest.
“I didn’t expect it to hit me like this.”
You looked at him for a long second, heart thudding too loud in your chest.
“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me at work?” you said, voice soft but sure. “Like you’re afraid of wanting me?”
Spencer’s mouth parted, but no words came out.
You took a step closer.
“You think I don’t feel it too?”
His eyes met yours — wide, raw, hopeful.
“You… do?”
“I wouldn’t let just anyone in this room, Spence,” you whispered, tugging your robe tighter around yourself. “You think I let Morgan or Rossi walk back here? You think I let anyone see me like this after the lights go down?”
He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“I let you,” you said, voice breaking just a little. “You. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.”
Spencer blinked. His hands were still in his pockets, but his knuckles were white.
“I don’t want to be just some guy sitting in the crowd,” he said. “I don’t want to go back to pretending that I don’t feel everything I feel when I look at you.”
You stared at him, heart in your throat.
He stared back.
Neither of you moved.
Not yet.
But the air between you?
It was already burning.
He finally steps forward.
Closer.
You don’t move, can’t. His eyes stay locked on yours — not wandering, not darting away — just steady. Soft. Sure. And aching.
“Tell me to stop,” he says gently, barely above a whisper, “and I will.”
But how could you?
Why would you?
You wanted this.
You wanted him.
So you don’t say anything.
You just look up at him, every unspoken feeling in your chest rushing toward the surface, and he sees it. Sees all of it. And you swear his hands twitch at his sides like he’s holding himself back, like if he touches you now he won’t be able to stop.
Then—
Both your phones buzz at the same time.
You both flinch. The sound crashes into the silence between you, a jarring reminder of everything that still exists outside this room. You both reach for your phones at the same time, neither of you wanting to look, but knowing you have to.
EMILY: URGENT.
MEET NOW. BAU.
You both stare at the message.
Spencer breathes out, jaw tight. His thumb lingers over the screen for half a second before he locks it and shoves the phone back into his pocket without another word.
You do the same. You don’t want the moment to die here. You won’t let it.
He looks at you again.
“So… is this…” he trails off, but he’s already stepping closer again.
His hand brushes against your hip — just barely. And when he leans in this time, he doesn’t hesitate.
He kisses you.
All of him — like he means it, like he’s needed it, like he’s been biting it back for months and can’t anymore.
It’s not soft.
It’s not gentle.
It’s real.
You grab the front of his cardigan and pull him closer, losing yourself in it — the way his hand finds the small of your back, the way his lips part against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. Like this might be the only time you get.
But it won’t be.
You both know that now.
And even when you finally break apart — breathless, buzzing, eyes wide and stunned — his forehead rests against yours, and you can still feel the shape of him in your hands. Neither of you say anything. You don’t need to. Not yet.
When he finally pulls away, lips swollen and breath unsteady, you keep your eyes closed for just a second longer — like maybe if you do, you’ll stay in the moment. Just a little longer.
“We should probably head back,” you say quietly, voice still shaky from the kiss. “Back to the Bureau.”
He nods.
But he doesn’t let you go.
His hands stay right where they are — one still resting at your waist, the other hovering like he’s not ready to pull back yet. His forehead presses against yours, and he breathes you in like he’s memorizing the scent.
You say it again, softer. “Spence… I need to get dressed.”
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. He takes a step back like it physically pains him. “Sorry.”
He turns around — actually turns around, like a gentleman. Not peeking, not watching you in the mirror. Just stands there, tense, hands in his pockets, like he's trying to be good.
You change quickly, your robe dropping to the floor as you step into your jeans and zip up the side of your jacket. You pull your hair back, swipe a little of the glitter from your cheek, and glance in the mirror once — cheeks still flushed.
He doesn’t say anything when you step out.
Just looks at you like maybe he still sees you in that lace. Like he wants to.
You both walk out of the dressing room together, and as soon as you hit the parking lot, he speaks.
You get in. It’s quiet at first — the silence not uncomfortable, just… charged.
He starts the engine, shifts into reverse, but his eyes flick down.
To your legs.
Just for a second.
Then back to the road.
Then back again.
He tries to play it cool, but he’s failing. His hand tightens slightly on the steering wheel like he’s trying to ground himself. Like if he doesn’t, he’ll reach for you.
You see it all over his face — the wanting, the restraint, the soft ache he’s been carrying since he stepped into that club.
You don’t say anything.
You just reach over and touch his hand.
Light. Barely there.
He jerks just a little — not from surprise, but from relief. Like maybe he was waiting for you to do that.
He lets go of the wheel with one hand, reaches down, and laces his fingers through yours. His thumb runs along your knuckles like he’s trying to learn you by feel.
Neither of you speak.
But the silence says everything.
And it’s not over.
Not even close.
When you got to the Bureau, Spencer stopped the engine. He didn’t open the door. He didn’t move.
You looked over at him, confused.
But his voice came first. Low. Rough. Barely controlled
“I have to do this before we go in.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“Spence—”
He turned in his seat, eyes already on you, and leaned in.
And kissed you again.
Slower this time. Like he meant it. Like he wanted to hold the taste of you in his mouth a little longer. His hand brushed your cheek, thumb soft against your skin, and you leaned into it because there was nothing else to do but fall.
But then—
A cough.
You pulled away, dazed, lips parted, eyes still closed.
Spencer froze.
You turned slowly , There stood Emily . And Garcia.
You gasped, almost jumped. Spencer’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move right away.
Emily smiled.
“How long?” she asked, arms crossed, that amused look on her face that said she wasn’t buying anything you were about to say.
Spencer blinked. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You were still stunned, frozen in place. Your fingers lifted halfway to your lips like maybe you could still feel him there.
Emily didn’t stop smiling.
Neither did Garcia. She was bouncing slightly on her heels, like she’d just won something.
“How long?” Emily repeated.
You opened your mouth, your voice a little too soft. “A few hours…”
Spencer looked over at you, shaking his head slightly.
“Longer than that,” he said under his breath. “At least for me.”
Your eyes met his.
That was the truth. It had been longer for him. The glances. The lingering touches. The things he never let himself say out loud until tonight.
You both got out of the car. You straightened your jacket like it would somehow cover what had already been exposed. Spencer walked beside you, brushing your knuckles with his once — soft. Secret.
Emily and Garcia waited at the doors.
And you?
Still stunned. Still spinning.
But not sorry.
Not for one second.
Spencer stopped walking.
You turned to look at him, confused.
Emily and Garcia were just a few steps ahead — still smiling, still talking like nothing happened, but you could feel it. The way they were listening without turning around. The way Garcia kept stealing glances like she couldn’t help herself.
Spencer cleared his throat, eyes flicking up to yours, then down to the floor, then back to yours again.
“We should… um…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. “Go on a date.”
Your lips parted, heart skipping, breath catching just a little in your throat.
“A real one,” he added quickly. “Not just—what happened tonight. I mean, that— I wanted that. But I also want more. You. Like—dinner, maybe. Or coffee, if you prefer. Or books. Or—”
You reached for his hand.
Soft.
Certain.
“Yes,” you said. “Of course.”
He blinked. Like he couldn’t believe you said yes. Like part of him was sure you were going to laugh it off, walk away, pretend none of it mattered.
But you didn’t.
Emily and Garcia were still ahead — definitely not listening.
Except they totally were.
You caught the way Garcia’s shoulder bounced, the way Emily’s smile tilted like she knew everything and had known it all along.
But you didn’t care.
You squeezed Spencer’s hand and leaned in, close enough that only he could hear it.
“I want that too.”
And when he looked at you this time — he didn’t look away.
I wanted to wish my idol the person I look up to admire in absolutely crazy over the hills for a special happy birthday 63 years old looks good old on you.. you deserve the best things that life has to offer you Thomas Gibson.. I enjoyed meeting you in may in Chicago during your play you were amazing… 🥰
☕️. I can’t get him off my mind especially these seasons of him I miss him so much please bring back SR … craving his touch is not what I should be thinking about right now or should it? — Don’t pitcher him stepping in behind you , Do not pitcher him pulling you in because he knows that’s something you love even if he doesn’t really care for public affection , do not imagine him leaning in to brush your hair back while standing behind you to kiss your neck .. I mean it don’t especially with these photos of him they are perfect chiefs kiss in I adore him ..
