ᥫ᭡ Post-prison!Spencer remembers you perfectly from your BAU internship over a decade ago. The timid way you carried yourself, the way he wanted to be noticed by you and never was. It stung. Now you’re different; once reserved, now freer and more open. He tries to play it off like it doesn’t matter, but his distance hides the truth: he’s grown colder, convinced that who he is, exactly as he is, isn’t worth knowing now.
(fem!reader, FBI-adjacent!reader, p in v, car sex, naughty daydreams, yearning, slow burn, dominant!Spencer, I wrote too much)
Spencer didn’t like the archive room. It smelled too much like dry rot and old toner, and it reminded him too much of solitary and forgotten things.
Unfortunately, and a bit ridiculously, Penelope had flagged a metadata discrepancy, something about a sealed file from ‘97 that had been partially digitized and corrupted mid-upload. She’d said, “You’ve got the longest arms, and I already bribed Morgan to do something else. Don’t make me go down my list. Go grab the hard copy from Records while I ping the contractor.”
Off he went without fuss. His very useful, very important long arms swayed the whole way there.
The fluorescent lights sputtered awake, flickering through a few dying pulses. Spencer blinked at the sudden glare before his vision settled. The room looked the same as always; uncomfortably narrow with dusty surfaces, but something had already disrupted the order.
A single file waited on the counter near the back by the microfilm readers, the tab aligned just so, like whoever left it had been particular, but in a hurry. One of the pages had slipped slightly out of its clip.
The way it was just barely off bugged him, but he didn’t reach for it.
He just went to the third filing cabinet, the one with the peeling label. The drawer groaned when he pulled it open. Folders leaned sideways in a tilt, tabbed in dates and brittle colors. His fingers stopped just short of the one he’d come for.
Maybe he should straighten that page.
His molars met with a faint clack, tension creeping down his neck as he moved toward the counter, like a tic he didn’t want to have.
He reached for the page, meaning only to slide it back into place, but before his fingers even made contact, he saw it.
A slant in the margin. A loop on a capital F, too slim, and the cross of a t that cut high through the stem. You used to write like that. Upside-down in the corners of briefing packets, reading them from across the table like it didn’t matter that the text was backwards. Spencer used to tilt his head trying to catch the words, and you’d smile softly and never stop writing.
You were there…in Quantico, at the BAU?
He hadn’t seen you, and that couldn’t have been right. He would’ve noticed, of course he would’ve. He noticed everything.
The handwriting, fine. It was distinctive, but not entirely unique. The looped F could’ve been anyone’s, and plenty of people cross their t’s high. Even writing in the margins upside-down, that wasn’t unheard of. Odd, sure, but not impossible. Around 2% of the population exhibited nonstandard spatial habits.
It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t have to be you. Even if he wanted it to be.
…Unless Penelope had meant something by what she said earlier and just last week. An offhand comment about the new contractor handling the sealed juvenile cleanup. Spencer hadn’t asked her to clarify. He’d just nodded. It hadn’t mattered then.
That didn’t mean anything either. He was spiraling, and for no good reason.
Penelope talked constantly. Half of what she said was nonsense or nicknames, the other half borderline illegal, so he’d long ago learned not to take every word to heart. ‘Contractor,’ ‘juvenile cleanup,’it could’ve meant anything. Anyone.
He doubted she even remembered you. Too much time had passed, and you hadn’t opened up to just anyone. Only with people who gave you the time to. Penelope had started to, back then. He remembered she had made you laugh once and it was a real, belly laugh, the kind that made your whole posture change and face light up.
Spencer had wanted to be the one to do that.
He’d almost managed it, until you vanished like most interns eventually did.
He was being ridiculous. Making ghosts out of ink and paper. It wasn’t your handwriting. It couldn’t be. Even if it was, so what?
He wasn’t that fawning boy anymore.
The one who tried to look busy when you walked in, but kept glancing up anyway. Who spoke too quickly when you addressed him, then spent the rest of the day thinking about it. The one who lingered by the coffee machine longer than necessary, just in case you passed by.
He stopped trying to be seen after realizing no one really looked. Not unless he was bleeding or brilliant.
Now, he kept his distance. Made eye contact when necessary, stayed quiet when it wasn’t. No more reaching. No more hoping someone might reach back.
He plucked Penelope’s file from the cabinet like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just wasted ten minutes thinking about the past. His grip left a bend in the tab.
No hesitation and absolutely no second glance at the page you might’ve touched. Just right out the door, like it hadn’t rattled something tender in his chest. That stupid mushy place that never hardened right.
He walked out faster than he needed to; his footsteps sounded too loud in the near silent hallway. He adjusted his pace and straightened his shoulders.
Then stopped.
You were coming down the hall, not even ten paces ahead, backlit by the fluorescents, and the sight hit him hard enough to hurt. He rubbed the heel of his palm on his chest as he blinked rapidly. Walking toward him, not actually to him, of course, with something tucked under your arm and your gaze low, reading as you moved. With that exact same walk, the same tilt in your step.
His pulse spiked so suddenly it made him dizzy. What were the odds? No, he thought, don’t calculate them. Don’t give the moment logic.
You looked up just before passing him, probably sensing the shape of something wrong in your path.
For a moment your face didn’t know him, and that stung more than it should have. Then your eyes moved, flicked across his cheeks, his hair, his mouth, and recognition lit across your features like dawn.
“Spencer?” You said it like you didn’t mean to say it out loud just yet, like it slipped out before you could think better of it.
He blinked, mouth parting, and then hoarsely managed, “Hi.”
You didn’t smile, something in his voice must’ve caught you off guard. He didn’t blame you. It sounded different even to him these days.
“Hi,” You said back evenly, and there was something unreadable in it. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” He said, and didn’t say how long.
What would be the point? You’d either counted too, or you hadn’t thought of him at all.
You nodded slowly as if you were going to leave it at that. Let the weight of his words settle and drift past, because Spencer wasn’t exactly making conversation easy and he knew it.
Then you paused and frowned slightly as you canted your head.
“Can I ask how you’ve been?” You said carefully, almost reluctant.
He looked at you, then away, something closing off behind his eyes.
“I’ve had better decades.”
His eyes found the framed print across the hall, something abstract with harsh lines and grayscale geometry. Nothing worth looking at, which made it perfect. He focused on the soulless details, not on your pouting mouth or the faint crease near your eye he didn’t remember.
You nodded again, picking up on a signal he hadn’t meant to send. He wasn’t trying to push you away. It just came out that way. If you said it was good to see him, he might actually flinch. He didn’t want a lie, even a kind one. Even if he was the one making himself hard to read.
You moved like you were about to leave with a goodbye on your lips, and he should’ve let you, but the words slipped past his walls anyways, “How have you been?”
You blinked like you hadn’t expected him to care or ask, or maybe you just hadn’t prepared for what you’d say.
“I…I’ve been--” You paused, eyes flicking to his face again. “Good. Busy as a beaver, but that’s good too, I guess.”
Still with the idioms. He remembered the morning you told Morgan not to cry over “spoiled milk,” and he’d corrected you with a laugh. You’d said it right the next day. Spencer had smiled at his desk like a lunatic. You probably forgot, but he certainly didn’t.
The memory warmed something he didn’t want warmed. His mouth twitched, then tightened, and he focused on his breath, on the file label still clutched in his hand, on not feeling it.
The tension in his hand must’ve snagged your attention, your eyes tracked the worn tab between his fingers.
“Wait, is that one of the botched sealed cases? Penelope just told me about a few that hadn’t finished uploading.” You exhaled, like you’d been on that trail too long. “I’ve been trying to match the physicals.”
He shrugged, handing it over without ceremony, but his traitorous fingers didn’t let go right away. They skimmed yours, and it lit his nerves like a flare and instant heat rocketed down his spine.
He didn’t look at you when he let go. Just flatly said, “Penelope didn’t say it was…you.” When your eyebrow raised, he signed as he added, “She should’ve.”
“And why’s that?”
There was no bite in your words, but no tentativeness either. Just unfiltered and simple curiosity, and it disarmed him so thoroughly he couldn’t look anywhere else. His eyes dropped to your mouth and stuck there. He didn’t want to stare, but he just…couldn’t stop. Just waiting to see what else might come out.
The moment you wet your lips, he croaked out, “It would’ve made this easier.”
“Easier how?” You mused.
“Forget it. Doesn’t matter.” He dismissed, just as someone rounded the far corner.
A junior agent with a takeaway cup and a distracted look, clearly trying to slip past without getting involved. You shifted half a step to make room, and so did Spencer, instinctively. His shoulder brushed yours as he moved in front of you. The agent barely glanced up as he passed, gone in seconds, but Spencer didn’t step back.
He just stared…at you, finally.
Your face, that devastatingly sweet face. He used to steal glances, convinced you never noticed. Once, in a dream, you'd let him trace every feature with his fingertips, like a precaution against some future where his sight might fail him.
His hand moved purposefully from your cheekbone first, then chin, then the softness beneath your mouth. You didn’t stop him, just looked at him like you already knew and you’d been waiting.
Your lips parted. He slid his thumb inside, your tongue pressed lightly to the pad of his finger.
He swallowed hard, but the damage was done. His abdomen tightened, a reflex he couldn’t outthink, and he loosed a ragged breath. Shame rushed in behind the thought like floodwater. His jaw clenched as he stepped back.
You traded your weight from the left foot to the right, clearing your throat.
“I used to be easier to talk to, huh?”
Spencer forced his eyes up, only to catch your first smile at him, and, of course, it was lopsided and a little sad. It looked the same and yet completely different. It had grown up without him.
“No,” He said honestly. “I think I got harder to talk to.”
He didn’t think he could’ve smiled anyway, but if he had, it would’ve been sadder than yours.
His, he understood. Yours, he didn’t.
You both hadn’t talked much back then. Well, not often and not deeply. A few scattered conversations over lunch breaks or case files, mostly you asking questions and him rambling through the answers until he’d catch himself and apologize.
Once, you’d asked him if he thought criminals were ever actually remorseful, and he’d talked for eleven straight minutes while you ate pretzels out of a vending machine bag. When he stopped to breathe, you’d just said, “Thank you for taking the time to explain all that for me. I mean it,” like he hadn’t just dominated the whole conversation and overloaded you. He’d gone home warm for days.
So it just made sense you both wouldn’t really talk now, after all this time.
For all his degrees, he’d never quite figured you out the first time, so he doubted he'd do any better this time around.
“I don’t know,” You clasped your hands behind your back, then offered, “I’m still talking to you, aren’t I?”
The fact that it wasn’t flirty made Spencer's mouth dry out.
Flirting, he could’ve ducked or dodged or disbelieved...but sincerity had no handles. Nowhere to hold it and no way to deflect, so it just landed, and it landed violently.
“You are,” He almost left it there. “You’re…different. Not in a bad way.”
Spencer immediately wished he could rewind. He should’ve known better than to try sincerity with a mouth like his. ‘Different’ wasn’t the wrong word. Just empty without the rest of what he meant and hadn’t managed to say.
“You seem different too,” You said, voice mild and sure. “And not in a bad way.”
You shifted slightly, and the fabric of your skirt moved with you, brushing up just enough to expose the cap of one knee.
Spencer saw it and wished he hadn’t.
Years ago, you used to rub your palms there when you were nervous. He remembered it vividly: the way your hands would sweep over the smooth arc of your knees during briefings. Back then, it made him want to comfort you or perhaps just catch your eye and offer a smile, if he was brave enough that day.
Now, he wanted to watch that same hand lift the hem of your skirt slowly. He wanted to see the fabric pushed higher, inch by inch, and not stop until you were open under his stare.
Don’t go there, he thought. Don’t think about your thighs. Don’t think about his hands on them, or worse, his head between them, your fingers in his hair. Don’t think about the way you might whine if he--
He wiped a hand down his face roughly, like he could scrub the thought out.
“Well, that’s generous of you to say.”
He knew what arousal did to the brain: the flood of dopamine, the narrowed focus, the reckless firing of neurons, but science couldn’t explain why it was you. Spencer himself couldn’t explain it. You hadn’t looked at him like that before, you hadn’t really looked at him at all. Somehow it was all different now. He wanted more than a simple glance, meek smile, or the chance at a seat beside you in the briefing room.
He wanted to be wanted by you, by the once-timid girl now with a stronger voice and a straighter spine. The craving made his chest feel tight.
He tore through his chances without sympathy, which implied, foolishly, that there had been any.
You offered a small, closed-lipped smile and stepped aside. “I left a file in the archive room,” You said, gesturing toward the space he’d left only minutes ago.“I should go get it. It…it was nice seeing you again, Spencer.” The moment his brows drew together, you quickly added, “I mean it.”
He didn’t flinch like he thought he would've, but it was hard to imagine you meant it. With how distant he’d been, he wouldn’t have believed himself either.
It felt like you couldn’t wait to get away from him. He couldn’t blame you, but a new crack formed along his heart.
“Yeah, you too. Take care,” He muttered, but hoped you heard more in it than he meant to give away.
As you stepped past, your hand lifted, just lightly, to his wrist. A parting gesture to show you meant what you said.
His pulse jumped, but he kept his eyes forward.
He didn’t watch you go, but he heard the sound of your steps down the hall, as if you hadn’t stopped to break his ribs in the middle of it.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt as he stepped inside, fingers grazing the fabric like it might still be wrong. It was the third one he’d tried…wait, no, the fourth, and he’d ended up back at the first. A pale blue button-down, too nice for a place with sticky menus, but it was the one he didn’t hate the most.
The bar was dimly lit, only softened by amber sconces and laughter. Some kind of music blew through the space, a low-volume mix of late-90s indie rock, if he wasn’t mistaken. It was loud enough to make people lean in to be heard.
Someone jostled past with a drink and a lit cigarette, and Spencer’s body pulled in on itself just slightly.
He could’ve stayed home, should’ve stayed home, but you were there. He didn’t know what he expected from it, if anything, just that he wanted to be near you.
He spotted Penelope first, her hair was unmistakable even in a crowd, and JJ beside her, mid-laugh. They hadn't seen him yet.
You hadn’t noticed him yet.
And for a second, it felt like nothing had changed. As if time had folded in on itself and left him right where he started: unseen.
Then your whole face lit up with a kind of smile he didn’t remember you ever wearing.
It lit some damp, dark chamber in him. It wasn’t just how you looked, but how it felt, like being caught in a warm patch of sun.
Yet, it wasn’t for him.
Whatever Penelope had said, it made JJ laugh behind her hand and shake her head.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready to go over yet, but standing there like a lost coat rack felt worse. It made him feel obvious, like people could tell he didn’t know where to stand or who to be, or that he didn’t belong.
So he moved, cautious and crooked, shoulders too square and jaw too loose.
You were still smiling when he reached the edge of the table, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes drifting across the lineup of half-finished drinks. JJ had something golden with a salt rim, Penelope’s was pink and fizzy with too many garnishes, and yours was just water, a wedge of lemon sliding down the side. For some reason, that made his chest ease a little.
Penelope beamed as she said, “There he is! We were starting to worry you bailed.”
We, he thought. You? Did you worry he wasn’t going to show up?
“What do you want to drink?” Penelope asked, already flagging the server. “They have mocktails, and like, this really weird cucumber soda thing I think you’d secretly love. Or water, obviously. Or--”
He barely heard her after that because there was only one empty seat...right next to you. Statistically, it wasn’t that improbable. Emotionally, it felt like a cosmic dare.
He sat before he could think better of it.
“Sorry I’m late,” He muttered. “Water’s fine.”
The server came over with a polite nod, pen already poised.
“One water for the gentleman,” Penelope said brightly, like she was ordering champagne on his behalf.
Spencer gave the faintest incline of his head, a thanks he couldn’t quite get into words. His hands stayed on his thighs, resisting the urge to tug at his shirt hem, or to glance at you.
That was when he realized JJ was watching him.
He felt the weight of it like a pin between his shoulder blades. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth before he turned, meeting her eyes at last.
Her expression didn’t switch, not much, but her eyebrows raised the faintest degree. The smallest acknowledgement. She knew, and he knew she knew. He just wouldn’t say it, not even to himself.
He swallowed, unease crowded behind his sternum, and forced his gaze back down to the condensation already slipping down the side of his glass that had just been dropped off.
Penelope swirled the straw in her drink like it might jog her memory as she tried to push past the tension he knew was his fault. “Oh! You were saying something about how you ended up in records, right? Before Mr. Tall-and-Troubled walked in.” She said, eyes landing back on you.
“Actually, you didn’t really let her explain before you jumped in asking about hotties.” JJ's voice was mellow, faintly amused.
Penelope said with a wave, not looking the least bit sorry, “Okay, fine, I got curious, geez. But I was going to circle back.”
Spencer took a drink, though it didn’t help the heat crawling up his neck. He didn’t want to picture your job, your building, the people who saw you every day. He didn’t want to think about the way they might look at you, or worse, what they might imagine: your voice caught in your throat, your back arching if someone’s mouth touched the skin just above your waistband.
He had no right to that thought either, but it was his regardless, and it made him feel sick to think someone else might be chasing the same one.
His gaze lifted before he could stop it, scanning the bar in pieces. No men were looking, not at you and not at JJ or Penelope, but he kept checking anyway.
“In my defense,” You said graciously, glancing between them, “It’s hard to compete with that level of curiosity.” You adjusted the straw in your drink, then added, “I think I was saying that I did some state records work? Nothing glamorous. Then my mentor moved over to a DOJ preservation project and brought me in. Mostly forensic crosswalks, retention anomalies, that kind of thing.”
Penelope perked up almost instantly.
“Wait, so do you ever find, like, weird gaps? Stuff that got buried?” Her eyes widened. “Tell me someone’s hidden a whole second identity somewhere. I live for that.”
Spencer spoke before you could, “That kind of thing doesn’t really happen in federal records. Not in sealed holdings, at least. Everything’s cross-indexed.”
He turned slightly, spotting your small nod, then your eyes. There was a twinkle there, like you were in on something with him.
“But,” You added, voice easy and light, “I did flag a series of legacy files once that turned out to be tied to a contractor with two aliases. Nothing criminal, just sloppy merging, but I still think it’s sorta weird.”
Penelope gasped. “See? I knew you found buried treasure.”
JJ tilted her head, “I don’t know how you keep your focus with all that data. I’d go cross-eyed in a week.”
You gave a small scoff, shaking your head. “Says the profiler. You can track the inside of someone’s mind with nothing but a few interviews and case notes. That takes more focus than I’ll ever have.”
JJ reached over and gave your hand a squeeze, smiling in a way that was open and sincere. You returned it without hesitation, your mouth curving gently as your fingers curled back around hers.
A faint warmth sparked under his ribs, tangled with an ache he didn’t want to name, tightening before he could press it down.
Penelope lifted her glass, eyes darting around the table. “Okay, but where’s my compliment? ‘Cause I feel like my computer sorcery is going wickedly unappreciated here.”
Your smile went straight to Penelope, “Honestly, I don’t know anyone who makes the impossible look easier.”
A small part of him braced for you to turn next, to let that sweetness land on him. The thought itself made him flush with shame, and when it didn’t come, he swallowed hard, pretending he hadn’t expected it.
He turned toward the noise of the bar. Everywhere he looked, people leaned close, brushed lips, shared something private in the middle of the crowd. A cruel reminder of what belonged so easily to others, and never to him.
Out of the corner of Spencer’s vision, he saw Penelope’s eyes narrow playfully.
“You’ve hardly said two words since you sat down. Talk to us, long arms.”
He shifted in his seat, not quite looking at anyone. “I like listening to you guys talk.”
“Aw, see? He does love us. I knew it.” Penelope leaned toward JJ, grinning like she’d won something.
JJ gave a quiet laugh, tilting her head just slightly. “Of course he does.”
That was all it took for the two of them to slip into an easy back-and-forth, laced with years of shorthand. Spencer picked up pieces here and there until he noticed your attention settle on him instead.
He wondered if his collar looked wrong again, if his hair was sticking up at the back, if he was sitting too stiff, since he couldn’t relax into the chair at all.
You didn’t look away. “I picked up The Left Hand of Darkness a while back. It reminded me of you, probably because I remember you with Dune once.”
His head tipped in your direction after a beat, slower than it should’ve been. You, meanwhile, had already turned fully toward him, shoulders angled his way, showing that you were ready to listen to only him.
Running from you, at least inside himself, was getting harder to manage, less convincing every time he tried.
“What’d you think of it?”
You leaned into your palm, chewing at your lip, deciding how to put it.
He stared longer than he should’ve at your mouth, tongue dragging over his own lips before he even realized. He imagined lemon still fresh on your tongue from the wedge in your water, cut through with the wax-sweet of cherry, maybe strawberry, from the tint on your lips. The thought burned through him before he could shove it away.
He wanted to taste it for himself, he wanted to kiss you so, so badly.
As you spoke, he didn’t tear his eyes away from your mouth, “I thought it was going to be more…I don’t know, sci-fi? Spaceships, laser guns, but it was just these two people trying to understand each other.” You gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t expect it to feel so slow. Or so sad.”
“Le Guin wasn’t interested in technology as much as she was in people.” He paused. “A lot of people miss that the science is just a container and not the point.”
You nodded earnestly, tapping your nails lightly against your jaw like you were thinking something through.
“Yeah,” You said, “I thought it was leading somewhere else. Like there was going to be some big reveal or twist or…something.” You laughed under your breath. “When it ended, I just sat there thinking, ‘Great, so I read the whole thing wrong.’”
The corner of his mouth pulled up just a bit, and he didn’t fight it that time.
“Have you ever read The Dispossessed?” He asked as he rearranged himself in his seat, pulling his legs from under the table so he could face more toward you.
To be casual and comfortable, he told himself. Just so he wasn’t half-twisted anymore. In the process, his knee knocked into yours, and the contact drew his attention away from what he was about to say next. He looked down for a second, cleared his throat as heat rushed up his neck.
“Sorry,” He muttered. “It’s still Le Guin, but a, uh - different tone. You might like it more.”
You opened your mouth like you were about to say something, and maybe you were, but before you could, the song changed and Penelope rejoiced across the table.
“Oh, my god! This song,” She said, waving toward the speakers like she couldn’t believe it had taken this long to hear something decent. “Spencer, this is the one that used to be on that awful diner jukebox in New Mexico, remember? The one with the green tile and the chairs that stuck to everything?”
One Headlight by The Wallflowers. He blinked and for a second, he could smell the place; the burnt coffee, fryer oil, the lemon cleaner they used on the booths.
She leaned across JJ, eyes bright. “You made us stop there three times in one week. All for that sad little peach pie.”
He blinked again, pulled back into the sound of her voice before he could register the loss of yours.
“It was good,” He said, then his gaze flicked to you, then back down to the damp napkin on the table. “The crust was actually laminated. You don’t see that in diners.”
Whatever you were about to say, it was gone.
“I remember you asking if they made it from scratch.” JJ said, half-smiling. “And didn’t the waitress say something sarcastic like, ‘We churn our own butter too’?”
The music just barely hid your laugh, and something in him eased at the sound of it. Enough to make him recline back in his chair. His arm shifted with him, draping along the back of yours without much thought.
A moment later, you leaned into the backrest. He saw the change but missed everything beneath it; how your hands clasped tightly in your lap and the breath you didn’t quite let out all at once.
Penelope gripped the edge of the table with a theatrical sigh. “Okay, well now I want pie, or fries, or something. I’m starving.” She looked around the table. “Is it weird to order food this late? I need something fried and shameful. Anyone else?”
JJ nodded without hesitation. “Fries. Always fries.”
You reached for your water for a sip, then set it down again. “Oh, no. Nothing for me.” Then, with an easy motion, you stood. “I’m actually gonna run to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Spencer didn’t even move, his arm stayed where it was; resting behind an empty chair.
He could still feel the slight warmth in the wood under his hand. His fingers moved without meaning to, drifting over the grain like he didn’t want to lose what little was left.
Penelope and JJ were debating between fries and nachos. He heard the word "sriracha" and the clatter of a menu being folded, but none of it landed.
Nothing was wrong, he told himself that over and over again. You’d said you’d be right back, but something about the way you’d left, so quickly after the ease between you two. It burst a seam in whatever calm he'd managed to hold together.
His brain kept replaying it, like there was a cue he’d missed and couldn’t quite rewind to find. Or maybe there wasn’t anything to find, and that was the problem. He didn’t know what had happened, if anything.
Penelope asked the passing server if they had truffle oil, just to “put it out into the universe,” She said, and JJ laughed. Spencer sat there, trying to school his face into something neutral, something not-inward and broken.
That familiar, ridiculous feeling of trying so hard not to mess something up and somehow doing so anyway.
“Spence,” JJ said, cutting clean through the commotion.
Her stare didn’t waver, not even when a stool scraped across the floor behind her and a drink tray wobbled past at her back. The look wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t leave him anywhere to hide either.
He shifted, and met her eyes almost reluctantly.
“You gonna tell me what that was?” JJ nodded toward the empty seat. “Because it wasn’t nothing, so don’t try to say otherwise.”
His arm recoiled before he could think about it, as if the chair had gone hot under his skin.
“It was nothing,” He said quickly, fast enough to make it obvious it wasn’t.
“Then why do you look like someone drop-kicked your favorite first edition?” Penelope asked, almost cooed with a sympathetic frown. “I mean that lovingly.”
He didn’t respond, he only shook his head rashly and exhaled quietly through his nose.
Spencer let his eyes drift across the room; past the tables, past the bar, past every patron. He didn’t mean to look toward the hallway where you’d gone, but his fixation went there anyway.
It felt like he was trying to summon you with nothing but focus. To draw you back to him. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted you to save him from the conversation, or if he just wanted to see your face again.
Not until JJ tapped her knuckles against the table, grabbing his attention once more.
“You like her.” JJ said it like a fact he couldn’t deny. “Does she know that?”
He truly didn’t want to say anything. Mostly because he didn’t know what he’d say, or if saying it would make it worse, or make things somehow real.
But would that be so bad? Making it real? It wasn’t like he hadn’t already made a fool of himself tonight, one way or another. It wasn’t a crime to like someone, or to want something. Even if he didn’t know what, exactly, he wanted.
He couldn’t even tack on “if anything” anymore. He did want something.
“No,” He said finally, and it came out quieter than he meant it to, under all the noise.
He hoped, almost desperately, they didn’t hear him.
Unfortunately, they did hear, and JJ didn’t smile, but she nodded, understanding more than he wanted her to.
“You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to. Not to us, at least. Just don’t pretend there’s nothing you want to say to her.” JJ said.
The thought of saying something, anything, to you made his heart falter. What would he even say? That he remembered how kind you’d been, even back then. That your voice still sounded the same, maybe a little deeper now, more certain, but still warm. That you’d always given people time to talk, even when they didn’t deserve it. He surely didn’t.
That your full laugh had split him in two. That it hurt a little, in the best way, of course.
That you looked different, but not really. Your hair had changed. Your mouth hadn’t. Your lips still pressed together the same way when you were thinking. You even had smile lines now, and they were small but permanent, like you’d finally felt free enough to smile more often.
And your body--
He pressed his palm into his thigh, felt the muscle displace under the pressure.
He thought about your body more than he wanted to admit. The shape of it, the weight of it, the imagined heat of your skin beneath his unruly hands. The ridiculous, aching need to kiss along the curve of your hip, your stomach, the soft skin just behind your ear. Every inch he wanted to touch, out of reverence, out of some dumb, dizzy hope to be allowed that close to someone who made him feel so alive…so completely.
It embarrassed him, the sheer detail of his own memory. How vividly he “remembered” things he hadn’t even experienced. Places he hadn’t touched, but still longed to anyway. He had to be insane. Had to be, without a doubt.
“Well, when you do figure it out,” Penelope said, leaning in a little. “Can you make it at least a little swoony? Some girls like to swoon. I think she might. She seems like the type.”
He didn’t even know how to talk to you, let alone how to make you swoon.
“I don’t know,” JJ said, her laugh mellower now. “She doesn’t seem like the swooning type. Maybe when we first knew her, but not now.”
“What? Yes she is,” Penelope replied immediately, mock-offended. “You’re telling me she wouldn’t melt if he did something heartfelt? Please.”
They kept going, blurring into the background. He couldn’t focus on their back and forth while he was having his own internal debate, rewinding every moment he’d had with you over the last few hours, even that brief exchange by the archive room. Trying to pin it all against the version of you he used to know. The quiet intern with too many notebooks and the long silences.
Would you want something swoony? Would that feel too forced? Too obvious? Did you even want anything at all?
He hadn’t a clue what you expected from him. Worse, he wasn’t sure what part of him you were even seeing. He’d been trying to offer the least shattered version of himself, hoping that would be enough, but fearing it only made him seem lifeless.
The questions kept relentlessly circling, tripping over each other and making even more of a mess. He couldn’t sit with them any longer.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed back from the table and stood.
“I’ll be right back.”
He wove through the crowd, dodging half-full beers and the aimless stumbles of men who’d been drinking since before the sun went down. The hallway near the bathrooms was narrow and dim, tiled in that way-too-clean fake marble.
He stood stupidly in line for the men’s room, pretending he was waiting his turn as he eyed the door across the way. A minute later, an older woman stepped out, purse clutched tight.
Not you.
His eyes lingered on the door even after it shut. You weren't there, which meant - what? That you’d slipped past him, the entire group? He watched you walk in this direction. He turned slightly, scanning the narrow hallway. There was a service door at the end, half-shadowed and unlabeled. Would you sneak out without saying goodbye? That didn’t track. Or did something bad happen?
His eyes lingered on the exit, more shadow than shape the longer he looked. Something bad, something bad, something bad. The thought rooted before he could pull it up.
He tried to reason with it, to flatten the rising noise in his head, but the cases started flashing through anyway; reports of women disappearing between the bar and the parking lot, assaults in back hallways, just out of view. He’d read them, had studied them, and interviewed families after the fact.
He tried to tell himself it was nothing. That you were fine, that he was being irrational But that’s what the wrong people always said after the fact, and Spencer wasn’t built for after the fact.
He hated how easily he could picture it. Hated that he couldn’t tell if the panic rising in him was rational, or just his own selfish fear.
His feet moved before his thoughts could catch up. A push through the emergency bar on the service door, the hollow metal clattered behind him, and suddenly the night was impossibly louder than inside, too wide and obscure.
He scanned the alley: random bricks, overflowing garbage bins, grease-stained cardboard. A crumpled napkin at the base of a lamppost. Absolutely nothing important, nothing he cared about.
Maybe behind the dumpster at the other end? He walked over, eyes adjusting to the flickering light. Just fleeting shadows and roaches. No shoes, no figure, no you.
Then his head turned toward the employee cars, all lined like teeth in the back lot, and his chest tightened. He checked between the bumpers, still looked for a shape too still, a coat crumpled, just anything.
Then he rounded the corner of the building, heart already pitching sideways, toward the front lot…
…and stopped.
You, finally. Thankfully.
There were a few people loitering near their cars, laughing way too loudly, the glow of cigarettes painting little arcs in the dark. Spencer eyed them wearily as he approached you.
You were off to the side, leaned against the brick wall of the building like you’d been there a while. Arms crossed, head bowed slightly, eyes fixed on a pebble.
An invisible pressure released in his chest, enough to let him breathe, but it was immediately replaced by something else. Something heavier and murky, because if nothing bad had happened…then why were you out there, alone?
He shoved his hands in his front pockets as he stepped off the lot, onto the narrow concrete stretch by the wall.
The scuff of his shoes nabbed your attention.
You looked up, and gasped, hand flying to your chest like your heart had leapt all the way up to your throat.
Then, seeing it was him, your shoulders dropped.
It shouldn’t have meant anything to him, but it did. He’d been so sure you wouldn’t want him to be the one who found you out here.
“I just needed some air and some quiet. I was about to come back in - I was, I just--” You trailed off, gave a helpless sort of gesture, then smiled; small, sheepish, and a little guilty.
“I thought you left.” The words came out flat, a bit too honest. He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “Sorry. That’s not fair. I just...didn’t know where you were.”
His voice caught on the last word, and he looked away, embarrassed and ashamed.
You blinked so quickly a lash landed on your cheek as you said, “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I just needed a minute. That’s all.” You looked down, then back up at him, more serious now. “I’m sorry I worried you guys - you, I’m sorry if I worried you.”
He gnawed at the inside of his cheek as he stood across from you. Both of you watched the other wholly, like a single glance held too long could give something vital away. Breath shallow, eyes way too full.
He wanted to say something. Anything. A confession, a question, just enough to close the distance, even if the answers stung.
But it wasn’t him who spoke first.
“Spencer,” You said gently, “Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? You’re kind of all over the place with me, and I just - I don’t want to make you feel weird.”
He closed his eyes for a second. It touched the nerve he’d been avoiding: the fear that he was hurting you without meaning to, and the worst part, he couldn’t say for sure that he wasn’t. And how maddening it was, because he liked you, he wanted you close, but wanting someone and knowing how to handle that want were two entirely different things.
Right then, he only knew one thing for certain: he wanted you, and he couldn’t deny it anymore.
Entirely. Terribly. Sincerely. He craved you.
“No, never,” He said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I haven’t been handling things that great lately.”
For a very long time actually, he thought, but you threw another wrench in the works.
He could tell you were trying to make sense of his pitiful explanation by how your brows pinched briefly, but couldn’t, so you only gave a defeated nod. It made him feel even farther from you than before, that he’d just created another unspoken mess neither of you knew how to unspool.
With the smallest smile, enough to soften the space between you, you whispered, “I hope things get better, or just easier.”
Spencer lowered his eyes, the movement almost ceremonial, as if to bow before your words rather than risk breaking them with his own. His head bent toward you with mute appreciation.
The spell cracked when the lot roared alive again. A group of men burst out. All sweat and swagger, laughing over some indecipherable joke no one would remember in the morning.
“Not much difference between inside and out the bar, huh?” You said wistfully as you pushed off from the wall. “I guess we should head back in.”
He didn’t move, not an inch, as you lingered there in the low light, waiting for him. He felt it, the expectation that he’d fall in step, that he’d make the choice simple. He just couldn’t, not yet, at least. He wanted to move with you, every instinct pulling him forward, but his body refused.
Because stepping back inside meant breaking that precious bubble, that fragile pocket where it was only the two of you.
He only wanted more of this, more of you to himself, though he knew it was selfish with Penelope and JJ waiting inside.
“We don’t have to go back in yet. We could sit in my car for a few minutes, if you want.”
You went silent, eyes on the pavement, your hands moving like they didn’t know where to go; fussing at your cuticles, then twisting the fabric of your dress, then behind your back in a restless clasp. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t an easy yeseither.
Spencer stood there, still not moving, suddenly afraid that his offer had cornered you somehow, that it put pressure where there wasn’t meant to be any.
Maybe he should take it back, he thought. Say he hadn’t meant anything by it.
Before he could, you took one step to him and said, “Yeah, okay. Just for a bit.”
You said it so simply he almost didn’t process it. His thoughts kept running, kept planning how to backtrack, how to unmake the stilted moment, but now there was nowhere to put them. The words were already out there. You’d stepped past him and off the curb.
So he did too.
Both of you fell into step without speaking. Not perfectly, not all at once, he took a few strides too slow at first, then picked up half a beat, just as you adjusted to match him.
He scanned the lot along the way, reading everything around him. The parked cars with fogged windows, taillights that were still warm, snippets of sloshed conversations carried on the breeze. One man leaned against his hood, talking to someone out of sight. Another man, standing near his car, looked up as you passed and didn’t look away fast enough.
Spencer’s hand rose, light against your lower back as he guided you.
His car waited a few paces from the far end of the lot, tucked in a patch of dimness where the last streetlight had long since burned out. The sedan was older but clean, silver dulled slightly by time.
Spencer pulled his keys from his pocket, and unlocked the car with a chirp. He stepped forward, not saying anything, and opened the passenger door like it was instinct.
You murmured a quiet “thank you” as you ducked inside, and though he didn’t speak, he lingered there for a second before making his way around to the driver’s side.
The door shut with a muted thud that made the car tremble just slightly, and then the silence spread between you, so sudden and almost ironically overwhelming. There was no longer any music, no voices and no street noise leaking in. Just the hush of the cabin and the faint sound of your breathing that he could tell you were failing to steady.
He was too, especially as you moved, smoothing the bottom of your dress as you scooted back against the seat. The burnt umber linen flowed over your legs.
Spencer kept his eyes forward. Well, he really tried to.
But he could see the way it settled mid-thigh. Shorter than anything he’d ever seen you wear. The hem inched higher when you folded one knee over the other, baring the plush slope of your upper leg, and Spencer’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
He hadn’t meant to look, and definitely hadn’t meant to keep looking.
But it didn’t even matter when he forced his view out the windshield, he couldn’t unsee that image. Couldn’t unfeel the pull of it, the foolhardy thought of sliding down into the narrow space at your feet, pressing himself between your legs until you had no choice but to touch him finally, to tell him everything he’d never been brave enough to ask before.
He wanted to know what you’d thought of him all those years ago, when you were mousy and reserved, tucking yourself behind casefiles and ill-fitting clothes, and he was the one fumbling over coffee lids, speaking too fast, trying too hard. Back when his hair was too long, his ties too wide, and his eagerness came out sideways until it embarrassed even him.
He wanted to hear you say what you’d meant back by the archive room: You seem different too, and not in a bad way.
He wanted to know what you saw in him now, after everything.
The thought knotted all ugly in his chest, tight enough he had to clear his throat, and his legs shifted, knees spreading as he tugged at the fabric of his trousers. Such a clumsy attempt at looking casual when every nerve in him was anything but.
Maybe you saw the jitter in his hand, or maybe he’d already fractured the peace so badly you let it go when you said, “I like your shirt. Light blue is one of my favorite colors.”
He didn’t turn toward you. He kept his vision pinned to the dark glass of the window, his fingers tugging at the cuffs, working the button loose and fastening it again, needing the distraction.
“I remember that,” He murmured after a beat. “That light blue was your favorite.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” He said, I remember the cornflower blue mug you kept at your desk. In some of the socks you wore, just peeking out above your shoes. Just little flashes of it everywhere.
“I remember your collars used to be slightly crooked sometimes,” You said, voice loaded with fondness. “I always wanted to fix them, but I couldn’t muster up the courage to even tell you.” With your pause, he slowly turned his head toward you again, and there it was, a wry smile tugging endearingly at your mouth. “It’s doing it again, it’s crinkled on the left.”
It had been fine when he left the house, he remembered checking. Twice. Then again, he’d fussed with his reflection the whole drive over. From his collar, to his hair, his cuffs, back to his hair. As if it really mattered, like any of it might make a difference.
Instinctively, he reached up to smooth it, fingertips grazing the edge, but then he stopped, his hand stalling mid-air as you spoke…
“Would it be okay if I…?” You asked, already starting to lift your hand, but slow enough that he could stop you. “You know, just…eleven years late.”
At first, he just looked at you, and you looked right back.
It was as if time itself had circled in on that moment, tightening the loop until it touched down in the middle of the car, until it found the first glance you’d ever shared, long ago across a cluttered bullpen, and layered it over this one.
Neither of you dared move yet, not even a breath too loud, only the look, and the thousand things it carried: over a decade of almosts, of silent moments, of what ifs folded neatly into what now.
He didn’t trust his voice not to splinter, so he only angled his head toward you. Not a full turn, but enough to expose the fold on the left, enough to say yes without saying anything at all.
You leaned in with such care that it made his stomach twist as your fingers found the ruffle and pressed the fabric back into shape. He could feel your breath, humid and uneven and gentle, stroking the cords of his neck, and he couldn’t help it, the way his pulse surged hard behind his ribs.
If he turned now, just a little, his lips would find your cheek. If you looked up, if you tilted your chin, he could kiss you.
He thought he’d know what your lips felt like after all this time wondering.
“Done,” You murmured, but didn’t move away as your hand slowed against his collar until it rested completely.
Please please please don’t pull away, he thought, the words between plea and panic. Every blink of your lashes felt like a warning, like the flutter of something waking up and realizing where it was, what it had done. Like the twitch of a fawn’s ear right before the brush moved.
He wanted, no - needed - to keep you close, even if he was the monster in the overwood.
Before he could second-guess himself; gently, his fingers closed around yours as he guided them to his cheek, and held them there with a light press. The warmth was immediate, sinking in so deep and too fast. He hadn’t meant to want it so much, especially hadn’t meant to show it so impulsively, but it was there and utterly undeniable. It embarrassed him how little resistance he’d managed.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He said above a whisper.
“I don’t even think I can put it into words.” You said, and your thumb swept gently along his jaw as if that might explain it better.
It didn’t.
“Try,” He held your hand tighter.
“I…what about you?” You asked instead, voice almost inaudible. “What are you thinking, Spencer?”
His head dipped, fingers slackening around yours, just shy of letting go.
His voice barely surfaced, “I was thinking about kissing you,” He said. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
Long enough that saying it out loud would’ve made him sound like a man who’d built some ridiculous fantasy, all starry-eyed and grasping at things that never really belonged to him.
He’d never really been inside your world. He wasn’t then and wasn’t now. Just a background figure, a name in passing, maybe a fleeting glance here and there, and yet, he wanted you with a force that didn’t quite make sense.
How do you say that out loud? How do you admit that you’ve spent years aching over someone you barely got to know, someone who left, lived a life without you, and then reappeared like a ghost you never stopped seeing?
It was outrageous, gravely unfair, and somehow all-consuming at the same time.
“And I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a long time.”
His mind scrambled to calculate what your “long time” meant. Years? Months? Since tonight? But his body didn’t wait for an answer.
He leaned in too fast, too desperate, and his lips caught the corner of your mouth instead. You gasped, before your hands rose to either side of his face and kept him level and steady, right where you wanted him.
Right where he wanted to be.
The second kiss found your mouth perfectly, guided into place, and it was nothing and somehow everything like he’d imagined. It was slower, so much sadder, and infinitely sweeter.
He hadn’t expected your lips to be that soft. Well, maybe he had. He certainly imagined them as tender and unreal and devastating, but the truth was worse, because now he actually knew. Now he knew how they felt, how you tasted - raspberry, not strawberry or cherry. How you kissed him like you wouldn’t ever have another chance to.
He’d never, ever be able to forget it.
Because all that wanting terrified him, with how sharp it was and how full. Perhaps the night would end and you’d forget it all, or that your mouth had been some trick of the light and your fingers on his collar had never really happened.
He deepened the kiss with a cautious, devotional press of his tongue, like he thought maybe if he kissed you thoroughly enough, the years wouldn’t matter. That maybe your soul would meet him halfway.
A guttural, helpless sound slipped from him the moment your tongue met his.
His hand rose to cradle the back of your head. He needed you to stay exactly where you were, no floating away.
The whimper that left you pulled him under, then your fingers curled into the longer strands at the back of his head and gave a slight tug.
Your lips barely parted from his. The space between you wasn’t even a breath wide. Foreheads pressed together and noses bumped as you panted, visibly wrecked, like the air couldn’t find your lungs fast enough.
He should’ve been satisfied. That one kiss should’ve been enough to last him another decade, but it wouldn’t.
“Please,” He sighed, lips grazing yours. “That wasn’t enough, just one more.”
You gave him a simple peck, lips barely touched his for more than a few seconds. A kiss too brief, too petal-soft, too careful. It unjustly tormented him with how small it was compared to everything he felt.
He leaned in before he could help it - not that he would’ve - seizing your mouth again with more intensity, spates upon spates of crushing desire.
He couldn’t see the smile so much as feel it; a gentle tilt of your mouth into his, like you’d just unlocked some long-buried myth of Spencer Reid. That you finally saw it: how badly he wanted you, how ruinously close he was to falling apart.
‘One more’ would never be enough.
You fisted the fabric at his chest, drawing him closer until the console pressed hard against his ribs and you couldn’t pull anymore. He bent anyway, content to let the plastic edge dig into him. As if it was proof you wanted him close enough for it to hurt.
His free hand closed around your wrist where it gripped his shirt, thumb resting over your pulse, as his mouth changed. Wetter, sloppier, with no real shape to it anymore. Just breath and tongue and the throaty sound it pulled out of him as he dragged you closer too.
You hit the console with a jolt, belly first, and it only made him grab harder after hearing you whine.
“Spencer, Spen--” You stammered between his incessant kisses.
You squirmed, trying to ease the angle, hip twisting against the console as you murmured something under your breath. Probably ow, or maybe hold on because he was being way too bold and ambitious, borderline unforgiving.
He didn’t let you go. Not an inch or a millimeter if that comfort wasn’t closer, and it wasn’t.
“No, come here,” He rasped, voice frayed.
He pulled you straight into his lap, your knees bracketing his, arms draped loosely around his neck. Your dress gathered high at your thighs, the hem bunched where his palms curved underneath, holding the backs of your legs.
Like he needed to feel every inch of your weight to believe you were real, not just in one of his daydreams, where nothing had mass and he could never quite quantify a single thing. Where he could never get the shape of your body absolutely right, never accurately remember how your voice sounded, never once imagine the exact way you’d taste.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, needing one more proof point; scent.
Something floral and sugary, likely jasmine and pear, the kind of perfume that clung to sweaters and pillowcases. Underneath it, the real you bled through; warm skin, faint shampoo, a trace of salt. Something he’d never be able to replicate in his memory.
Your head turned slightly, shoulder shifting beneath his cheek. He felt the swivel before you spoke.
“Spencer,” You crooned, eyes flicking toward the glass on each side. “Someone could see us.”
He didn’t pull back, didn’t lift his face. Just let his fingers press into the plush curve of your thighs.
“Next time,” He murmured, “We’ll be somewhere no one can see.” His voice cracked as he added, “And I’ll take my time then.”
The second the words left him, his whole body tensed. Wanting was one thing, but wanting again, the suggestion of after, that was too much. That was greedy. That was a boy’s hope, and he didn’t get to be that anymore.
You pressed both hands to his chest, trying to lean back far enough to see him. Your spine hit the steering wheel with a dull thunk, but you didn’t flinch or reposition yourself again, but his hands loosened instinctively, senselessly.
He tried not to look right at you as he turned his face toward your shoulder, toward the heat he already missed, but you found his chin and lifted. He didn’t even resist, he just blinked up at you with shallow breaths and repentant eyes.
“You want a next time?” You asked, like it hurt to say.
He didn’t understand why your voice broke like that, why asking him that question sounded like a wound ripped open.
Unless you didn’t believe he meant it. Unless you thought he’d take what he wanted and vanish. That the whole thing had been a fluke, some lapse in his otherwise sound judgment. Maybe you thought he only wanted you right there, not after, not anywhere else.
He searched for a better reason, anything other than that, and found nothing but guilt.
He saw it, clear as day. How every moment up until now had written a different story, one where he was closed off, unreadable, at arms-length. Always just out of reach.
In the hallway, at the bar, and on the sidewalk outside.
He hadn’t offered you comfort when you reached for it. Hadn’t met you emotionally, even when you’d tried to crack him open. He’d watched you smile so freely now and hadn’t even smiled back, watched you hesitate and hadn’t soothed it. And now he’d kissed you like he couldn’t function without it, and expected you to believe that meant something.
That was so very cruel, and he hadn’t meant to be cruel.
The burn behind his eyes hit hard, but he didn’t blink it away. He wouldn’t let himself look away either. He held your stare.
“I want a lot of things when it comes to you.”
You shook your head, eyes suddenly fixed on the line of buttons at his chest as your fingers toyed with one.
“You want a lot of things when it comes to me…” You said slowly, testing the shape of the words, then your lips twisted before you added, “Show me one of them then?”
It was mercy you weren’t pulling away, that you weren’t done with him.
He should’ve said something better and way sooner. He should’ve done a lot of things.
Should’ve asked you questions in the hallway, real and sincere ones, instead of pretending he wasn’t desperate to know what had changed. Should’ve joined in at the bar instead of sitting off to the side like a shadow, listening without adding a single thing.
Yet, you were still there, asking him to show you what he hadn’t been brave enough to say, and that time, he wouldn’t fail you.
“Anything for you. Anything,”
He smoothed his hand along the side of your face first, taking in the warmth of your skin again, the curve of your cheekbone, the texture of the tiny hairs near your ear. Down your neck, where he paused, his thumb brushing once over your pulse. To your shoulder, then your arm. Where goosebumps lingered from the very first second he’d touched you. He smoothed them down, wanting to calm the reaction the same way he wished he could calm the ache in your eyes. With nothing but care.
His other hand drifted lower, skimming the back of your thigh again with his fingertips, then the front, noticing the jump of your muscles there. The skin there was softer, thinner somehow, like the sun hadn’t touched that part of you in months. A few loose threads clung there too, static-welded. He brushed them off gently, careful not to press too hard, worried even that could leave a mark.
He needed to remember every detail, and he would. If his memory ever gave out, he’d relearn you with his hands. Again and again, until he got it right.
Your legs shifted wider without thought, a reflex you didn’t seem to notice or correct, like your body had decided for you. So, he followed wordlessly, his touch traveling inward, across the delicate skin of your inner thigh, then just beneath the hem of your dress.
He wanted to go higher, but he held himself where he was, letting the want stretch deliriously long between his fingertips and the place he hadn’t yet touched.
His hands ached with the want of more, but he gave it to his mouth instead as he leaned in a little too quickly, lips finding the side of your throat to place a tender open-mouthed kiss. Then another, lower, and then one just beneath your jaw, longer and hungrier.
He needed to leave a trace somewhere you couldn’t brush off.
He kissed the other side of your throat, then nipped at the skin just beneath your ear, a flick of tongue and the faintest pressure from his teeth.
“I want to show you another one,” He drawled, each word slower than the last. “Of the things I want.” He kissed your jaw once more. “Let me make you feel it.”
The turn of your head nudged his jaw, a pivot that pulled him away before he meant to stop, and he felt your gaze flick outward again.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” He said quietly. “Just say it and I will. I promise.”
He’d have done anything you asked him to right then. Anything. Said it, proved it, dropped it.
He didn’t care that you both were in a parking lot, didn’t care about the hour or the press of the world beyond the windows. All of it faded, unimportant and colorless, so long as no one took this from him, so long as you stayed.
But he cared if you cared.
Silk-light fingers trailed down his arm to his wrist until they reached his hand still resting at your thigh. You guided him higher and higher, like you knew exactly what he wanted but wanted it more.
“I don’t care about anything else right now.” You murmured, needy and sure. “I just want you.”
The sound of it, the certainty and urgency, punched square through him. His breath caught, his hips jerked up before he could stop them. A low groan tore from him as your gaze dropped, landing on the thick press of him straining through his pants.
His hand didn’t need to be led anymore; his thumb traced along the center of your underwear, where the fabric clung to you with heat and dampness. Even through it, he felt the plush seam of you underneath…so soaked, so sensitive, and parted just enough that the pad of his thumb skimmed every curve and dip of your core.
That told him everything - how much you wanted this and wanted him, and it shattered the last of his restraint.
He gripped your thighs tight, dragging you forward in his lap, mouth snatching yours in a kiss that was all tongue and shameless longing. He rutted up into you tentatively at first, then his breath hitched as he swore he could feel the slick drag of your panties through his pants. He thrust up again, harder that time, needing more and more.
Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging through the blue linen as you rocked against him, gasping into his mouth like you couldn’t get close enough either.
Want, when it came from you, wasn’t just arousing; it was unbearable because he wanted to devour it, to coax every tremble out of you and feel it in his own bones, to lose himself in what you’d let him give you.
He brought both hands to your face, cupping it fully, palms warm against your cheeks with your hair trapped flat beneath them.
The kiss stopped so he could whisper a confession, “I don’t want to want you like this,” Forehead to forehead. “So much it scares me, so much I don’t think I’ll know how to stop.”
“How do you want me?” Your voice was mild and curious as you cupped his face like he was cupping yours. “We don’t have to stop.” You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, one under his eye, his temple, then to the crease between his brows. “I don’t want to.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and he worried he might break. Then, reverently and deeply, he kissed you so he wouldn’t. It felt like you’d just offered him something he’d spent his whole life pretending not to need.
“I want you here,” He admitted, nudging your nose with his. “And after this…I-I’ll never stop wondering how I ever got this lucky. I’ll give you everything I have, if you’ll let me.”
Your hips slowly rolled down over his, forcing a broken sound from deep in his throat.
Spencer’s hands slipped from your face to your waist, only to grip hard, holding you in place. His erection pressed firm against your center, the contact nearly too much.
His voice broke close to your ear, “If you do that again, I’ll take you right here like I said I wanted to. I don’t care who sees.”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in and snatched his bottom lip between your teeth, a sweet little bite that made him groan, before grinding down on him the best you could under his hold.
Once again, his mouth was on yours, capturing you in a kiss so bruising, so desperate, it made your head tip back. One hand flew to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pressing you deeper into it like he needed to feel your mouth from the inside out.
Something inside him gave out, his sanity or his control. Maybe both.
His other hand bunched the skirt of your dress up high on your hips, fisting and wrinkling the material in a rush to get to you. When his fingers found the edge of your panties, he didn’t hesitate; he tugged them aside with a rough breath, then dragged his fingers through your arousal, smearing it across your folds.
With a whimper, you pressed yourself into his touch. Hips bucked without thought, chasing his hand, trying to shift him, guide him, anything to make his thumb land exactly where you needed it.
Then he felt your hands fumbling for his belt, clumsy and frantic, fingers trembling as they worked open the buckle, then the zipper, like you couldn’t get to him fast enough. He felt it too, that same desperation, that it wasn’t fast enough. So he helped with the rest, shoving the waistband of his boxers down just far enough to free himself, thick and flushed and aching only for you.
You looked down, breath catching at the sight of him, then glanced back up with a look he couldn’t place. He tilted his head, trying to name it: passion, maybe awe, or something that was too sentimental to name…until your thumb swept over the head of his cock, gathering the slick there and spreading it, just like he did for you moments ago.
Every thought faded into oblivion.
Your hand was soft. Too soft for what he’d done to you. He knew it, he’d gripped, ground, groaned into you like a man possessed. While you touched him like he deserved care, when he really didn’t. For one disorienting second, he felt bad. Then you rolled your hips, slick and needy, and it knocked every ounce of softness right out of him.
He helped you find him, helped you angle just right, and then froze, because the moment your body started to take him, he stopped breathing. You were so warm, so tight around him already, and he knew…he just knew there’d never be anything - anyone - else after that.
Your eyes stayed locked on his the whole way down. He held them as long as he could until it became too much and he tipped his head back, jaw clenched, fighting not to come already.
“Talk to me,” He begged, casting shame to the wayside. “Tell me what this means to you, tell me I’m not just some fuck to forget.”
He’d already said it twice, that he wanted a future, wanted to try for one. Either time, you hadn’t answered, and now, with your body wrapped around him and his heart wide open, he needed something, anything.
Because you were unforgettable, and he didn’t think he could survive not being the same to you.
Your voice wobbled, meek against his cheek. “What if the real me isn’t what you’re hoping for?”
A beat passed, somehow too short and too long, before your body sank down fully onto his cock, burying him to the hilt.
Spencer’s head jerked up, eyes fixed on yours as he rolled up into you, letting his body meet every inch of where yours had taken him. Where he felt the flutter of your muscles, inside and out.
“I know this,” He said, hips shifting deeper. “I know how you feel around me. How I feel with you. Let me learn the rest.”
“Spencer--”
He heard the worry in your voice, the tremor beneath his name.
“Then let me find out,” He said, voice cracking. “Whatever’s real, whatever’s you, I want it. Even if I don’t know you yet, I...I want to.”
You reached for the buttons of his shirt, undoing the top few to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
“No, you’re not someone I’ll forget,” You promised, peppering kisses over his collarbone. “You never were.”
He just kissed you, his tongue worshiping yours; wet, rhythmic, and endless, with everything he couldn’t say. A hand slid down from your waist, trailing over your stomach until his fingers found the place just above where your bodies met. He circled his fingertips over your clit, gentle and completely attuned.
Then he moved inside you again fully, each thrust deliberate and deep.
The windows fogged, breath and body heat curling into the glass, just as tightly as you curled and clenched around him.
He was losing himself, fast. Every sound you made, he tasted. Every shift of your hips to meet his, pushed him closer to the edge. He tried to slow down, tried to savor it, to make it last, but each time he did, you whimpered in protest, and his resolve crumbled.
He couldn’t deny you. Not in that moment and not ever. If you wanted more, he’d give you everything and then some.
Your mouth parted from his, but didn’t go far, lips still brushing disjointedly. The kiss wasn’t a kiss anymore, just a blur of open mouths and needy sounds as your pleasure started to build.
Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, dazed. He couldn’t help it, he had to see you, and what he found unraveled him even further: your eyes shut tight and brow creased like you were being pulled apart in the best possible way.
He felt like the luckiest man alive to be the one undoing you, and to have you undoing him.
His own climax crept up his spine like a fuse catching flame, spreading outward through his body until he could feel it in his fingertips, in the trembling of the hand still lovingly between your legs.
But he refused to let go before you, not when you were that close. Definitely not when your body thrummed around him like you were already half there.
He leaned in, mouth dragging down your jaw to your throat. His kisses turned hungrier as he searched, desperate to find that spot that would tip you over.
Spencer found it in no time; the bend where your neck met your shoulder. He knew, without a doubt, that was the place. That was where your pulse thudded too hard, too fast, where your hips shook just so. He began to nip and soothe, to tongue that spot with dreamy loops.
“Right here?” He whispered into it, his voice hoarse. “You’ll come for me if I stay right here?”
You only turned your head, offering more of your throat in silence, but silence wasn’t enough.
“Don’t do that,” He encouraged as he blew air over your sweet spot. “Don’t go quiet on me, I need to hear it.”
“Yes, please. Please,”
Spencer let out a ragged groan at the sound of your voice, at that breathless please.
He pressed a kiss to your throat again, open-mouthed and shaking, before bringing his tongue back to that spot with renewed devotion. Slow, precise circles, just like before. Exactly how you needed it.
You clung to him, quivering as your hips stuttered against his, every breath snagged on his name as he worked you closer and closer.
“Spencer, Spencer, Spencer--”
He didn’t stop, he didn’t dare. He felt it, that tension building inside you, tightening around him in waves. His hand remained between your legs - as if it had anywhere else better to be - tempting you, syncing with the movement of his tongue as your body began to quake.
Then you broke.
Your walls fluttered tight around him, spasming with your release, and the sound you made…it was high and wrecked and sensual. Something he’d never forget, something he’d seek again and again, as many times as you’d let him. He could live off the sound of it.
You slumped forward into him, boneless, your face tucked into his neck as if your body couldn’t hold itself up any longer. He fretted that it really couldn’t.
So, Spencer caught you instantly; arms winding tight around your back, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. His hips slowed and softened, the rhythm gentling into something more tender. Less urgency and more devotion.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” He said as his lips brushed your hairline, then your temple.
He didn’t stop moving inside you, not completely. He just rocked with you now, more comfort than craving, trying to soothe you from the inside out.
He couldn’t remember the last time he felt that full. Like he was right where he was meant to be, with someone who trusted him enough to fall into him, not away, and let him stay, like he’d always wanted to.
And somehow, that was what finished him; the weight of you folded into him, your heartbeat ticking in front of his own. The sound of his name still echoing in his ears, and the unbearable gift of knowing you let him have this, have you.
It rippled through him before he could brace for it. That hot, sharp, and all-consuming pleasure that had him coming with a gasp, still buried deep and holding you tight enough to shake.
Neither of you moved.
There was only the rise and fall of heavy breath, tangled together in the thick, quiet air between you. His chest rose beneath yours, yours stuttered above his.
Everything else fell away: the fogged windows, the cooled sweat, the ache in his thighs. All of it dulled beneath the warm press of your body.
He didn’t want to let go, but the moment the haze cleared, guilt settled in. There was absolutely no guilt for touching you, for wanting you and needing you like that, but for where it happened. For how fast and how exposed he let you be.
That wasn’t how he wanted your first time to be, not crushed between his body and the steering wheel as the seatbelt buckle dug into your kneecap.
You deserved a bed, a real one. Sheets pulled back, time unspooling slowly, every inch of your body seen and praised the way you deserved.
“You should’ve had more than this,” He said remorsefully against the crown of your head. “I don’t regret you, not for a second, but I hate that this is the memory I gave you.”
You straightened with soft insistence, and cupped his face in both hands. Your thumbs brushed the stubble at his jaw.
“You could say the same about yourself,” You said thoughtfully. “You deserved more than this too, Spencer. You deserved time and comfort and adoration.” His throat worked around something thick, unspeakable. “But I wanted you. So badly I couldn’t stop, and nothing you say will make me regret that or wish I had more.” Your thumbs pressed firmer, urging him to believe you.“This wasn’t a mistake. It was us, and I’ll remember that, not the car.”
Spencer’s eyes darted away, lashes low. Your words had touched something he wasn’t ready to face head on just yet. You’d answered his deepest fear so plainly, so willingly, that it frightened him with how easily you saw through him and how unflinchingly you chose him anyway.
So he busied himself with what his hands could do.
Without a word, he reached down and carefully pulled your panties over your center with respectful hands, then gently smoothed your dress back over your thighs. He tugged the hem into place, as if reassembling you meant keeping you safe.
Then he reached for the seatbelt buckle that had pressed into your knee, shoving it aside, and caressing his knuckles over the mark it left.
He still didn’t meet your gaze.
As he reached to tuck himself back into his underwear and trousers with his free hand, his movements slowed by the weight of everything unsaid and you gently nudged his hand aside.
“I got it,” You mumbled.
Spencer froze, letting you take over.
You handled him with the same care he’d given you as you guided the fabric back into place, then zipped up his fly. Next, your fingers found his belt, buckling it with ease, and when you saw the rumpled edges of his shirt, you didn’t hesitate to smooth it down and tucked it back into his pants. One hand pressed lightly to his stomach as you made sure everything was neat again.
Then you reached for the buttons you’d undone earlier. One. Two. Three.
You fastened each one with calm fingers, as if sealing something in, or keeping something precious from slipping away. He didn’t know.
Only once you were done did you look up at him again, eyes kind and open.
His mouth opened like he wanted to say something heavier, something big and permanent, but what came out instead was:
“Did you drive yourself tonight?”
It sounded awkward even to him, but the need beneath it was plain. After everything, he wanted to be useful in some way, somehow.
You shook your head no, pressing your lips together to keep a smile at bay.
“Would you let me drive you home?” His shoulders relaxed, but his voice was still tentative.
He wanted to make sure you were okay, to stay near you for as long as he was allowed.
“If Penelope will let you,” You said, a glint of humor in your eyes. “She might not forgive you for ditching her and JJ.” Then you swiftly added, “Well, us. I ditched too.”
Spencer let out a soft, almost breathless laugh. “She’ll survive.”
“Will she?” You teased. “I’m not so sure.”
Your playfulness hung in the air, and it melted any remnants of his armor. The way you looked at him, like that moment was the beginning of forever. A glimpse of the woman he already yearned to understand fully, even if it took the rest of his life.
His heart swelled, his affections poured over.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Spencer leaned in and kissed you. So gently and so slowly, and with so much gratitude and wonder that it felt like he was trying to thank you without saying a word.
His hand held your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your ear, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Thank you,” He murmured, barely audible.
It didn't feel like enough, not nearly, but it was all he had without collapsing in on himself again.
You smiled so full and bright, so wide it reached your eyes and crinkled the corners. You looked happy. Truly and deeply happy.
And Spencer…he smiled back. Slow at first, like his face had forgotten how, then it grew into a small, crooked thing, but it was real.
“You know,” You said, still close enough that your noses almost brushed, “We should probably head back in…before they come looking for us. If they haven’t already and seen the windows.” You nodded toward the fogged glass and grinned.
His smile twitched wider, sheepish and a little bashful, the tips of his ears pinking.
You reached for his hand and lifted it to your lips, placing a kiss to the back of it.
It floored him, how romantic you were without even trying. It turned his spine to smoke. If that was how you expressed want, that openly and sweetly, then God help him, he’d spend all of eternity trying to deserve it and return it twice over.
“Come on,” You whispered against his skin, then released him and opened the car door with a click.
Cool night air spilled in, breaking the heat between you, but Spencer still felt warm all over. Warmer, maybe. Warmer in a way that wouldn’t fade.
He exhaled, then followed, determined to reach the bar door before you, if only to reclaim a scrap of chivalry after having sex in a car and the humbling kiss to the back of his hand.
Masterlist; 18+ MDNI
Spencer Reid has a secret. You never know when to stop prying.
Or, I headcanon early seasons Reid as a secret dom, and you're a bratty BAU reader who likes to fuck around and find out.
Arranged in a way that works both as a series and also as one-shots. Some fics might also overlap into the BUD masterlist because in my heart, this skinny nerd is hung.
In the Secrecy of his Room
↪ You have several (stereotypical) assumptions about your nerdy coworker; he proves how wrong you are about them.
Surreptitious (blurb)
He really likes your thighs (blurb)
la petite mort
↪ A shared motel room, two bored agents, and a bar of chocolate—what could go wrong? Everything, when the chocolates turn out to be fast acting aphrodisiacs. Or it all goes right; it’s simply a matter of perspective.
A/N: If you don't see him as a dom, that's fine! Just scroll away or visit the aforementioned BUD masterlist in which he's an inexperienced dork with a loving and always horny gf.
Welcome! I have something fun planned for kinktober but I need your help to keep things fun and fresh! So I’m opening requests for this month hehe. However, please keep this prompt in mind if you send a request for Spencer Reid:
Spencer and reader are a couple experimenting and trying out things together (so, established relationship and consent is a given!)
Other guidelines include:
I'll write for other MGG characters but I've only seen 68 Kill, Suburban Gothic, 500 Days of Summer, and Hot Air from his filmography (I will NOT write Simon the chipmunk smut)
Fem reader only
Be as specific, wild and kinky as you want!
My hard nos include scat play, piss, noncon, knife play. No judgement, I just am personally not into them and don’t think I can write them in a way that gives them justice
The amount of fics I write depends on how many requests I get, inspiration, and on my schedule. If I don’t manage to get to your request, please know it isn’t personal; my writing mood is just super finicky, or I might have just run out of time (which is why I’m posting this kind of early)
More details will be posted on September 26. For now, I await your ideas <3 thank you!!!
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader
Category: Smut 18+ MDNI
Summary: A shared motel room, two bored agents, and a bar of chocolate—what could go wrong? Everything, when the chocolates turn out to be fast acting aphrodisiacs. Or it all goes right; it’s simply a matter of perspective. Part 2 of In the Secrecy of his Room.
Content: 5k words, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, dom and sub dynamics, accidental consumption of aphrodisiacs, probably inaccurate depiction of aphrodisiacs, nipple play, unprotected p in v, dumbification of reader, size kink if u squint, use of good girl and sir, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting.
a/n: I listened to ben platt’s version of diet pepsi on loop while writing the last 2k words lol. Also, I’ve been seeing sentiments against writing early seasons Spencer as a dom so uh click here if you prefer him whiney and inexperienced. Or just scroll away! It’s all free! If u stay, i hope you enjoy! Requested by the lovely @misserabella. First half was proofread by @cherrypickinns and then it's all my deranged writings once they begin kissing. Gif is by the bestest @reidgif
It isn’t that the case is harder than usual, but there’s something about this small town in Nebraska that makes everything seem like it’s moving through water. Warped and just on the side of sluggish. The team had come at an unfortunate time, because there’s a harsh thunderstorm outside. So strong the authorities made necessary suspensions, and now everyone is stuck indoors.
On top of that, you’re sharing a room with Spencer. Of course, the universe is cruel enough to work like this. To his credit, he’s the picture of professionalism. He had assured you secrecy and it’s a promise he’s been upholding consistently. No teasing, nothing to give away the activities you’ve engaged with each other, no references to how he’d given you pleasure. For this, you are grateful. Small miracles and whatnot.
Tonight is no different; stranded together on a work trip, he’s politely ignoring you by poring over the case files, as if his single minded focus would be enough to solve it.
It would be easy to coax him out of this, but you don’t want to make anything awkward. Besides, you’d both set strict rules—those activities, your roles, all must be contained within his bedroom. The moment you’re out of it, you’re simply two coworkers again, barely friends, and yet…
You drag your eyes away from him, away from those fingers tracing over words on a page as the very sight triggers some treacherous part of your brain and goosebumps break across your inner thighs where he’d drawn invisible patterns with the very same fingertips and littered deep purple blossoms from his mouth.
Okay, stop.
“Ughhhh,” you roll over until you’re first into the pillows, muffling the last bits of your very articulate sound of complaint.
His snort catches you by surprise though it doesn’t quite ring as annoyance. More like amusement.
“What?” you lift yourself on your elbow, pouting.
“I thought being difficult was just something you play up… you know, when we’re having our sessions.” He murmurs from his seat, a slight hesitance tugging at his voice; this is the first time either of you acknowledged that outside of their designated weekends. Outside his room. He continues, musing, “But it seems like you’re simply a brat in real life too.”
His form remains focused on the case files at the desk. Still reading, as if you aren’t important enough to warrant his full attention.
You aren’t sure if he’s doing it deliberately, but, well, it’s making you want to act up and get his attention.
You don’t fall for it, though. Mostly. “Well, sorry if I’m bored.”
“You have a case file sitting in your bag, and it’s not going to read and solve itself.”
“We’re off the clock. Everything’s suspended until tomorrow because of the storm, Spencer. Besides,” you roll over onto your back with a groan, “I’ve no interest reading it again—I’d read it cover to cover multiple times already. It won’t get solved if we’re stuck in here with incomplete puzzle pieces. Like Hotch said, we need to search the woods and cross examine some witnesses, but that’s not happening in this weather.”
“I, for one, would appreciate some silence,” he replies quietly. He turns the page. You pout at his back, unsure of what you want and infinitely restless.
Finally, you sit up and rifle through your bag, huffing with annoyance. If he hears, he doesn’t bother acknowledging it. You almost want to scream. The rummaging noises you’re making are so obviously calculated. It’s just a passive aggressive attempt to get his attention; you don’t even know what you’re looking for, this is simply done for the sake of doing something.
Spencer still doesn’t dignify you with a response. However, your fingers curl over something smooth and unfamiliar. A smile splits across your face when you pull it out, relief and elation replacing the initial curiosity.
A bar of chocolate. This had been from Penelope, something she slipped to you with a beaming face the morning before you left. You had stuffed it into your go bag when Hotch said you’re leaving, and thank heavens for that. At least now you have a sweet treat.
You push off the wrapper, eager for some sugar. The wrinkling sounds make Spencer turn in his seat, brows raised in question. “Have you finally decided to review the—what is that?”
“Oh, Pen gave me some chocolates.” you reply, peeling off the carefully packaged wrapping paper—Penelope loves elaborately wrapped gifts, even gifts as simple as these. A glance back at Spencer shows that he’s looking at the bar with some form of longing, “Want some?”
He shrugs, “If you don’t mind.”
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Dr. Reid.” With a grin, you hold the chocolate from both ends and bend. It’s gotten softer from being in your bag, and you’re able to halve the bar easily.
“How fortunate, indeed. You know, some studies have linked chocolates to heightened focus.” he says as he accepts his share. His fingers brush against yours briefly, just the tips, but it’s once again enough to trigger memories of how those fingers feel running across hidden crevices in your body. Slow, teasing. You clear your throat and retreat immediately once the chocolate is in his possession.
No room for lewd thoughts tonight. Absolutely none. Not when you’re on a work trip. And sharing a room on top of that.
Nope. You cram chocolate into your mouth quickly. Too much. So much that your cheeks bulge at the sides and it’s difficult to chew through. It’s good old milk chocolate, sweet but decadent, and thankfully, it melts easily in your mouth.
You take another bite, not trusting yourself to speak to him. There’s a slight aftertaste to the chocolate, but you figure it’s probably just an unfamiliar flavor. Penelope enjoys experimenting with her desserts, after all. It’s good, regardless, and you’re not going to complain about free chocolates.
Unsurprisingly, the chocolate is consumed quickly.
“Is that enough chocolate to help your brain focus better, Dr. Reid?” you ask him teasingly.
“I didn’t have an issue focusing in the first place, in fact, I think you would benefit from it more.” the words would cut if it came from someone else, but it’s Spencer and he’s grinning back at you like you’re worth something, and finally, you feel satisfaction bloom in your chest.
And then with a quick thanks, his attention dissipates and he ducks back to the case file and the satisfaction wilts like a neglected houseplant.
With a groan, you give up trying to pull him away from his reading and pick up your own case file. Maybe he’s right and the chocolate would help you focus.
It creeps up on you, the uncomfortable heat. Nearly imperceptible at first, and quickly eased by turning on the small fan provided by the motel. It’s weird, though, because the storm pelting outside has made the place considerably cooler. Still, the heat creeps with such subtlety that you don’t dwell upon it. Maybe your body heat’s fluctuating. Maybe you need a shower.
After a little while, Spencer speaks up too, brows knit in annoyance.
“Do you mind sharing the fan, it’s too hot.” he says, glancing at your figure. Prone on your bed, legs up in the air like you’re reading some issue of Cosmopolitan rather than your work folder, and hair rustling from the fan pointed directly at you.
You glance up fast enough to catch his eyes on your ass.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” With an exaggerated groan, you heave yourself up and move to press the button on the fan. It oscillates, and you huff annoyed sentiments about the lack of air conditioning. It’s unique to the room you two are sharing; Gideon and the others had managed to claim first dibs on the rooms with functional air conditioning systems. You suspect it’s more that you two are the youngest, and there’s still some playful hierarchy going on within the team. After all, everyone else got their own solo rooms as well—you and Spencer had been the only ones sharing a space.
But the heat only seems to thicken as time passes by, and you shift on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Something in you curls, heavy and slow and burning like molten honey.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, sitting up.
From the desk, Spencer whirls to face you, “Do you mind? It’s already difficult to focus with this heat.”
Your eyes land on his forehead, noting how the strands of his hair have tumbled down and are now plastered to his skin, moist. A bead of sweat runs down from his temple, and your eyes trace its movements. Somehow your gaze lands on his mouth, the tops of his lips also gathering moisture.
What would he taste, all hot and worked up like this?
You blink. Glance away. But he seems to catch something in your expression, because suddenly he’s on his feet and walking to your bed.
“What was in the chocolate?”
“What?”
“There’s something wrong with both of us—we’re exhibiting similar symptoms of discomfort, increased body heat, and—” his voice drifts lower, frustrated, “What was in the chocolate? We shared one bar and approximately six minutes and forty seven seconds later, I began feeling hot.”
You blink up at him, watching as his hand swipes over his forehead. His eyes are trained at your neck, where a couple of droplets are racing down your throat. His eyes considerably darken. Your thighs clench.
“What was in the chocolate?”
“I don’t know,” your voice sounds higher, squeakier, as you begin to panic very slightly. Tearing your gaze away from his accusatory expression, you rummage through your bag for the wrinkled wrapper, “Penelope gave it to me, I doubt she’d try to poison us.”
“This doesn’t feel like poison, this—”
“Oh my god, no!”
“What?”
If possible, you feel even hotter as you read through the little pink post-it note from Penelope. It had been stuck on the wrapper and in your boredom and haste to eat, you had simply missed its existence.
This is the aphrodisiac I told you about, my beautiful cupcake. Consume moderately and enjoy!
Aphrodisiacs. Yes. A vague memory pops into your head, giggles and secrets shared in Penelope’s technology cave—one you treasured since not a lot of agents are allowed access into her sacred office. Chocolates loaded with aphrodisiacs. Her promise to get you some.
And she pulled through—of course she did, she’s Penelope fucking Garcia—and gave it to you the morning you left.
Oh, you could pass out. This is mortifying.
“What? What is it?” When you don’t answer, Spencer grabs the wrapper with an impatience he doesn’t usually exhibit. He first scans Penelope’s note, then pieces the slightly torn and creased wrapper together to go through the list of ingredients, before speaking in a tone at least two octaves higher than normal. “An aphrodisiac chocolate!?”
“Is it bad?” you mumble, running your hands through your hair.
“Chocolate by itself already contains phenethylamine, which controls our so-called ‘love chemicals’ but the addition of these ingredients means that these will work at a faster pace. Mixed together, they’re optimal—”
Normally, you listen to his tangents with more patience than the other members of the team, but right now, you’re grappling with so many feelings it’s difficult to process his high falutin explanations. He’s rattling off words that mean nothing to you. In fact, they make everything sound so clinical. So much worse.
Your anxiety manifests by way of frustration. “Okay, genius, now translate that to English.” you interrupt, which makes him pause. Immediately, your tone softens, “Sorry, this is already freaking me out, and all that science wasn’t helping.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, more moisture congregating at the hollow of his throat now. Distracting—sinfully so. You want to tongue that spot until the taste of his sweat is somehow absorbed into your bloodstream.
“We’ve essentially just consumed an entire bar of sex drugs.”
“Oh,” your eyes squeeze shut when he confirms your suspicions. That conclusion didn’t require his level of genius, although you had been hoping it hadn’t been the case. That his explanation would somehow point to the opposite—hey we’re actually just really hot because there’s some type of pepper in the chocolate that enhances body heat or something to that effect. Not a confirmation. You groan, “Well yeah, I figured that much. That explains the, um… heat.”
The bed dips beside you as he eases onto it, “Yes, all the symptoms aren’t from poison or disease, it’s—”
“We’re horned up.”
“There’s less crude ways to put it,” he laughs and tosses the crumpled wrapper back into your bag, “But yes. We are, as you very eloquently said, horned up.”
You peek up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to make yourself smaller in the midst of this mortification. “What’s the statistical probability of us being able to wait it out like adults with incredible self control?”
“Factoring in our—”
“Reid, that was rhetorical,” you attempt to conjure enough energy for a glare, but it simply comes across petulant. His smile twists, and something flashes in his expression. Something you recognize. You’re sure you’re looking at him the exact same way—desire reflected back at you from clear amber eyes.
“Is it?” his voice drops and you feel the weight of his gaze prickling your overheated skin, “Forgive me, I quite enjoyed figuring out the math of the age old question: how long will it take for you to initiate something between us.”
This time, you glower. And the bastard laughs, which only serves to heighten your annoyance. “I’m not initiating anything with you.”
“No? But you’re so skilled at it.”
Memories of your previous trysts flood your mind. His room, the list of rules and your punishment, the way you came apart on his lap. A meeting that you had, indeed, initiated.
You huff like a brat, and look away.
“It’s only 22.45%,” he says when the silence stretches long enough to grow uncomfortable and swells until it threatens to suffocate, “If my math is correct.”
Admittedly, the low chances make you curious. You shift slightly to glance at him, “22.45% chances of me initiating? Why is it so low?” In your mind, you’d give it 90% and that’s being modest. You’re barely controlling yourself right now. No way it would be so slim; the number is actually a little insulting to you and how much you want him to jump your bones.
“Well,” he leans in, breath ghosting over your face, close enough you smell the hints of chocolate and coffee and cologne. And yet, still not close enough, “Factoring in the probability of where we are, there’s a 4.94% chance we get called by the team, and 3.88% to us actually being good—that is, not succumbing to these hormonal cocktails in our brains.”
“That doesn’t make sense, those are even lower numbers.”
“Mhm. Because based on my calculations, there’s a 68.73% chance that I initiate something.”
Your breath catches. Math and numbers have never sounded so fucking hot until this moment.
“What are you waiting for?” your voice catches in your throat and comes out a fluttery sigh.
“Your consent.”
A smile splits across your face, and you decide that tonight, your 22% chances trump his 68%.
Your soft lips press upon him, eager, open, and tasting faintly of chocolate. Spencer has never been more happy to be proven wrong.
He has always kissed with intention—slow, deep, as though he's trying to meld himself with the velvety warmth of your mouth. But this kiss is different. This kiss has edge. Teeth. The same unhurried pace but marked by a molten need that makes your toes curl and your thighs clench. He leans forward and you follow like you're wired for submission. Like laying down beneath him is simply part of the natural order, the same way planets orbit around the sun.
Sweaty palms find their way beneath your shirt, pressing into equally slick skin, the surface of which immediately breaks out in goosebumps.
"Spencer," You groan into the kiss, hands wandering up his shoulders, "Should we be doing this?"
"That sounds like another one of your rhetoricals."
You laugh, breathless, muffled, "I suppose it is."
"Then there’s no point in answering," He dips his head, lips latching on your neck and, because he’s Spencer Reid, he offers some form of answer anyway, “For the record, I don’t think it’s a question of should.”
"We're debating semantics now?"
"No." A bite. Hands squeezing around your waist before they traverse the softness of your breasts. "The point is we're not debating anything. We both know this is happening regardless of whether or not we should."
He punctuates the statement with a decisive snap that unhooks your bra. "Arms up." Spencer whispers.
You do as he says without another second thought. He tosses your sweaty clothes to the ground. It’s careful. Your bottoms ease off next, and then it’s his turn, stripping down to his boxers with shaky hands. As more clothes join the floor, the room spins and the heat swells.
You’ve both figured there’s no running from it, so instead, you hurtle headfirst and off balance, hands squeezing and tongues dragging across sweat-sodden skin. Spencer settles between your legs with ease, his body slotting with a familiarity that should unsettle you. He moves like he belongs there, and you’re afraid that you want this to be true.
“Fuck—so hot.” he groans against your chest, lips closing around a nipple.
Your back arches, urging him deeper, “Thanks.” You giggle, taking credit for an adjective you’re not even sure is intended for you.
“I—you know what, yeah,” he rasps, lifting himself up on his elbows. The loss of his lips on your chest is alleviated by the look in his eyes. Intense, pupils blown wide as they survey the sight of you beneath him. Glistening and heaving, eyes already out of focus as if a few simple kisses from him is enough to throw you completely off your equilibrium. It’s a sight he’ll keep for as long as he’s alive, no eidetic memory needed. “Yeah, you are. Hot. So hot, so beautiful.” his mouth captures yours again, and you swear you’re melting straight into the sheets.
Your hands fumble uselessly at the waistband of his boxers, pushing the fabric as he attempts to shimmy out of them on top of you. Unfortunately, that simply drives his obvious bulge against your already needy core. With a whine, a prayer, and enough determination to possibly put you through law school, his boxers finally drag down his thighs, just enough for him to kick them off.
Spencer pauses then, looking down at you with gooey brown eyes, every bit of his attention now on you and the sensation burns deep in your gut, a soft kind of heat, one you wish to kindle.
His voice is soft when he asks, “You remember your safe word?”
“Yes—Jupiter,” the next teasing word - nerd - is immediately swallowed by a kiss. You moan, the burning in your belly spreading white hot just beneath your skin, tinging at every point of contact.
“And you remember what instances to use it?”
Leave it to him to still be concerned about his rules while you're both nearly consumed by such a ruinous chemical reaction. Still, this attentiveness makes something curl in your chest, and you find yourself breathless for an entirely different reason.
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah? Tell me.” His teeth sink into the softness of your shoulder, hips grinding down onto your core, both of which effectively eliminates any and all ability to form coherent thought, let alone his goddamned rules.
“Uh - it's - I -”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he pulls back to look down at you, voice raspy but tinged with amusement. Smugness glimmers beneath the desire in his amber irises, “Have you already lost your ability to speak? Do I need to remind you?”
“Y-yes.” you gasp, not really sure what you're replying to.
“Yes what?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good girl. God, you’re so wet for me.” He takes your lower lip between his teeth, sucks until it's tender and numb, before letting go. You feel his tongue push past your teeth, and once again, pure jelly replaces your gray matter. Nothing is real except for him and all the sensations he's giving you. Your hips cant up for any relief. “Be patient,” he cooes, “You need to remember the rules. Safe word if it gets too much, yes? Even if you just want me to slow down. Do you remember now?”
“Yes sir.” you're nodding desperately, and the moment the words leave your lips, you feel the stretch at your core, “Oh god!” You tense around his girth, the broad tip spreading you open. There’s a slight sting, as there always is when he first breaches your entrance with his large cock. It’s familiar. It’s welcome—it means he’s here, he’s with you.
“Angel, you gotta relax,” he says through gritted teeth, his breaths shallow as he pauses, “You're—ugh—too tight like this.”
The most pathetic whine trembles from your lips. He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours, “Relax, or we'll be stuck like this all night.” He says it like that's somehow a threat, as if you wouldn't be content having him buried inside you. “I don't want to hurt you.”
Against all odds, you manage to relax, walls fluttering delicately as he slides his hard length deeper. Excruciatingly slow. Part of you wonders if it's still because he doesn't want to hurt you, or if he's deliberately torturing you by inching his way in like this. You'd think that after the broadest part of his head pushes past your entrance, it would be an easier fit, but you still find yourself gasping as the rest of his cock slides in and you're still being stretched taut.
“Fuck!”
“I know, I know, god, you're so tight. Should’ve stretched you out with my fingers first, baby, I’m sorry.”
You laugh, “Don’t apologize, I’ll live.”
“You’re in pain.”
“Just a little bit,” you whisper, “Trust me, it’s fine. Please move or I’ll combust.”
Spencer laughs, his forehead pressed to yours. “Okay. You’re lucky I can’t help myself right now, otherwise that would count as an infraction.”
“Not fair, I said please.” you’re pouting as you say it, but the expression immediately dissolves into a slack jawed, glazed over scream of silence as he drags his length nearly all the way out and thrusts back in. Holy fuck.
“Too much?” he pauses, fingers pushing back the strands of your hair that cling at your forehead.
“No, god no, that was perfect.”
“Yeah?” he grins. Does it again. Slow, deep thrusts that make your spine arch in a way you weren’t even aware you could do. Every time he sheathes himself in your warmth, he deliberately grinds his pelvis into yours, the wiry hairs giving your sensitive folds just the right amount of friction. Drag out. Thrust in. Grind, repeat.
Whatever aphrodisiacs were in those chocolate must be working overtime, because everything feels sensitive. You could feel every ridge of his cock as he drags it in and out of your sodden cunt. By some miracle, you’re wetter than normal, slickness dripping around your thighs, into your ass, soaking into the sheets.
Your hands curl into his biceps, fingers clawing his flesh, as gasps are torn from your throat. He’s building up a rhythm now. Black dots dapple your vision, “Oh, god, yes! Just like that!”
“Mhm, you feel so good,” he groans, one hand finding your chest, “So soft and hot for me.” His thumb circles your nipple, then pinches it right as he buries himself balls-deep.
You’re undone within moments. Teeth clamping around the soft part of his shoulder until the skin blooms berry red and are marred by indentations of your teeth.
“Already?” he tuts, letting go of your nipple to grip your waist with both hands, “I didn’t even give you permission yet.”
You sob, “Too good. Please, again.”
“Think you can handle more?” he asks, as if he’s not continuously rutting into you with scientific precision.
“Mhm, please, sir.”
That word seems to make him lose any modicum of restraint and he slams into you so roughly your body rocks forward. Again and again, only his hold on your waist grows more firm, keeping you in place to take this rougher pace. Your skin is prickling with goosebumps and tacky with sweat, and, when he takes one of your legs and hooks it up over his shoulder, you scream.
“Angel!” he halts in an instant, brown eyes wide with concern.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, I’ve been so good, I can take it.”
His skin flushes as the realization dawns upon him. It wasn’t from pain; no, the complete opposite. Spencer slams his hips into you again, eliciting a more subdued response—a low, keening whimper. The new angle allows him to burrow deeper, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix, but every time he does, your walls clench tighter, an indication that tells him you’re enjoying it.
Now certain that you can, indeed, take it, he resumes his steady pace, all while nibbling at the leg slung over his shoulder.
“You’re so pretty like this, but you gotta be quiet.” he murmurs, sinking his teeth into your flesh and sucking.
“Or what?” you groan, somehow still managing to find a sliver of insolence even while he’s balls deep in your cunt. “You’ll stop?”
He can’t. You both know that. Not while those aphrodisiacs are still coursing through your systems.
A dangerous glimmer passes through his eyes. “No,” his free hand finds your clit and soothes quick halos over the slick bud, “I’ll be even louder. Let everyone know exactly what we’re doing.”
From those words, your eyes snap to focus.
He’s grinning and something in his expression reminds you of a triumphant and mocking devil. “Is that what you want? For everyone to know how good you are for me? Quite frankly, I’d prefer to keep it between ourselves, angel, but if that’s what you want, then—”
“No, no, no,” you’re mortified at the very idea, something resembling shame curling in your chest. You push it away; this shouldn’t be shameful, you do not want your memories with Spencer to be tinged with something so negative. “Please, I’ll be quiet, I swear.”
Your clit throbs between his index finger and thumb as he pinches it lightly, “You promise?”
“Yes sir.” you whine.
He nods, though there’s no relief for your poor clit. He keeps it pressed between his fingers, occasionally rubbing his thumb over the exposed top, and you begin to seriously consider if there’s a limit to how much pleasure a body can feel before it spontaneously combusts. If there is, you’re dangerously close to that point.
You’d gladly face it, if that’s the case. What did the French call it—la petite mort? You’re not sure. Right now all you can feel is an all consuming, syrupy sort of bliss. Besides, whatever you can muster of your brain power goes directly to making sure you don’t make a sound. His threat might seem extreme, but Spencer rarely bluffs with his punishments. Either way, you have no intention of finding out.
When it all gets too overwhelming—the fullness that settles in your fluttering channel, the consistent pressure on your clit—you decide this isn’t such a bad way to go.
Only, the pleasure simply splits the world, and suddenly you’re gushing around his cock, and the meeting of your flesh is chased by soft, squelchy sounds.
“My god,” Spencer groans, slowing his pace to marvel at the massive wet spot beneath your bodies, “Did you just?”
“Mhm,” your head tilts in a barely perceptible nod, too exhausted and cock-drunk to reply with words. Never mind that the word in question contains only a syllable—yes. Yes, you just squirted around him.
The world whirls into smudges and colors as he continues fucking into you, his soft grunts echoing in your mind like a favorite song you refuse to unlearn. He finds your hand, cradles it to his chest and, despite everything, you manage to smile up at him. He returns it, a gentleness to the feral creatures that seem to have taken over the two of you.
“God, you’re so lovely. My good girl. Do you need a break?” he cooes, slowly bringing your leg down so that it rests on the bed. You’re limp as a ragdoll beneath him, eyes fluttering and barely kept open, but your walls are squeezing around him so tightly.
“No,” you shake your head.
“Are you sure? You look out of it.” he says, attempting to pull out.
You whine and squeeze your walls to keep him inside.
Spencer laughs, “Let’s turn you over, huh? So your back isn’t all bent all night.” he says, gently pulling out of your heat.
You’re dead weight as he rolls you over, unable to do anything but follow his gentle manhandling. A pillow slides under your hips, elevating the area for easier access. And he’s right, the position does take pressure off your back, but you’re sure that’s temporary, since his entire body weight is going to be above you at any moment.
Palms squeeze and spread your ass playfully, “So pretty. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss at the small of your back.
Your answer comes in the form of a low, needy moan. Spencer chuckles, his tip nudging at your entrance once again.
“You know your safe word, right?”
“Jupiter.” the answer slips from your mouth on instinct.
“Good girl. Remember it, because otherwise, I don’t think I'll stop any time soon.”
He shouldn’t. He should stay buried in you forever, or until the aphrodisiacs wear off, or until you die. Whichever of the three comes first.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing the safe word.” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.
Spencer laughs and slides in, deep and gentle, and doesn’t stop until the clock reads 3am, and neither of you have any energy to do anything but sleep in each other’s arms.
i feel insane. more early season dom content here. thank you for reading! tagging ppl who specifically asked for part two @cherrycemeterry @ana-stasssiaaa @spencerreidwannabe @appledressing @rafayelsheart @aliteralsemicolon
Waldorf!reader universe | gif by the bestest @reidgif
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Waldorf!reader
Category: fluff but in a romcom frenemies way
Summary: You were expecting an evening full of mentally stimulating historic films, immersed in cinema and entertainment. Unfortunately, it seems your coworker Spencer Reid had the exact same idea.
Content: 2.8k words, reader’s personality is based on Blair Waldorf, glasses!Spencer, film history stuff that I found on wikipedia, encounter with a mean old lady.
a/n: this grabbed me by the chin and yelled WRITE ME, so here we go. I’m just really excited to write more for them being silly. not proofread oops. thank you for reading muah <3
All things considered, an old movie theater hosting a film festival isn’t the worst place to run into someone from work. In fact, you could argue it’s a great place—it allows you to learn something about your coworkers, opens up a topic of conversation and maybe even lead to a relationship that’s more than an exchange of pleasantries and vague plans of meeting after work (which never come into fruition).
You would have been pleasantly surprised to see anyone from the team, truly, if it weren’t for the fact that the coworker in question is Spencer Reid. Gawking at you from behind his thick glasses and dressed as though he doesn’t understand the concept of off duty with his white button-down shirt tucked under a sweater vest, and slacks. A tie hangs around his neck, lopsided and slightly too loose, making your hands itch at the tips with the desire to fix it for him.
Instead, your eyes narrow as you say, “What are you doing here?”
His brows raise, as if the answer is obvious and he doesn’t understand why you’re asking.
“I’m here for the pre-Code film festival—well, what’s still available to catch, anyway,” he says, holding up a hand. A bright green paper bracelet circled around his wrist, this festival’s version of an all access pass. His gaze lands on your hand, and he smiles in that pressed-lips, half smirk, half grimace way when he sees the same pass encircling your own left wrist. “I’ve been inviting everyone in the office if they wanted to come with—”
He stops himself abruptly, and the expression on his face becomes that exact grimace you were expecting.
Because he said everyone.
But you both knew the invitation had never been extended to you.
“Let me guess, everyone was busy.” You manage to disguise the bitterness in your voice with copious amounts of unnecessary snark, “Like they always are whenever you invite them to your little excursions.”
He shifts, averts his gaze awkwardly, and something dangerously close to satisfaction blooms in your chest when the blow lands exactly where you wanted it.
You know this is precisely why you rarely get invited to their hang outs.
Too ready for an argument, always brandishing words like they’re weapons.
You sigh, immediately regretting it, but not quite enough to apologize. Not when it’s true, at least. Not when he didn’t even think to include you.
“What are you planning to watch?” you ask, shifting the topic to something more neutral. The building boasts eight screens, meaning eight films are simultaneously playing at all times. People who have availed the all access pass often work out a schedule in order to see the movies they want to watch.
Spencer perks up at your question, eyes catching the exaggerated stage lights and glinting like honey filtered with sunlight. “Frankenstein. It’s a horror classic.”
Of course.
“Figures. And the sun rises in the east.” You say, rolling your eyes slightly. Leave it to him to watch a film adaptation of a classic novel. Still, the predictability makes you smile, albeit reluctantly.
“Yes, I suppose that was an obvious answer,” Spencer chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, an action so reminiscent of a lovestruck schoolgirl you almost laugh. “What are you watching?”
“Red-Headed Woman.”
He blinks, surprised, and then his face lights up like you’d just handed him the answer to the Navier Strokes equation. “Oh, that's a great choice, it’s a wonderful film! Did you know that F. Scott Fitgerald actually worked on the screenplay?”
“Yes, I did,” you lift a shoulder delicately, nonchalantly, as if his knowledge didn’t make your own spine straighten—most of your friends don’t care for those details, and it’s jarring to be in conversation with someone who does. “He had creative differences with Marcel de Sano, and the producers wanted the film to be more comedic, so they hired Anita Loos to do the rewrites.”
He’s nodding along, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at your words. “That’s correct, in fact—”
“I’m really sorry, Reid,” against all odds, this isn’t another sarcastic barb made to make him stop talking; you actually are a little sorry to interrupt. There’s a sincerity to your tone that surprises both of you. “I’m pretty sure my film starts in three minutes.”
“Oh,” he blinks, nods in understanding, “Of course, yes, I should head to my cinema too.” he smiles sheepishly.
“Yeah. Try not to talk to your neighbor while the movie’s playing.”
To your surprise, he laughs, “No promises.”
As you expected, the film is just as good as the last time you’ve watched it. (You’ve seen it an embarrassing number of times, something you wouldn’t admit to anyone because no normal person should watch the same film that many times.)
Leaving the cinema, you glance at your watch. It’s early enough that you could catch one of the other films before going to dinner. You walk around, avoiding the small crowd of people also adamant on finding the next movie to watch—not that there’s a lot. Turns out watching movies from the early 1930s isn’t a popular pastime among… well, anyone. All things considered, there’s a modest crowd milling around, people of all ages though a majority seems to be made up of older people.
Your feet tread along the plus carpet, intending to make it to a screening of The Divorcee as your last movie for the day. There’s no line when you locate where it’s screening, and only a young, nervous usher waits outside the doors. With a friendly smile, you show the band to him, and enter the cinema in search for a seat.
You head to the middle—the best spot in the house, you’d argue with anyone—only to find a familiar figure already sat on the aisle, hugging a bucket of popcorn to his chest.
“Oh god, you again.”
Spencer glances up, surprise visible on his face. The shadows play upon his features, making him look strangely ethereal. “Oh, hi. I didn’t think you’d still be here.” he awkwardly shifts, angling his gangly legs to the side to allow you to pass through.
“I have the same pass as you do, Spencer.” you mutter, shuffling into the row, “It’d be a waste to go so early.”
“Would you like to sit with me then? Since we’re both here, anyway. We could share the popcorn.”
The sentence seems to surprise both of you. You whirl around, brows knit in confusion, and his mouth clamps shut as though he regrets the invitation. You try to ignore the sting of that look in his eyes.
You sigh. “Buttered?”
“Of course.”
“Then all right.” You feign a begrudging sort of acceptance as you settle into the seat beside him, smoothing down your clothes. Spencer seems amused by it, smiling as he places the bucket on the arm rest between you. In the cool dimness of the room, you could feel him shifting, his sleeves brushing against your bare arms.
“I didn’t realize it would be so easy to bribe you.”
You scoff, glaring at him, “You haven’t bribed me.”
“Yet here you are next to me.” He shifts again, teeth flashing, triumphant. A whiff of something musky and clean hits your nose—his cologne mingling with the buttery scent of the popcorn. He might be too close. You don’t do anything to create more space.
“Yet here I am. And it has everything to do with these seats being the best spot to watch a film. Your offer of popcorn is simply an added bonus,” you glance at him through your periphery, willing the stupidly adorable smile to slide off his face, “Besides, it would take much more than buttered popcorn to bribe me.”
“I’ll make sure to remember that.”
There’s a slight urge to ask him what he means, wriggle out more from him and that dimpled smile… an urge which you squash when you realize it’s coming from a place of enjoyment. You like bantering with Spencer Reid.
Cheeks burning, you cross your arms and turn your annoyed pout to the screen. Saved by the movie, you think, as the opening credits begin rolling and you can direct all your focus on the film and not by how nice your coworker smells.
It’s forty minutes into the film before his whispering starts. If you’d been a betting woman, you would have struck gold—you knew he could only hold his tongue for so long.
“Did you know this was based on a book?”
You’re about to tell him to shush, but, well, you didn’t know that, and being caught so unawares is such an irregularity that you have no choice but to indulge him.
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah—it’s based on Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrott, though the credits to the author were lost to time for quite a while,” he turns to you with a smile, the scenes from the film reflecting in his glasses and dancing across his face.
You don’t speak, half from waiting for his continuation, half stunned into silence by how pretty he looks aureoled in pale swathes and flashes of light.
He must mistake this for judgement—heaven knows he’s used to those—because his head whips back to face the screen, pink rising across his cheeks. “It’s just something I found interesting, you know, considering people criticize book to movie adaptations as a contemporary trend that indicates unoriginality, when the reality of it is, it’s been done since the birth of cinema.”
“I’d argue it goes even beyond that,” you whisper back, earning his gaze once again, this time wide eyed and curious. You look away, definitely not because his eyes feel like coals burning past your skin, “Humans have always been adapting and retelling stories, from different accounts of mythology, to multiple versions of the same fairytale.”
He seems to blossom, a sproutling fed by theater lights and your interest, sitting up straight and lips splitting into a grin, “Yes! Stories are often derivative, but that’s not—”
“Shhhh.”
You both whip around in surprise like kids being caught doing something naughty. An older couple meets your gaze, sitting a few rows behind you. It dawns upon you then, that your voices have started becoming louder, more animated. The man is shaking his head and the woman is wearing a stern expression.
Spencer whispers a contrite sorry and you flash the sweetest smile you could muster before sinking back into your seats.
When it happens again, it’s a little less gracious. Spencer had begun whispering about the Academy nominations the film gained, and, once again intrigued by his earnest knowledge of a topic people often dismiss as silly, you’ve engaged in these hushed conversations until the same couple shushes you.
Only this time, it’s accompanied with a snide murmur, “There’s a trivia night out there somewhere, I’m sure that’s a better spot for insufferable know-it-alls like you.”
You turn, looking over your shoulder armed by a glare that burns. Your voice is saccharine, syruped to disguise the poison, “You’re correct, of course, and we wouldn’t have to deal with you as I’m sure you wouldn’t qualify.”
Beside you, Spencer shrinks, opening his mouth nervously, but the older lady beats him to whatever he might say.
“Excuse me? Oh you have some nerve, missy, when you and your boyfriend have been disrupting this entire movie with your silly conversations!”
You’re so annoyed you let the boyfriend comment slide, moving so as to turn your whole body to face her. However, as you shift in your seat, your arm knocks over the bucket of popcorn that’s been delicately balanced on the armrest. Before either of you can catch it, it topples over and spills. Tiny little kernels scatter across the floor, pale dots against the black carpet like some cheap imitation of the night sky.
Spencer squeaks.
The lady looks smug, tutting and shaking her head at the mess, while her husband walks away, presumably to find an usher.
“Apparently, being loud and disrespectful isn’t enough for you,” she says, casting her judgemental stare upon you like a curse, “You had to make a mess too. Young people, these days, my goodness, what a tragedy you all are.”
You remind yourself it’s not a good look to get into an altercation with an old lady. Especially as an FBI agent.
“We’re sorry,” Spencer speaks up finally, shakily, lips tilted up in a nervous smile, “We didn’t mean to be so unruly—”
“A little too late for that.” the lady smirks, as her husband reappears with an usher. You suppress a groan, glancing at half a bucket’s worth of popcorn strewn all over the floor. Goodness, any argument against this lady is bound to be futile when so much evidence is all over the floor.
“Excuse me,” the poor usher looks as though he’d rather be anywhere but here, “But I’m gonna have to ask you guys to leave. This gentleman here has been complaining and, well, there’s this mess.” he sweeps a gesture over the floor, wincing.
Before you can say anything, a hand wraps around yours, cool and slightly clammy, and tugs.
“Of course,” Spencer is saying, redness seeping past his cheeks and well into his ears and neck, “We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience and the mess. We’ll go.” he stands up, and gives another gentle tug at your hand.
Spencer Reid, an infamous germaphobe, is holding your hand.
You’re so stupefied that you simply follow, eyes trained on the way his large hand has completely engulfed yours in a firm grip. He repeats his meek apologies to the usher and to the old couple behind you, all the while leading you to the exit.
“Until you learn some manners, you and your girlfriend should stay away from public spaces.” the lady says, her voice taking on a patronizing maternal tone that makes your own blood boil. “That way, you wouldn’t bother other people who are trying to have a nice time.”
Before Spencer could pull you all the way to the exit, you turn back, unwilling to let her have the last word, “Of course, we’ll keep that in mind. We wouldn’t want to ruin the last few dates you two will have together.”
You manage to catch a glimpse of her pinched, affronted expression before Spencer manages to wrangle you to the doors.
“You didn’t have to argue with her like that, you know,” he mumbles, walking quickly across the carpeted halls, “We could have just apologized and stayed—”
“Well, she didn’t have to call us insufferable know it alls either!”
“Why not? You all think so.”
His tone catches you off guard. No bitterness, no anger, only a quiet resignation. As if he believes it—accepts it. Your footsteps halt. He’s forced to do the same—your hand is still in his.
“By ‘you all’, do you mean the team?”
He sighs, looking away. The grip around your hand loosens, and he moves to walk away, but this time, it’s you who holds on. You who tugs, root him back into place.
“Hey,” you say, moving closer to catch his eyes, “I can’t speak for the rest of the team, but I don’t think you’re insufferable. The know-it-all part, well, I’ll concede that she got you there.”
He scoffs, cheeks dimpling as his lips curl up.
“But I’d argue that’s a good thing,” you continue, squeezing his hand, “You know things, and you use that to help people. That… that’s noble. There’s worse things to do with that knowledge, possibly more lucrative, less traumatizing things, but… you’ve chosen one that does good.”
“Still, you didn’t need to argue with her for me.”
You grin, eyes flashing with mischievous glee. “Not for you. She called us insufferable know-it-alls, remember?”
“I might have missed that,” he quips, squeezing your hand again. The coldness has seeped away from his palms, chased away by your heat, “I was too busy being mortified by all the popcorn you spilled. Who knew you could be so graceless?”
“Dr. Reid, are you making fun of me? After I defended your honor?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. You’d never survive my wrath.”
“If that scene back there was any indication, then you’re correct.” Another firm squeeze, before he lets go. Your hand feels oddly empty so you shove it in your pocket as he says, “I won’t do anything to provoke it.”
“Smart man.”
“A know-it-all, some would say.”
You laugh, and he does too, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. Perhaps it could be—maybe Spencer Reid could be the person you wouldn’t mind running into. Maybe you could be the only person he needs to invite on his nerdy excursions next time.
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