summary : dr. spencer reid was always just your very good friend—that was until you watched him slip on an awfully tight pair of latex gloves while working on a case together.
pairing : spencer reid x bau agent!reader
warnings : SMUT, friends/coworkers to lovers, sexual fantasies, reader is just fucking horny (aka in love) but is in denial, explicit but short descriptions of fingering and finger sucking, spencer’s just as much desperate for the reader ‘cause who are we kidding, suggestive ending
notes : i thank the amazing @haydenssweetheart for introducing & promoting the spencer reid agenda
when you had first joined the behavioral analysis unit a year ago as the latest rookie, the team had teased the possibility of spencer and you becoming a “we” almost instantly.
the bright, genius young man was only a couple years your senior—leading to teasing remarks made by agent morgan and garcia about how you two should just shut up and kiss… and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about stealing just that from pretty boy reid.
platonically, of course!
you were just curious about how his mouth, the culprit behind his many informational ramblings, would feel against yours. there was no harm in that! right? that is to say, there was nothing unusual about you two being too physically and emotionally close with one another: you’d nap beside each other—fingers intertwined to “keep warm”—on the jet plane back home to quantico after an across-the-nation case, or would share doctor germaphobe’s lunch during the team’s one and only break in between searching for the unsub. just normal, friendly behavior as you’d like to call it—he’d even agree with you!
however, as the days passed and seasons changed, you began to see your very good friend in a new light… but it was still purely platonic! spencer reid could never be more than only your bestest friend in the whole world—that would be logically impossible… but the thought of it suggested that it’d be nice, like really nice.
so here you were now, outside of the latest victim’s residence after hotch sent you and reid to look for evidence that could direct the team in finding the unsub before he could strike again.
shrugging your fbi jacket off of your shoulders and onto the couch to accompany spencer’s satchel, you looked over at him to see what he was up to. ever so the loather against bacteria, he rummaged through the pockets of his pants for a pair of gloves and all you could do was a raise a brow at his franticness.
he breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled out four gloves, a set for you without even asking him to. “my lifesaver,” you winked as you snagged it from him—fingers brushing against his—earning a playful eye roll. “and yet you were here, judging me like a germ-loving weirdo.”
after putting them on swiftly, you turned your head over to spencer to see him struggling with slipping the small gloves on his hands—but no, it wasn’t his clumsiness and strenuous effort to fit them that had you staring at him all wide eyed... it was the sight of the latex hugging his veins tight enough that they were visible through the gloves.
his grunts of frustration had you subconsciously biting your lip before realizing you were ogling at his fingers like a freak—imagining them being sucked into your sopping wet cunt, absurdly deep and hitting that perfect spot against your cervix; or how perfect they’d fit inside your mouth, tongue swirling around and reveling in the taste of him. clearing your throat and attempting to find anywhere else to keep your eyes fixated on, you couldn’t help but let them drift back at his hands as they flex against the latex.
this time, spencer witnessed you staring at him with your mouth parted as if you were about to say a witty joke, “what?”
“nothing! let’s just head inside,” you averted your gaze quickly, truly and absolutely mortified by being caught red handed in the act, “hotch is expecting us in an hour.” he pursed his lips together, nodding in agreement, “right, we oughta get to it then.
once the day at work concluded, which consisted of receiving peculiar glances across the room by none other than spencer reid even hours following what took place at the victim’s home, you found yourself rushing to the curb to flag down a taxi cab and escape—only to be cornered by yours truly.
foregoing the niceties he ever so upheld each time, he took a step forward, breath now fanning across your face. before you could even get the chance to ask what in god’s name he’s doing this close to you where lips are almost touching, he asked begged, “tell me that this is all in my head… please. i’m going crazy just trying to figure out if you’ve thought about this, us, too.”
“spence.”
“god, i’m a profiler for the fbi but i can’t decode you.”
without a moment’s hesitation, you tilt your face up to his as you leant in to capture reid’s lips into a far overdue kiss—after months of pent up longing and denial of feelings. you felt his mouth still against yours in pure astonishment, the moment feeling too surreal for him, but then you felt spencer smile into your lips—reciprocating it with just as much fervor.
it was getting harder to kiss with the clashing of teeth, the both of you a grinning and giggling mess as you kissed under the streetlight outside of the fbi academy.
pulling away with closed eyes, you savored the imprint of his lips on yours. when they finally opened to meet his piercing gaze, a very flustered you cringed at the sight of your red lipstick messily smudged and leaving stains all over his chin and mouth. he seemed to catch on, his fingertips tracing the marks with a teasing glint in his eye, “how do i look?” the expression on your face faked contemplation before stealing another peck from him, “handsome as hell.”
adjusting the collar of his coat as his arms found solace in being wrapped around your waist, spencer guided you down to his car in the parking lot while pressing passionate kisses across your jaw like a boy so in love.
this is a 3 and 1 times fic! 3 times you touch spencer's hair, and 1 time he gets to enjoy it.
pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader
genre: fluff
warnings: nothing crazy at all. spencer is soo touch starved in this (sorry not sorry), and pining so hard everyone around him knows. any season of spencer can be imagined for this!
𑣲⋆---
The first time you touched Spencer Reid's hair was almost a blur.
The case had been a public relations nightmare. The Unsub was leaving complex clues and evading being caught. With JJ speaking to a family, Hotch made Spencer talk to the press.
He had been previously rushing between the local police precinct and the nearest library to research the Unsub's references. Soft autumn breezes blew debris around the streets, and a stray leaf caught in his hair.
"Reid, wait." You caught him before we went back outside to be swarmed by cameras and microphones. With a hand, you smoothly reached and plucked the leaf from his hair. Spencer ducked away before the blush spreading on his face was visible.
Morgan walked by and teased something about him 'staying pretty for the cameras', but all Spencer could think about was you playing with his hair. As touch starved as he was, he would do anything for you to play with his hair.
ᝰ.ᐟ —————-
The second time made Spencer have to hide in the bathroom of a bar.
Just like every other time, the team went out for drinks after a hard case. Spencer sat with Emily and Morgan as they told stories, but he wasn't listening. Something about hearing them talk about past partners made the inside of Spencer's water glass look very interesting. That was, until you walked by.
With a drink in hand for Penelope, you walked behind him and ruffled his hair. He leaned his head into the touch, and played it off as him looking up when your hand pulled away. As you strolled back to your table, Spencer hoped it was dark enough that no one would see the pout and rising heat on his face.
He wasn't so lucky, however. Morgan kicked his shoe under the table, and grinned at him in a way that made him feel exposed. Spencer's chair scraped across the floor as he rushed to the bathroom. Cold water didn't do much to stop the tips of his ears from turning a shade of scarlet.
ᝰ.ᐟ —————-
The third time, Spencer was sure his brain short-circuited.
As always, he stood later into the night to finish up any paperwork Hotch or Rossi had left behind. You didn't usually stay late, but you also had some case files to finish putting together. You finished before him, and decided to say goodbye before you left.
Spencer looked up from the paperwork when he saw you standing in his peripheral vision. You brushed some of his hair out of his eyes before speaking about— well, Spencer didn't know, he focused back on the paperwork immediately, mumbling responses so you wouldn't see the flustered look on his face.
You patted him on the shoulder before slinging your bag over your shoulder. The both of you said your goodbyes, but Spencer didn't look back up until he heard the door close and he was sure you were gone. He sighed loudly, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.
If you kept this up, these fleeting touches he craved so bad, he was sure he would explode.
ᝰ.ᐟ —————-
The last time was everything Spencer had dreamed of.
The very next morning, the team had been called to a case a few states away. On the jet, you and Spencer sat together. He stayed way later than he meant to doing paperwork, and he had barely been awake before the wheels of the jet went up. His eyes closed and he fell asleep almost immediately.
Spencer's head lolled onto your shoulder, and you smiled to yourself. The two of you stayed like that, until you brought your other hand into his hair and lightly scratched his scalp.
The second you started toying with his hair, he was awake. Spencer kept his eyes closed and pretended to still be asleep. He soaked up all of the attention you were willing to give him.
Those were, what he thought to be, the best 20 minutes and 34 seconds of his life.
synopsis: time after time again, spencer unknowingly meets your desired dating standards, evolving from quiet acts to something more intimate.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
warnings: 2.8k words, 18+ MDNI, porn WITH plot, eventual sex, protected p in v, soft smut, nerdy sweet gentle spencer, office setting to plane setting to bar setting, reader wants that cookie bad, based on olivia rodrigo's "expectations"
masterlist!
Location: The BAU headquarters. Time: 9:46am.
You had first day jitters. How could you not? You had just graduated with a major in psychology, you had done well in interviews, everything was fine. But you had close to zero field experience, while everybody else in the building had. How could you compete with that?
You held your keycard in shaky hands, swiping it once to get through the front door. When it didn't work, you swiped again, and again, until finally it worked. Must've just been a glitch, right? Or was it something else, and you weren't supposed to be there, or maybe this was all a dream and it was still exam season—
You blinked the thoughts away, stepping through the door and glancing around. Desks cluttered everywhere, you saw employees typing away or talking into microphones. Nervous to disturb any ongoing mission or case, you tiptoed around carefully, trying not to interrupt anything. This meant you weren't looking up and collided with a firm chest, stumbling back and managing to catch yourself on a nearby potted plant.
"Sorry. Sorry, I should've looked." You mumbled out, then cleared your throat, forcing yourself to speak again and not sound like a weak mouse. "My apologies."
"No worries. You're, uh, new here, right? First day?"
You looked up. The man in front of you was tall, almost lanky, with his tie and dress shirt peeking out his sweater collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, veiny arms on display, and he was looking at you with a tiny smile.
"It's normal." He continued without waiting for you to reply. "Reported that at least 50% of new hires in any workplace get mishaps on the first day. That can be fixed with a tour guide. I can help you around."
You blinked. You weren't used to a man offering to help you before you even said anything; especially not with your dating history of douchebags and idiots.
"That…would be great. Thanks." You attempted a smile, holding out a hand for a shake. The man just ignored it with a little wave instead, saying; "I'm Spencer."
Disregarding the lack of contact, you followed behind him as he showed you around the office. He showed you meeting rooms, facilities like printers or bathrooms, and finally, your own desk. It was conviently just a few rows down from his own. The space was empty, and he gestured to it with one hand.
"I'm sure you'll decorate it as pretty as you look."
You hardly had time to process the compliment before he smiled awkwardly and backed away, turning around to head down a hallway.
Well. This would be more interesting than you thought.
Location: The BAU printing room. Time: 2:12pm.
While you waited for papers to print, you got time to think.
It was simple, really. All the things others called bare minimum were legendary in your world; you were lucky for a boyfriend to even touch you at night, let alone get flowers or plan dates or notice little details without words. You had settled for guys doing drugs at parties, guys with fake jobs, guys that weren't smart or funny. None had ended well, and while you (and your closest friends) could have deducted that at your first meeting, you had stuck to him with a I-can-fix-him attitude.
Yeah. You could admit you were a bit too hopeful sometimes.
You needed standards. Expectations that your boyfriend will do the same things your friend's boyfriends did. Expectations that he won't be an asshole that'll just leave you in the dirt as soon as a prettier girl slided up next to him at a bar.
What you had started doing, though, after five months as part of the BAU team, was to keep a list. Not of cases or to-dos, but of every time Spencer did something like that. No, you weren't dating, nor would you let yourself think you had a crush on him. But he was doing more sweet things as a coworker-friend than some six month long relationships had.
As of now, you counted four things. The time you didn't want to interrupt at a group meeting, so he let you whisper your idea in his ear and he spoke it out, crediting you afterwards. The time he left a bouquet of flowers on your desk with a note that read as a new decoration. The time he read his science book to you when you couldn't sleep on a plane ride home, enunciating softly so you could hear each word in that nerdy voice of his. The time he brought coffee for you, exactly the way you liked it despite you having never told him explicitly what you liked.
In between the more memorable services, he found ways to slip more kindness in every day interactions. He never spoke much after he did these acts for you, just giving you the same smile you'd grown so fond of or a little finger brush that made you shiver each time.
The printer dinged. It had finished. As you collected your papers, you heard a voice behind you that you instantly recognized;
"What'cha working on?" Spencer asked, going past you to get to the coffee machine in the corner. He placed his mug down, going for a refill as he kept his gaze on you. You loved that about him; when he talked to you, he talked to you directly, like he wanted to hear your response.
"Some papers for Hotch." You replied easily. You found it easy to talk to him — and the rest of the team — now that you had been at the BAU for a few months now. Other than long cases, you were used to the hustle every day; and you woke up every morning excited to see Spencer again. He really had an effect on you.
Spencer nodded, taking a sip of his now finished coffee. "What are they about?"
Through his questions and curious gaze, you ended up talking to him for at least fifteen minutes, the two of you slowly inching closer and closer like magnets until you were standing side by side in the printing room. Spencer had read over your papers with his usual quick speed, and while you started talking about work, you ended up talking more about your own lives.
He had told you about a few of his published research papers, and you were excited to get home and read them. You had told him about all your extracurriculars in college, and he seemed interested about what you were interested in. You talked about what you thought your lives would look like in ten years, and you had to bite back the urge to say something about how you hoped Spencer was still in yours.
There was a loud knock on the door, and you could tell it was Hotch wanting the papers. You laughed quietly, just for Spencer, collecting all the sheets and heading out the door.
With your back turned, you didn't see how he kept looking at you while you left.
Location: The BAU business jet. Time: 11:54pm.
Everybody on the plane was asleep except for two people; you, and Spencer.
You were sitting side by side, as you now usually did. Penelope had noticed it first, how close you two had gotten over the year you had been at the BAU, and then everybody else caught on. You weren't a hundred percent sure if that was because of how you acted or because of Penelope's love for gossip, but now it wasn't a secret how close Spencer and you were.
Spencer was reading a book, flipping pages so quickly you could barely read a full paragraph before it was onto the next.
"Slow down." You murmured softly, your elbow propped up on the armrest between your seats, leaning over to look down at the book. You laughed quietly to not wake up the rest of the team asleep in their spots. "It's almost scary how fast you read."
"You think I'm scary?" Spencer whispered back, and you turned your head to look at him. Underestimating the closeness, your lips nearly brushed his as you met his eyes. Neither of you moved.
"I think you're lovely." You replied whole-heartedly, which got you a small smile.
You turned your head back to his book when you knew he wouldn't actually reply. He never really did after you tried to compliment him, and it wasn't annoying; no, it was just another trait you loved about him.
Liked. You liked about him. Where did that come from?
The problem was that it was late, almost midnight, and you still had a few hours until you landed back in Quantico. After a long day and a bumpy start to the ride, you were feeling tired. You dropped your head on Spencer's shoulder, barely noticing his freezing as your eyes drifted close.
You felt one of his hands come up to the side of your head, gentle fingers brushing through your hair, and you let out a sleepy hum of contentment.
You weren't sure if it was Spencer's lips or a slight breeze that grazed your forehead, but you knew what you were wishing it was.
Location: Brenna's Bar, downtown Virginia. Time: 10:32pm.
You hadn't meant to get drunk. You really hadn't. And if you thought about it hard enough, you weren't that wasted; enough to stumble a little as you moved on the dancefloor, but not enough to not register what Penelope or Derek were saying.
Despite it being a work celebration after a long case, you had dressed up cute, pinning your hair up and slipping into a short dress and heels, and you felt pretty. While applying your makeup before leaving, maybe you had thought once or twice about Spencer's reaction to seeing you.
To your disappointment, he just gave you the same smile and sat down a few seats away. No jaw drop, no heart eyes, and you knew it was childish to feel that way, but you couldn't stop it. Not after spending so long with kind and gentle touches and acts and feelings, not after everything Spencer had done for you under a friendship label. Friends didn't do what you two did.
At least, that's what you said to get yourself to sleep at night.
You were dancing now, the pink and purple lights reflecting off the disco ball and your shimmery dress. You were up with JJ and Penelope while the guys sipped their drinks on their stools or talked about whatever guy things they talked about. You were too tipsy to care, too tipsy to notice Spencer's subtle glances to you, too tipsy to see Morgan punch his shoulder with a teasing grin.
You wanted to show off. It was a Friday night, and you hadn't been with anybody in ages, not since before you joined the BAU. You were desperate to get Spencer off your mind, which was why you were moving so energetically next to JJ and Penelope's bodies, not really paying attention to anything other than the pounding of your heart.
You felt a pair of hands slip over your hips and waist, and craning your head over your shoulder, you saw the guy that stood behind you, swaying along. His body was tall and chiseled, his lips curved into a smirk with light stubble growing on his chin. He was hot enough, and his hands were warm and confident, nothing like Spencer's soft and tentative touches. He whispered something in your ear. You didn't hear it.
If you squinted enough, you saw Spencer in his features.
And then you actually did see Spencer, as he had gotten up from his stool and stormed over, pulling the man's hands off your waist. You hardly had time to gasp before he reached for your wrist, pulling you away to the back exit.
When you felt the cold night air hit your face, you exploded.
"What the fuck, Spencer?! I spent months trying to be confident and flirty and get you to want me, but you never do. I never stop thinking about you, as much as I fucking hate it. As soon as I think I can get some sort of distraction and be with somebody who wants me, even for just a night, you storm in and act like I'm a cheating whore!"
"I never said that." Spencer cut in, running a hand through his hair.
"I never said you did!" You pushed his chest, too drunk to filter the words coming out of your mouth. "But you sure are making me feel like one! Did any little thing you ever did mean shit to you, or am I just losing my fucking mind?"
"What do you want me to say? That I'm in love with you? Because I am, and that doesn't change anything!"
It took a minute to process his last words. Because I am. He was in love with you. You weren't crazy, you weren't making things up to satisfy your own desires.
You deflated. "You…you are?"
Spencer let out a long sigh, turning his head away, down the allyway to the street. "…yes. And seeing you with some random person just…I don't know."
Wow. Spencer never didn't know things. He was the smart one, the nerdy one, the one who never shut up about science or math or miscellaneous facts. You had never heard the words "I don't know" come out of his mouth, ever.
"Can you do something about it?" You asked quietly over the cool wind breezing through the alley.
"I think I should now, huh?"
Location: Spencer's apartment. Time: 11:06pm.
It didn't take too much time to get to his place.
You had gotten a taxi, and the two of you barely sat restrained in the back, the only connection being your hands laced together. You kept glancing over at Spencer, your head starting to clear ever so slightly from the lack of new drinks, though you knew you were still a bit tipsy.
The second the door closed behind you, he was kissing you.
It was all consuming now; the way he pressed you to the door, the way you could feel his body heat through layers of clothes, the way his lips moved so desperately against yours like he had wanted to act on his feelings for months, just like you had. Your hands came up to thread through his hair while his own hands laid hesitantly on your waist, careful not to touch skin.
You broke your lips apart just enough to murmur out a; "Touch me, Spencer."
You could feel him swallow harshly, gently prying you off the door and taking you further into the living room. He laid you down on the couch softly, as if all the desperate pent-up desire he had back in the allyway fizzled out now that he actually had you under him. You could still see the want in his eyes, the hunger, but you could also see the sweet man you had fallen in love with so many months ago.
Love. That was a big word, yet no word felt so right.
"We can't. We shouldn't." Spencer whispered. You were laying down on the couch, and he hovered over you, legs bracketing your hips and propping himself on his elbows beside your head so he didn't crush you under him.
"Why not?" You asked, tilting your head up, chasing his lips.
He sat up fully, delicately pushing your shoulders down to the soft cushions. "You're drunk. Or tipsy. I don't know how many drinks you had, and that's what makes me nervous. You aren't in your right mind as of now."
You huffed. You really thought this was going somewhere. "What does that mean? Are you kicking me out?"
"No, god no." Spencer reached one hand down to brush over your hair. "Just…wait until the morning. See if you still feel the same way, then we can do everything you want to."
Location: Spencer's apartment. Time: 8:48am.
Sunlight poured in from the windows.
The breeze of the air conditioning wafted through the house.
You were being pushed into the mattress.
Spencer never stopped being gentle with you; when you woke up, he had tucked your hair behind your ear. When you said you wanted to do the same thing you wanted last night, he had just nodded and kissed you deeply.
Now, the same hands that barely grazed yours months ago was holding your waist down to the mattress as he thrusted in and out of you with gentle purpose, eyes locked on your face to watch your expression for any twitch of discomfort or — god forbid — pain. He wanted to make you feel good, as good as you could feel with a hangover, and while you pulled at the nape of his neck and moaned out his name, all he did was smile and kiss you again.
"Love you." He whispered against your lips. You knew he did, you knew he fit all your expectations, from the day you met and he showed you around the headquarters to just last night at the bar.
It wasn't possible to say anything else. "I love you too."
a/n: got a bit carried away haha!!!! sorta lost the plot near the end but i really really love how it turned out though and i'm proud to call this my first spencer reid fic! hope you guys enjoyed ❤️❤️
you and me... potentially? (Spencer reid x fem!reader)
Summary: you've been keeping your massive crush on spencer reid a secret, that is until you go to the movies with him and realise he might just feel the same way about you.
CW: fluff, basically shy!reader, fem!reader, she overthinks a lot, has low self esteem. mentions of Project Hail Mary but no major spoilers, but lots of references to Grace's science pun t-shirts lol.
Word Count: 1.9k
A/N: yay finally!! I had so much fun writing this, inspired by a conversation with my lovely moot @mango-lovrr and our headcanon that spencer reid would absolutely wear science pun t-shirts.
The man sitting at the desk adjoining yours - Doctor Spencer Reid.
You were also kind of hoping no one noticed - the way your cheeks reddened and smile broadened - when you both talked. About the most mundane things, too. The weather, what you ate for dinner, anything for goodness sake.
Basically, you kind of had a massive, raging crush on Spencer, and you could only pray no one noticed. Including him. Especially him.
Because you really weren't the type of person to go shouting about it, or confide in anyone the way most people do in, for example, 2000’s romcoms. You were a girl who did not confront, because you knew there was always someone better out there, much prettier than you, who Spencer probably deserved more. Because he was gorgeous - and way, way out of your league.
Plus, you had an idea of his type, what with the case in LA a few years earlier and a gorgeous blonde by the name of Lila Archer, whom Spencer made out with. In a pool. Psyching yourself out was something you did a lot, really. The slight burn in your chest, sparkling with a twinge of hope while simultaneously decaying your self esteem.
Penelope had invited you to countless girls nights at O'Keefe's, urging you to pick up a man. “Have a little fun, show off some of your charm!” she’d exclaim, while you knew that you were more of a spluttering and stuttering sort of charmer. Awkwardness no one seemed to desire in a woman, but yearned for in a man.
Which was greatly ironic, considering the circumstances: the dimple adorned, wispy haired, soft clothed agent sitting opposite you, somehow emitting a warmth under the unforgiving and oppressive fluorescent lights of the bullpen.
“Hey, you okay?” Spencer questioned concernedly, craning his neck over the desk divider to peek at you as his eyebrows raised.
“Um…uh-huh” you replied unconvincingly, cheeks burning at the thought of being caught staring.
Spencer nodded, soft curls unfurling from behind his ear as he returned his attention to the case file on his desk. Part of you wished you could reach right over, tuck the hair back in place again.
Your stomach pulled at the wanting that you were so unfamiliar with, it seemed to come out of nowhere.
***
The clock struck five.
You’re not usually the type of employee to immediately stop working when it’s time to leave, simply because absolutely no one else is, and you’d rather not appear like you're eager to go, what with the serious nature of your job and all.
So you hang on a few minutes. Usually until Spencer starts packing his things. Not in a creepy way.
He stands, pulling his coat on and slinging his worn messenger bag over his shoulder, before looking at you.
“Have you seen that new sci-fi movie yet? Project Hail Mary?” he enquired politely.
You and Spencer shared a love for film - especially the sci-fi genre - and regularly discussed new releases. This is what made your wanting so consuming. You shared so many similar interests, the discussions serving as a reprieve from your gruelling job.
You considered his pretty simple question carefully, not because it was particularly mentally challenging, but so that your mouth could catch up with your brain and form a coherent response.
“I haven't actually, but I've been wanting to. I’ve heard good things about it!”
“Me too! I've been anticipating its release for a while, actually. It was originally a book by Andy Weir, who's the author of The Martian - a book that’s also been adapted into a movie. I really recommend reading them too, surprisingly I found the movies just as enjoyable - which, you know, isn't always the case. Also, Project Hail Mary’s portrayal of astrophysics, relativity and spacecraft engineering is highly accurate, so that’s good.”
A pause.
“Would you… like to watch it with me? It's showing this evening at the local movie theatre, not far from my apartment. I could, um, drive us and then… drive you home?”
Heart fluttering stupidly in your chest, you said: “I would love to!”
Not bad. No stuttering, at least.
Spencer waited patiently as you gathered your belongings, before following him towards the elevators, oblivious to the fact that your discussion had attracted a little audience across the bullpen.
“How long has it been? Three years now?” queried Emily.
“What, since he’s been looking at her like she hung the moon?” JJ joined.
“Nah, more like she’s been looking at him like that.” corrected Derek.
“Whatever, can they just- ugh - do something about it already!” exclaimed Emily, losing patience.
***
“You totally cried!” you exclaimed while grinning brightly under the darkened sky. You always loved exiting a movie theatre after the sun had gone down. It was like entering a new world.
The sidewalk was wet with fresh rain, petrichor pungent in the air. You walked side by side with Spencer, a newfound electric energy between you as you excitedly discussed the movie.
“I did not…cry,” Spencer said so unconvincingly it caused a chuckle to bubble from your chest, “I… teared up. But so did you! I did see you reaching for the tissues in your pocket, you know.”
“Well, I really thought Rocky was…” you started.
“I know, I know, me too. But he wasn't! The end was incredibly… heartwarming.”
“Yes, it was.” you agreed, peering at him as you stopped once you reached his car. “Are you sure you’re okay to drop me home? I really don’t want to be a bother, the metro journey isn't too bad-”
“Please, I insist,” he earnestly said, cutting you off while opening the passenger door for you.
You peered into his eyes, impossibly dark, and you could have sworn they glistened like stars under the night sky. He looked so earnest as he stood there. Before you could be accused of outright staring, you thanked him before getting into his car. Of course, being the gentleman that he is, he closed the door for you too. Which could mean nothing.
***
Everything looked blotchy as the raindrops on the windows blurred everyone's car lights together, a warm toned distortion against the navy sky. With the heater on (since Spencer noticed you shivering) you felt incredibly cozy, the rhythmic sound of the indicator almost drifting you to sleep.
It was quiet in a way that confirmed two people were comfortable enough in each other's presence to not force words, and the silence continued for a good ten minutes before Spencer spoke.
“I liked his t-shirts.”
“Hm?”
“Grace’s t-shirts. The science puns. You know… ‘I Had Potential’” Spencer chuckled.
“Oh yeah!” you realised, “they were pretty fantastic, weren't they?”
“Definitely” he agreed.
Eventually, Spencer halted the car outside of your apartment complex.
“...Thank you. Not just for dropping me off, but for this evening too. I really enjoyed the film,” you psyched yourself up for your next words, “...and spending time with you.”
Spencer let out a breath, shifting in his seat to look at you more directly. “I enjoy spending time with you, too. Well um, you know, they’re probably going to be more movies. That we both enjoy. To, um, watch together.” he stuttered.
Your heart wouldn't stop doing that stupid jumpy thing as you undid your seatbelt, the pure warmth of your face becoming unbearable.
“Yes. For sure” you nodded.
“Wait, let me-” he said, swiftly getting out of the car and walking around to your side, opening the car door for you.
You could barely keep it together as you exited his car, stuttering a goodbye as he waved, supposedly waiting until you were safely in your building before driving away.
***
It had been about a week since you attended the movie theatre with Spencer.
Fluorescent lights, rhythmic typing, and the smell of coffee. The usual for a monday morning inside the BAU.
You were early that morning - thankfully - as you beelined to Spencer’s vacant desk. You hoped no one saw as you planted a gift bag next to his keyboard. You picked a bag that looked the most unassuming, a plain dark blue. Successfully, the bullpen was empty enough to not attract wandering eyes to your activities.
Or so you thought.
“Pretty girl, whatcha got there? Is it pretty boy’s birthday or something?”
Derek.
“Um. No… It’s just something. For him. That I thought he’d like.”
Way to play it cool.
“I see, I see,” he acknowledged with the most shit eating grin on his face, “you’re all sweet on him, aren't you?”
“What! I simply-”
“He’s all sweet on you too, you know that right? The way he looks at you? It’s driving Emily insane, how oblivious you both are.”
“I really don’t think he-” you began, before Derek cut you off again.
“Look… I understand you’re both not the type for a big fuss, so I'll leave this here: say something, do something.” Derek spoke with such understanding that, surprisingly, the shock of feeling seen didn't really feel like shock at all. It felt like relief.
“This is me doing something.” you motioned towards the bag with your head.
Derek nodded, satisfied, and walked away.
***
About half an hour later, Spencer walked through the bullpen doors.
Once at his desk, he eyed the blue gift bag curiously. Your best effort to appear unassuming included pretending to be absolutely absorbed in the case file open on your desk, when in reality, you were hyperaware of his movements, watching them from the corner of your eye.
He opened the bag, pulling out the first bundle of fabric and unfolding it curiously. You then heard a surprised laugh.
“Was this you?” he asked with such delight, holding up a t-shirt with the words ‘I had potential’ on it, as well a potential energy graph.
You couldn't help but laugh, too, at his joy.
“I just had to! It being a science pun and all, they reminded me of you.”
Spencer rummaged further into the bag, pulling out another t-shirt, this time one with a periodic table printed on it, with the phrase ‘I wear this shirt periodically’ beneath it.
His laughter increased, while you grinned sheepishly at him.
“I love them. Thank you.” he spoke earnestly. His face softened, looking at you with such…longing?
“I’m glad you didn't think it was weird or anything.” you mumbled pathetically.
Spencer took a seat at his desk, carefully folding the shirts back up and gently placing them back into the bag. “You’re kidding right? This is one of the best gifts I've ever received.”
Again, a familiar moment of silent reflection, until:
“Ive never met anyone who's understood me so well,” he began with a serious expression, “I know I'm not for everyone, some people make that explicitly clear, but with you,” he gazes, “I feel like I can be myself.”
He places those words between you like they’re fragile, vulnerable.
“Me too,” you reassure him, "it's always so easy with you.”
You take a breath.
“Would you like to make our next trip to the movie theatre… a date? We could get dinner afterwards. If you want.”
Spencer’s mouth opens in what you could only call amused disbelief, “you know, that’s funny. I was about to ask the same thing. A date.”
That’s it. You’re dead.
“I guess it’s settled then,” you confirm.
“I guess it is.”
You can’t help the upturn of your mouth, which he reciprocates, before you both try so hard to begin your work for the day.
Derek catches your eyes from across the room. He winks. You smile.
synopsis : spencer is a painfully pent up virgin, to the point that it's getting in the way of his work. an agreement is formed with his coworker in an attempt to relieve his frustration as well as hers. they may not get along but maybe this will help them come together.
tags : enemies to enemies with benefits to maybe something more, pornwithplot, coworkers, secret relationship, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader
Chapter One : Nasty Dog : spencer makes a series of bad decisions that lead to an unfortunate confrontation out at a bar. you make a series of bad decisions that lead to a late night phone call with him.
Chapter Two : Human Nature : conversations are happening over breakfast, and then dinner.
in which reader has a hard time getting to sleep at night, leading to Spencer's step by step instruction of which hormones help you fall asleep
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: smut (18+ mdni)
content warnings: unprotected p in v sex, fingering, spencer infodumps while fingering you, restlessness, ambien, sex as a sleep aid, effective but not recommended, physiology, female masturbation, insecurity, reader doesn't pee after sex which you really should do, no clean up, but fanfiction isn't real. softdom!spencer. not thoroughly proofread.
word count: 1.99k
a/n: i thought i had this scheduled so imagine my surprise when i went to check tumblr and it wasn't posted. ANYWAYS. this one goes out to all the girlies with chronic sleep issues (me) and the person who requested this. don't like, don't read.
Your pillow was warm. Surely that was what was hindering your ability to sleep. Lifting your head, you flip your pillow over, resting your head on the cool side and turning to your other side.
Facing Spencer, you pull your arm out from under the covers, wondering if you should only change one variable at a time to see what actually helps you get to sleep. Huffing, you shut your eyes again, the usually muted traffic outside of your apartment seeming extraneously loud for this time of night.
You couldn’t put a name to it, but there was something keeping you up at night. You’d always had sleep issues, but your restlessness from the last several weeks was unprecedented.
“Angel,” your boyfriend says from next to you, reaching his hand out and placing it on your waist, trying to drag you across the sheets and into his arms.
Willingly, you move to his side of the bed, leaving space between the two of you to keep your body cool—maybe you were just too warm to sleep. “Did I wake you?” You ask, peering up at him through your eyelashes. He looks so ethereal in the diffused moonlight that seeps in through the closed curtains, the cool light falling over the harsh edges of his face.
He hums in response, opening his eyes and casually slipping a hand under your sleep shirt, resting his palm on your bare waist, “No,” he murmurs, even though you know he’s lying through his teeth. “What’s wrong?”
“Can’t sleep,” you tell him miserably, sticking out your lower lip even though he likely can’t see your face—his eyes would need to adjust to the darkness.
He shifts under the covers, gently skimming the pad of his thumb over your ribcage, “Have you tried Ambien?”
Your primary care physician prescribed sleeping pills for you, but you didn’t have any interest in taking them. “So I can end up at the Lincoln Memorial with my underwear on my head? No, thanks.”
“I would be very impressed if you managed to sleepwalk all the way to the National Mall,” he muttered, his voice clearing as he became more alert.
You sigh in exhaustion, “I’m multifaceted.”
Spencer kisses your forehead, “Go to sleep, multifaceted.”
“I can’t,” you complain, watching him through your eyelashes, “I’m open to suggestions.”
Your boyfriend groans at your impertinence, “You could try taking the pills that your doctor prescribed to you.”
Rolling your eyes in the dark, you tuck some stray hairs behind your ear, “Nope. Any other ideas in that big brain of yours?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you get kind of snippy when you get tired?” Spencer asks rhetorically.
Frowning in defeat, you consider going out to the living room to watch something on the TV. At least that way you would be able to let Spencer get some sleep. “Are you telling me that there’s nothing you’ve read recently that has any kind of information on remedies for restlessness?”
Next to you, Spencer stiffens, and you wonder if he’s cold. You turned on the ceiling fan in an attempt to cool down, “There are always new articles on sleep remedies, but none you’d be interested in.”
Your eyes flicker to the alarm clock on his bedside table, just past three in the morning, “I’m open to anything.”
“Orgasms produce some of the same hormones that are conducive to falling asleep,” he whispers, his ministrations on your waist coming to a halt.
Sighing, you flop onto your back, “I already tried that.”
He’s silent for a moment, “Were you touching yourself while I was in bed next to you?” There was a new lilt in his voice, some sort of shift as the type of frustration he was feeling changed.
Considering your options, you cross your arms in front of your stomach, staring up at the spinning blades of the ceiling fan, “Yeah, but I didn’t— I couldn’t—”
“You couldn’t make yourself come?” He finishes for you, the words that you couldn’t get out slipping easily past his lips.
It shouldn’t embarrass you, but you find your face warming under the cover of night anyways. “No,” your answer comes out as barely more than an exhale, “I couldn’t quite get there.”
With his hand now resting on your abdomen, your attention laser focusing on the way his pinky finger skimmed the elastic band of your panties, “Do you want me to try?”
Honestly, it wouldn’t be much of an attempt, like every other aspect of his life, pleasing you is something Spencer excels at. “I want you to go to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you,” you decline his offer.
He doesn’t move his hand, “Are you sure? I’m offering, if you’re accepting.”
“I-“ you falter, “I guess it doesn’t hurt to try, but only if you want to.” You were perfectly fine with going to the couch and wasting the night away in front of the TV screen. You’ve clocked a lot of time with the early morning newscast recently.
Spencer twists his wrist in response, looking at you in the cool light of the room, “I’m always interested in pleasing you.” He speaks to you quietly, retaining the reverent tones of the morning while slipping his hand deeper into your underwear. His index finger slipping easily through your folds, “Oh, you got close,” he whispers.
There’s no resistance as his finger breaches your entrance, already deeper than your fingers had gotten. Your mouth falls open, a small, choked gasp escaping your throat as your hand instinctively grabs at Spencer’s wrist, “Yeah.”
His motions are slow and precise, making sure you can feel every slight movement as he withdraws his finger before sliding it back into your pussy. Adding a second finger before his other hand pulls down at your underwear, haphazardly leaving them around your thighs before finding a rhythm. The peace of the night pauses only for the crude sounds from you, muffled by the blanket strewn over your bodies.
Gently, Spencer presses the pad of his thumb to your clit, maintaining the thrusts of his hand as he slowly encircles the sensitive nub, “Spence.” Your voice is a breathy laugh in recognition of just how quickly he can get you there.
There was something about having someone else touch you. When you do it yourself, you can hold yourself back or overthink it, but with Spencer’s hands on you—or in you, rather—there was nothing to hold back. “Sex can help you sleep for the simple reason that it’s physical activity, but it’s when you cum that your body releases hormones that can actually help you sleep,” his ministrations don’t suffer as a result of his physiology lesson. If anything, it all becomes more intense.
A sharp, high-pitched noise comes out of your mouth, the all too familiar knot in your lower belly coiling. And coiling. And coiling. “So, you can—” your voice cuts out as you gasp, “You can literally fuck me to sleep?”
Spencer hums a confirmation, “Sex reduces cortisol levels, and your body’s going to release oxytocin and prolactin,” he assures you, “and those will induce pleasant and relaxing feelings. All of which means I get to fuck you to sleep tonight.”
“’m close,” you breathe, closing your eyes as the pressure in your core nears unbearable levels. “Oh, Spence,” you say, your grip tightening on his wrist as his hands don’t let up on you.
His unoccupied hand reaches up to your face, gently sweeping hair off of your forehead in a way that makes you dizzy, his head falling to your shoulder before he kisses the worn fabric of your t-shirt, “You can cum, baby. It’s okay.”
He doesn’t want you to hold it in, so you don’t. Your head tips back into the pillows as the coil in your belly snaps, going off like a slingshot—sharp and quick.
Spencer’s fingers keep working you through your orgasm, slowing at the same pace that your orgasm does, the sheets sticking to your back as you slowly unarch, coming back to the surface as the pleasure of your orgasm drifts away almost as quickly as it came.
Every part of your body trembles as you fall away from your high, hooded eyelids staring over at your boyfriend as you catch your breath. Timidly, you reach down and push your underwear down your legs, kicking them off into the abyss of sheets to be discovered at a later date as you turn on your side.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, shifting under the covers as he pulls his cock out of his boxer briefs.
You hum, scooting yourself closer to him on the mattress, heat emanating from his body in a way that you now find welcoming, “You can’t even see me.”
Grabbing your thigh, Spencer slings your leg over his waist, opening your body to him, “Not right now,” he admits, “But I know you. I know the way you look right now, while I’m slipping myself into you.” His voice is low, but your attentions are focused on the feeling of his tip at your pussy, slowly pushing into you. He lets your body adjust, this isn’t an angle he usually takes you at, but you can feel every single ridge as he moves.
“I know the glossy look your eyes have right now,” he mutters, pushing your lower back closer to him, leaving his cock impossibly deep in you. “A combination of the orgasm that you just had and the sensations you’re feeling right now.”
You shudder at his words, tentatively rolling your hips against him, silently signaling to him that you’re ready for him to move. A soft cry escapes your lips as he withdraws his hips, pushing himself back into you while your cunt throbs around his length, “Spence.”
He grunts in response, finding a steady, gentle rhythm as your mind goes blank. You find yourself searching for that high again, “You feel so good, angel. So, so good.” His voice is low as he pulls your body closer to him still, “Fuck.”
“Spence,” your voice cracks at stimulation, overwhelming you as he breathes into the crook of your neck. You dig your nails into his back, trying to keep yourself from screaming as his hand slips between your conjoined bodies, swiping softly at your clit.
Spencer keeps moving, fucking into you as his movements grow messier and messier with each passing thrust. “You’re so pretty,” he repeats, seeing your features in the soft moonlight as your mouth gapes and your second orgasm quickly approaches.
Whimpering, you bite down on your lower lip, your leg that’s slung over him shaking uncontrollably as you chase your orgasm, “Oh my god,” you gasp helplessly.
“So good for me. Let it go, I’m close too,” he says, continuing his motions even as your pussy clenches around his length, the waves of your orgasm pulsating around him, sending him hurtling toward his own.
Stars dance in front of your eyes, and you let them fall shut. His movements come to a stop and you loose a sigh of relief at the realization that you’re exhausted. “Don’t go,” you mumble.
Spencer presses a soft kiss to your lips, holding you close to him with one arm while readjusting his underwear with the other. “I won’t,” he whispers, “You need to call your doctor about wanting new sleeping pills.”
You grunt in response, too close to sleep to form a coherent response.
“I’m not opposed to a more natural remedy, but I’m not always around at night, and I need to know you’re sleeping at night,” he tells you, his voice growing softer as sleep threatens to take him.
Humming, you nuzzle closer to him, letting your body melt into the mattress as you finally fall asleep. Staying cold was no longer a concern, staying close to Spencer was.
Spencer Reid x fem!Reader
Summary: Needing an extra helping hand, the BAU gets a transfer from another agency that seems to push every button Spencer has, until one day, she just doesn't anymore.
Warnings: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, soft-dom!Spencer, miscommunication/ lack of communication, case details mentioned, sexual harassment of reader in one scene by an unsub, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, slight cumplay, slight angst, oral (m receiving), dry-humping, etc.
A/N: This fic was supposed to be like 2k words, and now it is basically 8k because I am a sucker for useless plot and sex scenes that are longer than necessary, so without further ado, please enjoy <3
Oh and please let me know what you think in the comments and tags!
Masterlist
The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI was used to many tense situations. Hostage situations, the first 24 hours of a kidnapping, international murders involving diplomats, and even mob-affiliated murders were easy to navigate compared to the absolute stalemate of the office.
Spencer Reid, resident genius, had been less than pleased to find himself teamed up with a second genius for the few weeks that JJ was going to be gone on leave. That wasn’t exactly true, he’d felt indifferent about the ordeal at first. But then he’d met you.
That wasn’t the stalemate though.
As Derek Morgan walked into the office that morning, he noticed something had changed. Though Reid and his partner - you, freshly on loan from the CIA - had seemingly been sitting in the office for around an hour before his arrival time, you hadn’t yet begun insulting one another.
“Did I miss something?” he asked Emily, throwing his back into his desk chair as the pair stared across the room, as if waiting for a bomb to go off any minute.
“They haven’t even looked at one another for the last half hour. Hotch is worried they’re finally at the end of the fuse and that we’re about to blow up,” she replied.
“Let’s hope they last one more case then,” Rossi said, sneaking up on the two from the bottom of the stairs. Everyone in the office was so focused on what was not happening between the two geniuses that they had so far neglected a lot of work, a trend over the past weeks.
As if queued by his senior, Hotch emerged from his office and called for his team's attention. “We have a case. Conference room, now” he said, catching the eye of Spencer and you first, holding it for a second longer there as if to say ‘Don’t pull anything stupid.’
While the rest of the members of the team took their time collecting things and getting ready to enter the office, you gathered everything you needed as quickly as possible, keeping your head down to avoid making eye contact with - well, with anyone. But specifically, with Spencer Reid.
Thankfully, as a transfer from another agency, you didn’t exactly have the freedom to acquire much desk junk. Your files were perfectly organised and alphabetised on your desk, in separate file holders based on case, location, and level of completion. You had one small notepad on your desk, along with three 2B pencils, a ball point pen, an eraser, and a ruler. Your desktop was similarly organised, and over the course of the last two months at the BAU, you’d taken it upon yourself to streamline the online file organisation system as much as the files themselves allowed.
Penelope Garcia could do with a computer things that you couldn’t even dream. She also, though, had been known on multiple occasions to name a file “FinishedFile_Real_Final_REALLYTHISTIME_3”
You mostly disagreed with the title of genius that had been placed on you by the BAU members at the beginning of your time there. You’d said a few words, and a raised eyebrow and a comparison was all that you needed to feel a burning resentment from a few paces away.
You still felt Spencer’s burning gaze now, desperately ignoring it as you climbed the stairs and quickly took your temporary seat at the table.
Once everyone gathered, Penelope began.
“This one is not pretty, but they rarely are, please view the pictures on your tablets, as I will not be showing that on the big screen when my lunch break is half an hour away-”
You listened as well as you could to the case details, looking through the files yourself as the meeting continued. You were about to ship out anyway, and you’d learn the case details again when you got to wherever it was you were going. So your mind drifted.
It would only be a week or so now before JJ returned, and you were glad though you’d never met her. Another agent had been in charge of preparing all your training and helping you find your role in the team, and Emily had filled in most of your gaps even though you were technically assigned to Doctor Spencer Reid.
Spencer.
You thought back to your first meeting with him, your first day at the FBI. You blamed a lack of sleep and a lack of understanding when it came to how you actually were meant to converse with coworkers for everything that happened that day.
“Excuse me, is this the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I was told that I would be meeting an Agent Reid here to begin my training,” you’d asked tentatively at the edge of the room, noting the large offices above your head and the crammed desks on the main floor.
You wondered which one would be yours.
“Doctor Reid?” the voice asked back, more startled than you, and you assumed that he was actually a regular worker. “Not Hotchner or Morgan? Rossi? Prentiss?”
With every shake of your head, the man grew more astounded.
“I’m surprised they’re letting him talk to people,” he mumbled under his breath, but it was something you heard nonetheless, and you grew apprehensive about this too good to be true job opportunity.
“He’s probably at his desk,” the man shrugged, gesturing vaguely near the stairs, before walking away from you completely. You couldn’t even thank him. You wouldn’t have, to be clear, but now you could blame it on his own rudeness instead of yours.
Luckily, the next person you asked for help was Emily Prentiss.
“Oh yes, hi. Spencer just stepped out of the office for a minute, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
She showed you your desk, logged you into their system, paged Reid, and then let you have time to unpack your few belongings before Reid arrived.
“You’re late,” was the first thing he’d said to you. “You were supposed to be here at 10:45. It’s 11:30.”
He was panting slightly, as quietly as he could, hands on his hips as he looked down at you, towering as he was.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the agent from the CIA? And you’re late.”
A few people stood by to watch, suddenly needing to photocopy something urgently at the nearest printer, or to ask a colleague at a nearby desk a question. Or just a quick stretch.
“No. No, I'm not,” you replied coolly. You realized quickly that wasn’t the best response, but before you could open your mouth to reply, you locked eyes with the man above you.
It was like lightning. You saw the instant dislike in his eyes, and recognized it as a look you were probably making at the same time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. It was just the overwhelming sense of superiority that stunk on him at that second.
He thought he was right, and though he wasn’t, you disliked the overconfidence.
“Doctor Reid, presumably?” you asked, and he nodded, and you stood, trying to squash the distance and superiority that height gave him.
“Agent Prentiss tells me that you just got back from a case last night. You were in Puerto Rico for an assignment, correct?”
The man grimaced, and you returned it, noticing that even after standing up he had a handful of inches on you. Irksome.
“You are still almost an hour late.”
“No, I’m 15 minutes early,” you said, grabbing his wrist and pulling it so you could see his watch. You smiled, and took a breath to relax. “Your clock is still set to Atlantic Standard Time. You’re running an hour ahead, Doctor.”
A deep red spread across the tips of his ears, made only more notable by the way he ran his hands through his hair. You wondered if he’d recently had a large trim, but quickly shook the thought from your mind. You had a weakness for a man with long hair, and you didn’t even want to entertain the idea of this man being your ideal type for even a second longer.
He composed himself, handed you some documents, and pointed you towards Hotchner’s office all before the blush could dissipate, but it was enough for the rumours.
You had challenged the pet genius of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and come out on top (give or take a few inches). A rivalry had begun.
Spencer had watched you walk up the steps while holding his breath. He wondered how still he would have to stand for his coworkers to forget he was there. You took five steps, and then turned around, satisfied that you were now finally above Spencer Reid.
“Doctor Reid?” you called out, knowing that once you dropped the gauntlet there was no way to pick it back up again. You may as well have fun with it.
“I look forward to helping you out for the next few weeks. It seems as though you need it.”
You mentally scolded yourself remembering that moment.
It seems as though you need it, you thought. Really?
It had been satisfying at that moment, of course, but it had come back to haunt you weeks in. You’d found yourself in the midst of a challenge with the good doctor, of who could solve a case first. Mostly who could be the most helpful to the other.
You’d reorganised all the files in the BAU’s folder (with permission), and he’d found crucial undigitalized documents that had helped solve a string of copy-cat murders in Chicago.
You had connected the dots between a local kidnapping and a human-trafficking ring, and he had ever so graciously tracked down three cases in the FBI system that were unsolved but could now be definitively connected.
You interviewed a possible suspect in a sexual sadism murder case leading to an admission of guilt and an arrest, he shot the guy when he’d pulled a knife on you as you were getting your handcuffs.
You still weren’t entirely sure if he was aiming for you or not.
For nearly two months, the BAU was reporting productivity hereto unknown. And you still made sure to talk to him primarily from higher ground.
The problem with hating a coworker, though, was that he was always there. A further problem with your situation, too, was so was everyone else.
“Are you listening?” a voice to your right asked, as you felt a nudge against your leg from the left.
“Wheel’s up in 30,” Hotch said, keeping his eyes on you for a minute before flickering to Spencer. Your eyes were fixed forward, though, to where Reid was sitting, the direction of your nudge from earlier.
He was ever so helpful.
You realized that you’d done what you’d promised you wouldn’t do that day, which was look at him. You’d wondered if you could even go as far as to not acknowledge him, but realized that was likely too obvious.
So now the eye-contact that you’d promised to prohibit was ruined, and you were stuck leveling a look across the table at his soft brown eyes.
‘Soft?’ you scolded yourself, eyes twitching but not looking away, somewhat entranced.
You felt other eyes on you as you kept your eyes locked with his, your coworkers trickling out of the room as you sat frozen.
Slowly, eventually, Spencer pushed his chair back and slowly rose to a standing position. He was far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck, but close enough that you felt small just comparatively.
“Don’t be late,” he whispered quickly as he walked past you and out of the door.
Most of the cases you’d worked together followed the same pattern.
Aaron Hotchner wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly how to push his team members to get the best results. Luckily, you and Spencer did most of the pushing for him.
You’d been partnered up to explore crime scenes from that first day, where you’d taken a local arson case.
“You don’t do field work with the CIA, correct?” Spencer had asked you as soon as the two of you were alone. It was like he was grilling a suspect instead of a coworker.
“Not usually, though it was a part of my training.”
He nodded and pulled on a pair of gloves, his shoes already covered to prevent crime scene contamination. You followed suit.
“So what do you see?” He asked, wondering if you’d miss anything that he already knew.
“I think we’re dealing with someone that knows fire department procedure, but not someone in the service themself.”
He frowned at that, but asked you to elaborate.
“The fire was started with an accelerant and a lighter found on the scene. But not a quick spreading or high burning one like gas. Nothing that could cause an explosion, or even a death.”
“There was a death at the last fire, though,” he said, probing you again.
“Which would suggest that our unsub was progressing. If he meant to kill that victim, we could expect to have another body here, even more. Instead, we have a smaller fire than last time.”
“Why don’t you think that this one just didn’t work? That he meant for this to be bigger but the fire department reacted quicker than he thought.”
“Why do you keep referring to the unsub with male pronouns?” you asked.
Smugly, he replied. “Statistically, men account for over 90% of known arson cases, that figure increasing when we take into account-”
“But the fire marshal for this building is a woman. The same woman who is a fire marshal for the last two fire locations.”
With a jolt, Spencer took a step back, stared at you for a second, and immediately pulled his phone out to call Hotch.
Your consultations on that case ended quickly, but you’d been equally combative on cases across the country.
You didn’t bother trying to get along with him in front of local PDs or even suspects. It was almost a new interrogation technique. Putting the two of you in a room with an unsub, and seeing who had the most problems.
Spencer had grown used to a certain level of comfort in the FBI, especially having been on the same team in the same role for so long. Of course he was challenged on his ideas regularly, but somehow when you did it, it was different.
It wasn’t exactly combative. You weren’t throwing around insults or threatening each other. It was more deeply heated debates, opinions thrown back and forth and a solid refusal to admit that either of you were wrong that caught you up. In conclusion you were both stubborn.
You somehow managed an entire flight without speaking to anyone, listening quietly while everyone else threw theories around. Everybody but Spencer.
He had similarly holed himself up in a corner, almost as if the two of you had agreed to ignore each other, which was impossible because the two of you would agree on nothing.
Quietly, your teammates placed bets on which of you would come out of this one triumphant. When it came to case wins, you were a week away from the end of the job and everything was tied up. 5-5.
You knew about the bets because the jet wasn’t exactly big, and Morgan wasn’t exactly quiet about winning. You wondered if some of that natural arrogance had rubbed off on Spencer somewhere. He certainly looked up to the man. If it was arrogance he’d gotten from Morgan, it was his communication skills he’d gotten from Hotch. His cards were always close to his chest. You had no doubt that this team had raised him. This was his family, and you were the side character for a week or two; his problem to overcome.
He’d certainly overcome you in the last case or two, though you’d done your best to forget as much of it as you could.
Landing in Nevada, you ignored again that he was now on home turf. You ignored his coworkers asking after his mother, you ignored the prickling feeling of his eyes on you, you ignored the curiosity you had about his younger years, about discovering more about him, and climbed into the car, letting yourself be carried to your new precinct.
Reaching the car before the others, you shut the door, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself a few minutes peace on the tarmac before the blurring voices got closer, became more distinct. The driver door opened first, and someone climbed in, but to your surprise, your door opened, too.
You looked up at Spencer again, his head ducking down as he made to sit where you were. He looked surprised too for a minute. The seats in the car filled up, but you silently stared up at Spencer, wondering if this would start another argument, even if you were both past that now. Even if no one was paying attention to you anymore.
Instead, he quietly reached over you, and clicked your seatbelt into place.
You could’ve sworn you felt a breath in your ear, the phantom of his lips against your skin. You could almost convince yourself that he had muttered an apology.
You knew that he had nothing to apologize for in the end. The mistake was all yours to own.
After 7 cases with the BAU, you thought you had settled in nicely. You were instrumental in solving cases, and had delivered a number of scathing set downs to Spencer Reid. They seemed like polite corrections to others, but to him, every time you talked was like you poking a knife in his side.
He scowled at you and was sharp with his words. He enjoyed nothing more than poking back at you with his own taunts.
You were on assignment at a prison, stuck together mid-week while you processed information and interviewed inmates that had finally agreed to be a part of BAU’s research files in return for leniency and better treatment inside.
Due to your nagging and biting at each other, however, no other team member had wanted to go with the two of you.
“I’m not a babysitter, Hotch,” Morgan had shook his head when asked, crying off with the blessed excuse of a court date.
Rossi’s birthday was coming up, so he had his own inmates to prepare for.
Emily was suddenly busy getting information from an Interpol contact she knew about an old case, and Hotch couldn’t leave the team behind in case an important case came in.
Really, there was no one else to go with the two of you, and so the problem solved itself.
If there was no one to accompany you, then no one would.
It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t get the job done. Your constant squabbling on cases had increased productivity by around 150%. Not one member of the team had worked overtime since you’d begun your rivalry, the both of you willing to pick up extra slack in the team to prove yourselves more useful than the other.
You were each given the file, a company card, specially prepared credentials, and a car key, and you were told to drive yourself to a prison one state over to get to work.
“I’ll drive,” Spencer had said, grabbing your bag from your hand and packing it into the back with his own as you seethed quietly. It was fine. You didn’t like driving anyway, and you knew he didn’t either.
You’d made your way practically silently along the highway, stopping off now and then to use amenities. You both took turns driving, reading the case files in the meantime until you finally arrived.
It was when you finally arrived that you realised that you had overestimated yourself.
You’d mainly worked behind the scenes during your cases up to that point, not interacting a lot with the unsubs apart from the one time one had almost made you a victim. You’d been somewhat more safe in the larger numbers of your team, not the only woman around, and almost protected by the experience of the other men.
This prison was different.
Even as you were greeting the prison staff, you noticed the looks they were giving you, almost concerned and unsure. You wanted to prove yourself, but they looked at you as if you were the sacrificial virgin about to be given up to an angry god. You knew who you were about to talk to. You had read the file more than once, and, though it irked you, you were mainly just there to take notes and assist Spencer with his interview.
You had instead found yourself the centre of attention for the prisoner.
He had murdered and killed a number of women, violating them both before and after. It was a miscalculation to send you into that, and Hotch had later regretted the decision.
“Who is this? What a beautiful girl,” he had started, hands on the table, relaxed even though you noticed they were cuffed together by a somewhat relaxed set of chains. You had watched him walk in, noting the chains were wrapped around his ankles as well.
The chains were attached to the table, the table was fastened to the floor, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Still, bile rose in your throat.
“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, this is my colleague, we’re here today from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct an interview-”
“What’s her name?” the prisoner asked, addressing Spencer but staring at you, his body still relaxed.
“We’re here from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI to conduct a research interview. Please state your name for the record.”
He did so, irked slightly, but continued. “She’s pretty.”
Spencer brushed the man off, but he sat up a little straighter in his chair. The guards behind the prisoner moved toward the door and took their spot opposite the prisoner once again. You tried to relax as best you could, looking down at files and organizing your materials so you could avoid eye contact. You didn’t want to avoid eye contact, but there was no way you could look at the monster in front of you without flinching.
Spencer began asking questions, and though you had agreed to ask some yourself, Spencer quickly took charge of the situation, and you found yourself thankful that he wasn’t making you interact any more than you had to.
“Why isn’t she talking to me?” the prisoner asked again, pricking your ears with the desperation in his voice.
“My colleague is just here to observe, she is not an interviewer and she isn’t qualified to ask questions.”
“I want her to ask me questions,” the man pouted, almost childlike, as he slipped his hands off the desk, leaning back.
“No-”
“It’s okay,” you said quietly, cursing your voice for the rasp that came out. “I can take over a few questions from here.”
You continued the interview for a few more questions, and part of you felt your confidence growing by the minute. He was responding well to you, you were doing well, you hadn’t stuttered once since your first line.
But just as you were about to ask for your final question, you felt a hand grip your wrist tightly, another wrapping around your eyes as you were quickly pulled from your seat and from the room entirely, Spencer leading you out as the guards began shouting orders at the prisoner inside the room.
“Spencer!” you gasped as he pulled you into a free space, not private but not anywhere near guards or prisoners. He released his hand from your eyes, but kept ahold on your wrist.
“Are you okay?” he gasped, chest heaving with urgency, scanning your face for any signs of hurt or injury.
“Yes? What happened, I was about to finish the last question. One more minute and I would’ve been done,” you groaned. You couldn’t help the annoyance in your voice. Even if you didn’t want to be in that room one more second, and that Spencer likely had a damn good reason for dragging you away.
“He was… under the table, he had revealed himself, and he was about to-” he struggled to find the words as the situation dawned on you. “He was taking pleasure in talking about the past, and I just wanted to get you out of there. It doesn’t bode well to let them revel in their crimes.”
“Oh,” you muttered, suddenly defeated. “Oh. Thank you?”
You didn’t say much else, letting him lead you back to the guards areas, collecting your things to drive once more.
You sat quiet and still in the passenger seat on the way back. It shouldn’t have been any different than the drive on the way there, still silent, but it was.
Arriving back in Virginia, Spencer took mercy on you and drove you straight to your own house instead of making you drop the vehicle back at Quantico. You were a little blurry, even though you hadn’t slept, and didn’t even realize as he opened your car door and led you out.
He carried your back, clutching your hand in his as he guided you to your door.
You vaguely heard him asking you for your key, and you pressed it into his hand.
The next time you truly became conscious was when he was about to leave.
“Can you… Could you just stay for a minute?” you said, taking a seat on your couch and looking up at him with pleading eyes.
You didn’t want to beg him to stay. You didn’t want him looking down on you, pitying you again. But he sank down to his knees and rubbed a quiet thumb over your knuckles as you closed your eyes and let yourself relax on the couch, until you fell asleep.
When you reached your final crime scene as a member of the BAU, you were happy to find that this was as straightforward a case as you could get for your last.
You’d heard stories about big cases, emotional ones, that had inspired members of the team in previous years to finally let go of the team, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to go out with a bang.
You’d simply finish, and that would be that. You would wash your hands of Spencer Reid, and the team that was watching the both of you, confused.
You worked on the case for the later hours of the day, going through old crime scene footage, Hotch and Prentiss heading out to a current one. You’d been stuck on file duty, working closely with Garcia on conference calls to get your job done.
When you finally retired to your motel room, Spencer was waiting outside for you.
Quietly, you let him in.
You showered, you washed your hair and your body. You let the steam and heat from the shower wash away all the stress of the day. You left the shower, and he was still there even though his room was down the hall.
He had already showered, having spent some time in the field earlier, returning before you.
You finished and, wordlessly, tucked yourself into his side, already spread out on the bed. Without saying a word, you shut your eyes, feeling him wrap himself around you, and slept.
You weren’t sure why you let it happen. It wasn’t exactly the first time either. You just knew that, without talking, Spencer was comfortable and warm, and he made you feel safer.
He’d found you in your room for the last three cases, sat by you for every case since that interview. Sometimes you just held hands, other times he held you against him. He hadn’t gone further than that, though you desperately wished he would. But you couldn’t say that to him, because that was the one unspoken rule.
You didn’t communicate.
When you did, it became a competition, and that wasn’t what these moments were for.
You were quite impressed though, that none of your teammates had noticed so far. Spencer was always gone by 4am, and you’d had your own rooms on the last two cases, so there was no one monitoring his presence in his hotel rooms. Everyone thought you hated each other, though you awoke each day to him tearing himself away from you, a hard presence pushing subconsciously between your thighs as he dreamt of you before he came back to his senses.
You woke up aching for him, not platonically at all.
You were using him like an emotional support toy, a child’s stuffed animal that you refused to part from, even if it was hideously past retirement, and you were old enough to comfort yourself.
This was your last case with the BAU, and even though you hated Spencer Reid, you wanted him badly.
The case continued in the morning, the way most cases had, and you found yourself more lethargic than usual. Your mood had taken a turn, just like your attitude to Reid had in the last few weeks, and you tried your best not to mourn the time you’d wasted being angry at him, for what could have been.
Meanwhile, the other members of the BAU grew frustrated as well. There had been no leads on the case, no breakthroughs where there usually were. When working, you and Spencer had gravitated to opposite sides of any building or job. You were both working, both trying your best, but not challenging each other anymore.
You spent two weeks in that tiny precinct, avoiding one another in the day and gripping each other as close as you could at night until the case was finally finished.
A slip up by the unsub had led your other teammates to an arrest. The both of you were left with a tied up score, your shared indifference to competition resolving itself.
To say that you and Spencer had never conversed about your situation was technically false.
The day after your interview, you’d woken up in bed, where Spencer had led you half asleep about an hour after you’d requested his continued presence. He was there beside you, still holding your hand, but softer in sleep.
Not that he’d been harsh on you at all the day before.
As if he could feel his eyes on you, Spencer had woken. You thought about pretending to be asleep for a minute longer, to see what he would do. But exhaustion and curiosity kept your eyes open.
“Good morning,” you whispered, letting your head rest comfortably next to his on the pillows, legs only just not touching. His hand squeezed yours once in greeting, still not detangling as he came to.
“Good morning,” he answered. “What time is it?”
“6am. We have some time before we have to go to work.”
He nodded and closed his eyes again for a moment, laying flat on his back and raising his other arm to cover his eyes, avoiding the light streaming through your windows.
You looked at him, almost overcome, and climbed over him, letting his hand fall as you laid your head on his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck.
He moved slightly to accommodate you, hands startled for the moment, unsure of what to do before he rested them innocently on your back.
“We should get up and go,” he whispered quietly, even as you shook your head and buried it in his neck now, his hands slipping lower as he petted your lower back.
“I don’t want to,” you said, moaning slightly. You didn’t know how true those words were until your words continued as your brain stopped. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to stay like this. This is nice, and it’s comfortable.”
Lifting your head, you searched his face to see how he reacted to your words.
It was like he was troubled.
“We still have to work,” he said, pushing a hair behind your ear as you pouted.
“I know,” you said.
“And you’re… you’re really not that comfortable with me at all. This is just-”
“I know,” you said. Before he said anything else, you leaned down and claimed his mouth. It was soft, a slight pressure. He could have missed it if you weren’t the only thing taking up space in his mind at that time. He was a genius, but at that moment he was a fool.
You pulled away, a little ashamed, as he broke eye contact and looked away. Understanding, you made to climb off of him, but he gripped your hips and made you stay.
Still he said nothing, and so you waited, growing angry. Sitting up himself after a few minutes, Spencer pressed his lips to your cheek, as if placating a child, and then gently slid you off of his lap, and went on with his day.
That was the end of your communication on the subject. But you’d felt him.
You’d felt the way his hands had gripped your skin as if he didn’t want to let go. You’d felt his cock hard between his legs, desperate for release. You’d felt him stroke his hand across your arms as he had left your bed, denying himself of the pleasure you were begging him to take.
You raged against him for the next two cases, growing angrier after he climbed back into your bed at night, especially when he refused to touch you as you wanted to be touched. He had told you no, out of some chivalric misunderstanding of your emotions.
You knew about transference, and this may be that, but you made the decision to involve yourself with Spencer Reid the moment you’d begun hating him. You wanted him to comfort you, because you were so, so tired, and so was he, but he wouldn’t even do that.
And so for your last case, you avoided him, defeated.
The entire team congratulated you as soon as you touched down from your final mission. It was almost as if you were retiring, leaving this place behind.
You supposed they were just happy to be losing a member without a gunshot wound or a mental breakdown, or a forced transfer.
Spencer stood off to the side, but when it came time to gather your things, he helped you pack up.
He handed you your pencils as you carefully packed them into your box, he wiped the nonexistent dust from your monitor as you climbed under the desk to unplug your laptop. When everyone else left ahead of you, promising to meet you the following night for a goodbye meal, he carried your box out to your car, took your car keys and drove you home.
You weren’t sure what to say when you pulled up, so you climbed out of the car first, and moved to his side of the car, closing his door shut when he started to open it. Confused, he rolled down the window, as you leaned down over him and kissed him a second time.
This kiss was significantly heavier than your first. You gripped the back of his head to keep him from pulling away, though it seemed clear that he wouldn’t do that as he kissed back just as fiercely. You thought you would be locked there forever, desperately trying to take control of that second kiss, trying to communicate the months of shared frustration like it was another argument.
You finally pulled away, but he grabbed and held your hand again as you both caught your breath, both neither in or out of the car.
“I just wanted… I think…” you gasped, brain muddled by the intensity of his stare, the sad look in his eyes.
“Let me come in,” he asked, cutting you off. “Please.”
You nodded and opened the door for him, silently closing it as you stared at one another. Feeling slightly ashamed, you looked down at the ground as you carried yourself to your door and then inside, the sound of his footsteps behind you enough to know that he was following.
You opened the door, throwing your keys into the dish near your door, leaving it open so he could follow, all without looking back.
You unlaced your shoes, taking them carefully off before making your way to the kitchen. You poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it carefully, as you heard the door shut carefully behind you.
In another second, there were hands on your hips, encouraging you to turn, then encouraging you up onto the countertop of your kitchen.
Spencer stood between your legs, and the few inches afforded you by the counters was enough to level your gazes.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, hands on either side of your legs, refusing to touch you first.
Stubbornly, as if you couldn’t help it, you kept your mouth shut, just staring into his eyes defiantly.
“Tell me what you want,” he said again, a little more forcefully, his brows slightly furrowing. “We don’t work together anymore, and enough time has passed since- since this started that I think we can finally have a clear conversation about this, but you need to tell me what you want before I take what I want.”
“I was pretty clear about what I wanted. Before,” you said, raising a hand to his chest, unsure if you wanted to push him away or take a fishful of his shirt and pull him closer.
“You weren’t clear, you haven’t ever been clear,” he said, a hand raking through his hair in frustration.
“You weren’t exactly an open book either, Spencer.”
“It’s- I couldn’t back then, it wouldn’t have been fair,” he said, a pang of regret straining his voice.
“You can now,” you whispered, stroking a hand up and around his neck as he leaned closer.
“For how long?” he asked, lips so close to yours they brushed your cheek with every murmur.
You surged forward, unable to answer, pressing your legs around him and your lips against him as you pushed further and further into him.
Every frustration with him came to the surface and you channeled it into your movements, matching his frustrated raking of your skin. His hands pushed eagerly into your soft flesh, pushing your shirt as far up as it could go before being hindered by your buttons.
His teeth bit into your lip as you bickered in your touches, small whines and groans echoing through the tiny kitchen.
He pulled you away, craning down over you as you both stumbled to the bedroom, neither willing to give up the ground you had conquered.
His hands lifted up again, this time to rip your godforsaken shirt apart, the buttons too taxing now for him to focus on. Pushing you down against the bed, his hands found your breasts, cupping them entirely as he kissed down your naval, only coming away to rid himself of his own shirt.
When his mouth found you again, it was lower, claiming a nipple in his mouth as you gripped your own bedsheets, each moan a plea to move faster.
He instead took his time, a hand slid down from your chest to your underwear, leaving you clothed though wet from the anticipation. He stroked a single digit against your wet and aching clit, as if cooing at an apprehensive cat, slowly winding you up, up, up until you shuddered your pleasure. Only then did he kiss your lips again and slide his hands away.
You made to push your bottoms off, sure that now he would wish to enter you, but he grabbed and held your hands in place above your head. A small nudge had you falling to the floor, landing unceremoniously on your knees, as your hands stayed loosely pinned above you, held by a single hand.
His cock bobbed in his pants, and slowly, working with one hand, he released it from its place. You needed no further instruction, licking up the underside of his shaft as it hit your face, before wrapping your lips around the tip and pushing it down your throat.
You got three inches deep, slowly taking more so as not to gag, before coming back up for air. You alternated deeper and shallower strokes, making sure to watch his face as you pleasured him, looking up at his eyes as he came apart above you. He pushed one leg between your thighs as you continued to suck him, and you took the opportunity he gave freely, rubbing your clothed cunt against him like a bitch in heat.
Before he could cum, he quickly pulled out, wrapping two hands warmly about you and pressing you into the bed again.
He finally undressed you both, and, resting his forehead against your own, pushed into you.
He surrounded you, keeping eye contact as he pushed himself all the way into your body, not stopping even as you moaned and clawed at his skin, desperate for the deep contact he was providing.
“How long?” he asked again, holding himself still inside of you, teasing one nipple as he demanded an answer once more. “How long can I hold you like this? Just today? Until you find someone else? Until you move on and forget all about how comfortable this feels, how nice it is to have me next to you, inside you?”
It was all you could do to moan in answer, let alone give him the answer he wanted.
He began with shallow pumps, eyes still locked with yours, even as yours squinted shut in pleasure, your body pulsing with the charge of electricity between you.
“Don’t-” you cried, trying to answer as he pushed into you harder, deeper.
“Don’t stop-” you gasped out as he began stroking a thumb against your clit, spitting on it as he did so, loosening you up as you began to shake again through another orgasm.
Dropping your pinned hands, he gripped your knees and pressed them back, letting his cock sit shallowly in your cunt as he changed your angle. You didn’t argue, you couldn't as your arms stayed obediently above your head, exactly where you’d left them.
He pushed in again, the new angle urging a string of curses to drop from your lips as he pressed in harder. He sped up, and you lost your breath so fast that all you could hear was the sounds of your bodies meeting, not even your heartbeat distracting you from listening to the sounds of your pleasure.
You tightened around him, aroused by the simple sight of him as you tipped over the edge, and he fell with you. Gripping your knees tight and pushing his chest forward again so that the two of you were face to face again, he forced his cock as far inside you as it could go, and emptied himself.
“How long do I have you?” Spencer asked again, his voice tight as he climbed towards his pleasure. “How long?”
“For as long as you want,” you gasped, watching his face fall apart above you, sweat trickling down his forehead, running down his chest and meeting the flash of hair where his body joined to yours.
His forehead rested against yours as your legs stiffened, twitching with the aftershocks of your fucking.
He peeled himself away, pulling slowly out, so as not to dirty your sheets with his semen, before dropping a kiss to your lips.
“You’re mine,” he said, standing above you, organizing the pillows at the head of your bed as he propped you up.
Instead of following his silent commands to lay and rest, you propped yourself up on your knees on the bed, wrapped your arms around his neck in a surprise attack, and dragged him back down with you.
If you were to replace your work arguments with more stimulating activities, it only seemed right that you should come out on top once in a while, and on top is where you meant to be now.
A day later, when the weekend finally came and you had managed to stay off one another long enough to get ready and leave for your final meal with the BAU, you figured that by now, the team must have some clue of what was going on between the two of you.
Quietly, you made a bet outside the restaurant, settled in the car you’d shared to the venue.
“I think Hotch knew. He had to, to have sent us off together so many times,” Reid bargained
“I’ll take that bet. I think they all see you as a kid still though, or at least as someone a little… inexperienced.”
“And was I?” he asked, grabbing your hand in his and kissing it.
“Hmm?”
“Inexperienced?”
You thought for a second, trying not to flush with heat.
“Are you asking me if I think you have been with other women before, Reid?” you asked, irked by just the suggestion, already possessive and territorial, even if this had only really started the day before.
“Jealous?” he smirked, and you scoffed, leaning into his ear and whispering something so that only he could hear it.
“Let’s talk about that later at my place,” you said, gently leaning in to kiss his lips quickly, leaving him wanting. “Let’s see what you remember of those experiences after that.”
When you entered the door together, you got a number of awkward looks from your teammates, all of whom thought it best that you didn’t sit together.
But Spencer quietly took a chair out for you, and you thanked him with a smile, before he sat directly next to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh.
With a curse, everyone on the team began taking out cast from their wallets, and handing it over to Rossi.
“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, even though it was pretty clear.
“Three months, $400 worth of bets, and the only one I took part in was this: you two were definitely going to end up doing the Devil’s Tango.”
You both looked at each other and laughed, even as the sounds of a lot of money changing hands soundtracked the moment.
“When did you even make that wager? We knew about the other bets, but those were all on cases,” you asked, suddenly curious about when you’d started getting obvious about your affection for one another.
“Did you see Spencer heading to my room at the motel?” you asked, which led to a raised eyebrow.
“No, but you can regale us with that tale later. We made this bet on your first day. When you told Spencer you looked forward to helping him out, I knew it was a little friendlier than it needed to be, if you catch my drift.”
With every shocked gaze on you, you had only a moment to feel shame before the table - or more realistically, Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia - erupted with questions.
summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism (additional tags on individual chapters)
CHAPTER ONE : like machines do : spencer and our leading lady find themselves in a tricky situation
CHAPTER TWO : you know you're better than this : things start to heat up between our stars.
CHAPTER THREE : too late to stop : our pairs on screen chemistry is tested.
CHAPTER FOUR : and you look half dead half the time : our couple prepares for their final act.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ This is part two of do you want me to teach you
Pairing: s2!Spencer Reid x f!Reader
Summary: The buzzing feeling between you and spencer grows hotter with every moment. Words are unspoken but touch isn't and when you wake up the morning after the first lesson, you find him hard and needy.
Warnings/tags: 18+ smut and fluff!! oral (m!receiving), inexperienced spencer, experienced reader, blowjob, handjob, spencer whines, morning after and night of, kisses, lots of fluffy fluff, first time bj, soft mornings, unestablished relationship, begging, needy spencer, endearment, look of love, yearning.
Word count: 8.6k
Author notes
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ this is part two of do you want me to teach you! there was so much love towards dywmtty and want for more so here you guys are. sorry it took you so long to be fed, i was so busy with life:(
if you like or perhaps even loved this fic please do reblog, it helps the author out so much and reblogging is the way we grow!
also i plan to make a get to know the author post so if you have any questions about me send them into my ask box, it would be amazing if you could ⋆
⟶ masterlist
The hot water runs down the length of your body, the water slipping down the drain with the sweat and stickiness that used to be between your thighs. The tension that Spencer wrung from you, combined with the warmth of the water that soothes the ache woven into your muscles, has you sighing in contentment.
After you had both made out in bed for a while, you had become aware of how your release had dried between your legs, then the obnoxious itching came with it. Showering was an obvious must for you, not for Spencer, who just needed to wipe his fingers.
That's why you were under the showers cascading heat alone, you didn’t mind being alone, you would have just preferred if you weren’t. You would prefer it if Spencer's hands were rubbing soap into your body instead of your own, but you knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
Showering together wasn’t really a lesson, but saying that, neither is the way he had kissed you when you came on his fingers or the words he spoke.
“This doesn’t feel like just a lesson anymore”
The fact that you were cleaning yourself in his shower and then falling asleep next to him in his bed wasn’t lesson-worthy either, but something more. Something you were both aware of but not aware enough to speak about. You didn't think it would be spoken for a long time, for many more lessons that were much more emotional than just lessons.
Whilst wrapping the towel around your damp body, you find yourself sweetly imagining tonight, the way Spencer's hands would feel around your waist, whether his head would rest in your neck, breathing hot air, or just above your head where it would lie all night.
You wondered if he would pull away, if you were to turn around in bed, face him and let the sheets shuffle down your breasts, if you leaned in and kissed him without the previous sex haze.
If a sober kiss was what he wanted.
After wrapping the softness of the towel around you and drying your hair with another smaller towel as much as you could, you unlock the bathroom door with a quiet click.
When your elbow nudges the door open to Spencer's bedroom, you become aware of the silence that swallows the room. The bed is made neatly, the quilt without a wrinkle, the blue plaid blanket placed over the bottom of the bed is folded with precision, and the pillows are fluffed up and arranged perfectly.
Nothing that gives away the fact that this was a place of worship less than an hour ago, not a stain or misplaced pillow that discloses the mess you were when you withered and arched your back to push yourself deeper into his mouth.
Your clothes, messily discarded on the floor when your brain was too pleasure-fried to care where they landed, are now neatly folded on the end of the bed. Your white lace underwear is at the top of the pile; you just hoped they weren’t too damp, that whilst Spencer had sorted them out, he had clocked how aroused you were before he even let his touch linger on your bare pussy.
All of the neatness reeked of Spencer, the way he ordered his books, colour-coded his closet, and the little germaphobe thing he had going on was shown through the way he had gone through the room whilst you were in the shower and placed everything where he deemed tidy.
You shiver slightly when the coldness drops from your hair and trickles down your back as though its goal is to send an unwelcome tingle up your spine. You tighten the soft cotton around your body in hopes of drying up all of the running water droplets that cascade down your skin, holding it to you like a warm hug.
“Spencer?” you call out. You don’t have the energy to raise your voice or shout, so you can only hope that your airy question reached his ears.
He wouldn’t have gone out, you know he’s not like that, and even so, it is his house after all. You doubt very much that Spencer would feast on your pussy the way he did and then leave his own apartment so you could be alone.
You know you're right when you hear the creak of floorboards, the floorboards you told him to replace multiple times because you still weren’t over the fact that the last time you were in his apartment, you had gotten a splinter in your foot.
A splinter that he had later plucked out using tweezers, with your foot in his lap and your back against the chair's armrest. You still remember the small caress his thumb rubbed up and down your heel.
So co-worker like.
Because that was normal.
You turn around the second you hear his footsteps and face the door as Spencer walks through. His hair is more controlled, the strands aren’t as dishevelled as they had previously been, and his cheeks are his normal shade, no longer correlative to a tomato; nothing shows the flustered state he was in, nor does his appearance come across as anxious.
“What's up?” he responds with curiosity, his eyes gaze over your face, his brows furrowed with question.
It’s only when he takes notice of the wet strands of your hair and the droplets falling down the side of your face, which annoyingly tickle, that his attention drops to the towel clothed around your body.
He seems to come to a realisation that you are in the middle of his room, naked, in only a towel, and for some reason, the blush that wasn’t there for a good while makes a reappearance.
He goes to turn around, reacting as he had just looked at something he wasn’t meant to, as though he wasn’t knuckle deep in you not long ago. “I- do you need some clothes?”
He stumbles over his words; you can’t see him since his back is turned to you, but you already know his nonchalant attitude that he ‘tried on’ was replaced with a wide-eyed, guilty look.
It had you blushing over the fact of the matter, the way Spencer's whole demeanour changes so quickly when it comes to you, you could bite your lip with frustration when looking through a case, and he would admire it, treasure such a thing. You never realised it until now, all the glances and reactions he would give you that you just brushed off as you being a woman in the presence of an inexperienced man.
“Spencer, you can look, you know, you're allowed too” You smile even though he can't see it. “You don’t need permission, not after that” The last word spoken through your lips is said gently, close to a whisper.
Cocking your head to the side, you watch as Spencer hesitantly turns around, his khaki eyes don’t find you until he’s fully facing you, and when they do, his gaze is only planted on your face. You almost feel the nervousness pulsing around him in waves, thick waves that weakly deplete when he becomes aware of the small smile on your face. The smile that eases the tension that’s built up in his shoulders.
“Sorry”, he mutters, his face smooths as he copies your small smile, his own lopsided one planted on the lips you’d do anything to melt into again.
He looks down at you through thick lashes, his brows slightly furrowed as he watches you step forward, one long step leaves you directly in front of him, chest to chest.
His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, the hazel more of a dark brown, so you can’t really make out the widening of his pupils, but you know it’s there. The fact that his attention is focused solely on you and your movements has your insides doing funny things, things that weren’t just a result of his warm breath fanning over your forehead, but because of the very non-friend-like feelings deep-rooted through your body.
You hold eye contact with him, every breath you both take vibrates through the other; he exhales gently, pushing his chest closer to yours. Your hands, pressed around the towel, loosen. His eyes still don’t move from your face at the sound of the cotton hitting the floor.
“You're really pretty”, he says softly, his hand coming to move a stand of wet hair from out of your face and tuck it behind your ear.
Your cheeks burn.
“Always thought I looked better after an orgasm, lips puffy, flustered, you know,” you shrug playfully, “hot.”
His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he nods with agreement, “You know, there are studies suggesting that after orgasm, the release of endorphins and oxytocin can temporarily relax facial muscles and increase blood flow, which may make someone appear more attractive from a neurological perspective.”
Your brows raise, watching the way his mouth moves as he speaks, his tongue peaking out to swipe along his top lip. “So are you saying my attractiveness is placebo?”
His cheeks warm at your words, “No thats- that’s not what I'm saying”
Your smile broadens at his boyish state of embarrassment, worried that he said the wrong thing, and now stumbling over his words as a result. You lean on your tippytoes to get closer to him, your lips hovering over his and your hot breath mixing between the small space, getting lost dancing with each other's unspoken wants.
“I know”, you smile against his lips, not quite a kiss but more of a whisper of touch, a ‘you can have this if you want it.’
His eyes finally move to your body, glancing down at your naked breasts pushed against his chest, the water that had descended your body now dried.
“I think you're attractive, v-very very attractive”
His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of your waist, the touch causing a soft sigh to slip from your lips, a soft sigh that makes a smug smile grow across his mouth, content with the conclusion of his touch.
Tonight had been a huge change in your relationship with Spencer, going from close co-workers, friends who put their trust in each other daily, in the field with guns in hand or something as simple as trusting Spencer to hold your drink in a crowded bar. Friends who would tease each other all the time, like that month you both had an ongoing prank war that Derek insisted he was a part of.
You loved him as a friend and a co-worker, and you could always rely on him.
Now it was different.
You loved him, trusted him and relied on him just the same, but everything felt heightened tenfold. You're no longer catching glances with him or brushing his shoulder purposely when walking past him; you're now standing naked in his house with his lips hovering over yours, the same lips that were eating you out only a couple of hours ago.
You made peace with the fact that you were falling for him, the moment on the jet just a few days ago when Spencer had confessed his inexperience, and you both met eyes, the second the sparks flew, you consciously became aware of your feelings. When you made the decision to send the drunken text that you blamed the alcohol for, your feelings were set in place.
You could only hope and assume that Spencer had the same feelings as you, with the way he reacted around you and the words he spoke sweetly a couple of hours ago. And the fact that you both knew the moment his lips wrapped around your clit that it was no longer a lesson but a devotion of pleasure, a goal he had to make you feel the best his virgin fingers could.
Because you were you.
It’s a quick movement; in fact, you don’t really have to think about what you're doing, as you press your lips to his. It feels right when your lips meet, as though your life purpose was entwined with his touch.
His grip tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough that you're aware he needs something to tether to, so he knows it’s real. It’s short and sweet, a kiss that makes you melt into each other; it eases everything in and around both of you.
You pull back, Spencer chases it again, pecking your lips tenderly. Your forehead rests against his, and you catch the way his lips tilt up in a small side smile.
“Are you sleeping like this?” he whispers, breaking the room's silence.
“Naked?”
“Yeah”, he looks down at your body again, tracing your curves with his eyes.
“If you're okay with it”, your voice is just as quiet as his, almost timid.
He nods, looking down at you as you move off your tippytoes, leaving you to your normal height, almost a foot shorter than him. Your eyes move over his form, still in his grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, only now they were slightly more wrinkled than before, you wondered if that annoyed him.
“Are you sleeping in this?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Although soft and comfortable, you couldn’t help but hope it was his bare chest you would lie on tonight instead.
“Um, what do you want me to wear?” his brows furrow as he waits for your answer, behaving like he would wear whatever you asked him to, no matter how stupid.
You pick up on it, tempted to tease him, but decide a moment like this is best in its honest and vulnerable state. “Would I be too eager if I were to ask if you could sleep in just boxers?”
His cheeks deepen a shade, and he swipes his tongue across his lip again, “I wouldn’t say eager, hopeful, yes. But I will, if you want me to. If that’s what you want”
“So you're alright with it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm alright with it”
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
After brushing your teeth and pulling your hair up in a ponytail, you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Spencer's bedsheets. His pillows smell of peppermint, coffee, and a musky, masculine scent that has you feeling like an animal in heat.
The warmth between your thighs has only just settled, the small ache that caused unwelcome friction at your entrance has thankfully eased, so you're able to lie on your side with your legs pressed together without any pain or discomfort.
A soft yellow glow from the bathroom leaks from the crack at the bottom of the door. The buzz of Spencer's electric toothbrush is soon followed by the sound of him swishing his mouth out and spitting. After a few moments, you listen to the ruffle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him taking his clothing off, and folding them too, of course.
When he eventually steps out of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom, your eyes unapologetically descend from his shadowed face, trailing the length of his body and landing on the scattering of dark curly hair leading from his belly button to the top of his plaid boxers.
You physically restrict yourself from scurrying out of the bed, kneeling and licking a line up his stomach, your hand bunches in the blanket draped over the quilt.
You watch him walk around the bedroom, placing his clothes and messing up his hair a few times. The angles of his pacing do wonders for his appearance, the way the streetlights shine through the window paint the sharpness of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose.
His body isn’t muscular or toned; you always knew that, but seeing him in just underwear proves just how right you were. He isn’t an unhealthy skinny, more of a tall skinny. Being that he’s six foot one, it would be hard to put on weight that would actually do much to increase his body fat, and his activity in the field burns more than he eats.
His skinniness doesn’t change his attractiveness; it never did. His prominent V-line decorating his pelvis is the definition of masculinity; it’s pronounced against his stomach so beautifully. It’s as though his V-line is hills and the line of hair is a flowing river, so picturesque on such a perfect frame.
You start to feel regret for not hopping out of bed and licking him as your thoughts had insisted.
The bed is enveloped in the snuggness of body heat as he slides into the space next to you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and it has you sliding closer to him without even moving a muscle.
His eyes soften when he meets your gaze, like he’s only just welcomed rest. But the small switch at the corner of his eyelid has you thinking he’s trying to stay awake longer than his body wants.
It’s nice. How he scoots closer to you, his eyes never falling from your face. How his warmth radiates through you, not just the temperature from his body, but the electric charge he causes deep in your chest. How, through his drowsiness, he wills his hand to move off the mattress and onto the curve of your waist.
Your breath stills with every gesture he makes, even the twitch of his slender fingers against your skin has your breath hitching and a small smile grazing your mouth.
You're not sure how long Spencer had been shuffling closer to you, but you become very aware of the proximity when your bare feet at the bottom of the bed knock his… clothed feet?
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you rub your feet against his, all while looking at the blush rising on his cheeks. “Are you wearing socks in bed?”
He moves his feet, twitching his toes a little before he speaks up, “My feet tend to stick out; they get cold.”
“Do they have to be odd?” you ask after peering beneath the covers, making out the patterns in the darkness. His right sock is baby blue with white and yellow poka dots, whilst the other one is a striped purple and pink design.
“Good luck”, he nods after his words, an act he does to emphasise his conversation.
“You do it for good luck?”
“Growing up, it just became a habit of mine. And the one time I wore matching socks, I broke my ankle”, he says matter-of-factly, “additionally, asymmetry is quite comforting to me.”
“I always wondered that about you. You seem so put together, neat and in order, just to have odd socks” You prop yourself up more, slipping your elbow under your head to get a better view of his emotions as he speaks, the light of the passing cars bouncing off his face now and then.
“It’s an occasional reminder-” his throat bobs “that not everything is perfect, or put together as you said. Sometimes I need that reminder, in the field, briefing or even, even talking to my mom”
You notice the way his breath shakes at the talk of his mother, you file it away as something to ask him on a better date.
“I like that”, you whisper.
There's a comforting feeling that manipulates the air; it holds hands with the buzzing tension no one is doing anything about. His hand starts moving up and down the curve of your waist, the tiredness that you saw earlier in Spencer's eyes is reflected in your own as your eyelids begin to feel heavy, an effort to keep open. You find it almost impossible to stay awake when such a thing as Spencer's hand is almost pulling you under the pleasure of sleep.
“Do you think, um, would you be okay with cuddling?” He asks, voice timid.
“Silly question,” you speak in a light-hearted way. You knew he already knew your answer, or at least he had some suspicion.
He huffs a laugh, his lips welcoming a tender smile, “I know, just thought I should ask on the off chance that you would say no.”
“Do you want me to turn around or…” You shrug, questioning where exactly he wanted you, how he wanted to hold you and if he would find it hard falling asleep, depending on how he was wrapped around you.
He nods twice; he doesn’t have to say anything, and you're turning around to face the window, watching the lights distort the room in a warm orange hue.
The weight of his palm against your stomach settles over you. He pushes his hand against you to bring your back flush against his stomach without much effort. Skin-to-skin has never felt so nice, such a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. It's just as if the buzzing and banging of your struggles in and out of work, the chaos of catching and killing, has suddenly tempered to a small, friendly hum.
The dictionary in your head toggles itself, changing the definition of comfort to a few words: the feeling you get when your curly-haired, genius, IQ of 187 coworker holds you close in the warmth of his bed.
Your eyes close, welcoming sleep, answering its invitation that it had sent you many hours ago. A small, fleeting peck of the lips is left on the side of your forehead that you're partly aware of as you slow yourself into the realm of unconsciousness.
⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The first three things that you take notice of as you wake up are that-
One: The light of the morning sun enveloping the room, shining off everything, as though it's greeting you for another day.
Two: The beautiful melody of the birds chirping and singing their hearts away, something you always look forward to when your eyes blink open every day without fail.
Three: Warm hardness against your ass, clothed hardness that in this moment in time was unrhythmically rutting against your bare cheeks.
Your whole body freezes, stilling so much your not even sure you're breathing. He’s asleep, you know that.
But oh my god, he’s rock hard grinding against your ass??
Small whimpers fall from his mouth, his lips grazing upon the shell of your ear, his hot breath stutters, an occasional nondescript mutter unintentionally slips from his mouth and lands in your ear.
You're not exactly sure what to do, what would someone do in a situation like this? You can’t just turn around and tell him you know that he was having some dirty sex dream that must have been so good that he was rutting against you like a needy dog who needed a release.
Can you?
The hot length underneath Spencer's boxers wasn’t stopping anytime soon; you were almost certain his unconscious self would keep going even after he cums in his pants.
What bites into your skin, sinking its teeth into you, is the fact that you like it, you like feeling him against you, using you for pleasure even when he was unaware of it. Guilt gnaws at you, leaving you feeling lost in an unknown part of the world, unsure where to go or how to move.
You're hesitant to proceed, cognizant of all of the pulse points in your body, the blood rushing around your body far too loud, your heart beating far too fast.
It takes all of the courage you have to actually move a muscle, that muscle being a twitch of your finger… but it’s a start.
When he stills for a moment, you take that as your opening, taking a deep breath before turning around as quickly but quietly as you can. You're not sure where to look first, his flushed face, mouth slightly open, eyes shut peacefully or down where his boxers are moulded against his cock, now visible since the cover has been relocated to the bottom of the bed.
You didn’t want to embarrass him; this was normal, having sex dreams was completely normal, in fact, you’d woken up wet and needy a few times in the loneliness of your bed. Yeah, you suppose that it’s slightly different when it results in humping against your coworker unknowingly, but same hormonal reasoning and all, right?
His cock twitches beneath his boxers, the action leaving its mark on you; your own twitching between your legs finding a steady rhythm. You inhale a breath louder than you anticipate, and Spencer stirs slightly in his sleep, turning around to lie on his back. Whether it is the outcome of your inhale, you're not sure.
Fuck it.
It isn’t an easy task to wake up Spencer because it turns out he sleeps like the dead. Okay, the first nudge was a feather touch to his shoulder, but you thought it would at least elicit a small jerk of his hand. The second and third nudges to his shoulder were harder, hard enough that you were absolutely certain he would open his eyes.
He didn’t.
“Spencer?” you say lowly, not a whisper but not spoken at much volume either.
Nothing.
Courage finally decides to greet itself with you, some form of confidence holding your hand. “Spencer, wake up”, you groan as you shake his shoulders.
That finally seems to get something out of him; he moans in confusion, eyes blinking open slowly to accommodate the brightness of the morning sun. His hands come up to his face, rubbing his palms into his eyes with the purpose of knocking some sense into himself.
“What's wrong? Who's dead?” His voice is more groggy than usual, unused and rough.
“What?” You look at him with furrowed brows, your voice a pitch higher. “Do you say that every time you wake up?”
“Every time I wake- what?” he sits up on his elbows, spotting a confused look. He has yet to notice the hardness throbbing between his legs; you're not sure if he will notice it on his own terms. “Do we have a case?”
“No- no,” you shake your head. You had managed to take enough deep breaths to calm yourself down, using fake courage to will some confidence into yourself. “Spencer.”
“What’s the time?” his voice is still tittering on the edge of bewilderment, the morning haze making his brain foggy. He reaches for the clock on his bedside table.
“Spencer”, you repeat, hoping with some greater glory his attention would turn to you.
He hums with acknowledgement as he reads the clock, then turns his focus back to you. “I didn’t think you’d be awake at this time; you went to sleep quite late.”
His eyes watch your face, taking in your slightly dishevelled appearance whilst waiting for your response. He looks so innocent, it has your insides turning to mush. His brown puppy dog eyes are the complete opposite of the whimpers he exhaled the previous minute.
“Yeah, yeah, you kinda woke me up” You're half tempted to move your line of sight down to his boxers, but Spencer is bound to have double the embarrassment if you were to do such a thing. Honestly, you didn’t think words would help lessen his guilt much, but at least you could voice your understanding.
“Oh. Did I- Did I snore?” You didn’t even know his puppy eyes could get more pathetic, but they do.
You inch closer to him, and in response, Spencer lifts his arm to welcome you closer to him, accepting any comfort you were to offer him, as if it were a normal occurrence. As his arm comes to rest on you leisurely, you wonder if Spencer is aware of the hardness yet again pressed against you. Perhaps his mind was busy with something; perhaps the way he was looking down at you, observing everything you did, was the only thing on his mind.
“You didn’t snore”, you manage to whisper out, not breaking a single second of eye contact. Even when the look he’s giving you, furrowed brows, doe brown eyes, rewires your brain chemistry to the point where all you want to do is kiss him.
“Sleep talk?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow.
“Um- not, not really” You stutter your words, spending a good few seconds figuring out how to word it right. “You woke me up, but you didn’t wake me up”
Fuck that was fucking stupid.
“Yeah”, he looks even more confused than he was before you offered him an explanation “, not really picking up what you're putting down.”
Understandable.
“You were very…happy” Your brows furrow at your own incompetence, “fuck- okay, you were obviously having a very good dream, and so you got um happy, you know”
His eyes widen like he’s just clocked it, but is still missing a big puzzle piece, one you weren’t sure you were competent enough to say. “Did I touch you?” his voice drops, worry evident in the way he speaks.
“Yeah, I guess, uh-humped.” You felt like every word you said was a spade to the mud, the hole dug deeper with every syllable spoken. “But- it’s okay, I swear,” you rush to reassure him, watching the way his eyes fill with guilt.
“Spencer, it’s fine, honestly” Your hand comes up to his cheek, setting it on his skin softly.
His eyes don’t stop searching yours, ready to apologise if any form of unease was to twinkle in your eyes. “I- did I make you uncomfortable?”
The shake of your head is easy; you don’t have to think about it. “No, not at all. I-” I liked it. “It’s a normal thing, and since you were sexually active in some form last night, it’s probably just a response to it. Your body probably- possibly might have just wanted more” Your voice stills a bit, still on edge about saying the wrong thing, something that would worsen the guilt and embarrassment already holding Spencer's reins, “maybe.”
“That's not really scientifically correct”
Of course it’s not.
“You're actually less likely to have a wet dream, nocturnal emission, after sexual activity” he looks as though he’s going through his ‘know everything’ catalogue that’s stored in his brain. “But since I didn’t uh orgasm, I suppose you're correct.”
You almost gave yourself a pat on the back; you technically didn’t outsmart him, but you let your ego expand for your own peace of mind.
“Do you want to?” you say.
You don’t know which one of the little ‘inside out guys’ controlling your head, let that slip out of your mouth, but you want them fired, or promoted. Depending on the outcome.
His eyes go a shade darker at the same time the tips of his ears go red, blush looked good on anyone, but sometimes you felt like it belonged to Spencer. “You want to make me orgasm?”
Well, when he says it like that, it seems a little out of pocket, but yeah, you suppose he's right. You suppose you're thinking out loud comment was one of the better decisions you’ve decided to make, that and the white lace you wore last night.
His cock had previously gone soft when he thought he had hurt you, but with the request from your pretty pink lips, it begins to grow against your thigh.
Your fingernail softly draws a line down his stomach, starting from his collarbone down to the spot of hair above his boxers, where his stomach clenches in response. “Depends if you want me to, you can tell me what you like,” you say with a soft voice “, I can teach you about touch, what to say and do when someone touches you.”
The word teach feels bitter in your mouth, something fake you want to spit out, and you think the feeling is mutual with the way his eyes explore yours at the hollowness of the word, wondering if he was the only one who felt it.
When your hand moves lower and hesitantly cups Spencer's length, you discover how hard he has become, coupled with the pre cum soaking the front of his boxers. A soft groan slips from his throat, one you're not sure agreed with him before escaping his mouth.
“Please”, he whimpers, his lips grazing your forehead. You feel an embarrassing amount of arousal leave your pussy at the sound you elicit from him.
“Do you want my mouth or hand?” you say half teasingly, lifting your head to meet his eyes again. He looks as hungry as he did yesterday, only this time, hunger for his own pleasure.
“Both? Is that an option?” he says, his tone mousey but needy all rolled into one. His hips buck up against your hand, an invitation that you were allowed to touch him. Well, more so that he wanted you to touch him, to slip your hand under his boxers and make him cum.
Smirking slightly, you nod along to his words, “You're sure? It’s a lot for your first time.”
“Yeah- I'm- I'm sure” his blinks are slow, fascinated by watching your half-lidded eyes flutter up at him “very sure actually.”
The soft glow radiating from outside has the room glowing in more of a white-yellow rather than the warm orangey yellow it was when you woke up. The brightness of it splays across Spencer, the trees outside the window dancing in the breeze paint skinny, flowing shadows across his pale skin. The shadows don’t hit his boxers, so the brightness of the sun makes the hard length of his bulge very visible and, in your opinion, very appetising.
Your thumb rubs over his clothed tip, precum leaking through his boxers. “Have- mh, have you done this before? Sorry, stupid- stupid question.”
You smile at the stuttering of his words, the boyish embarrassment displayed over his cheeks. “Yeah, a few times, heard I'm pretty good at it.”
Something like jealousy comes across his fixed gaze, but it leaves quickly, as though he, too, became aware of its presence.
“How many people?”
“Spencer- what?”
“I'm just ask-”
You roll your eyes, his inexperience shown through one simple question that would be best asked when your hand isn’t on his cock.
“Spence”, you move your hand from his hardness and lift a finger in front of his face, something you find works well in silencing him. “There’s a rule you have when it comes to asking questions during any sexual encounter. Don’t ask a woman's body count or anything- just don’t”
You don’t say it strictly, not with a raised voice or any sort of primal dominance, and yet he looks like a hurt puppy, subtle but definitely there. “I just thought- just- I mean, you’re you, so I just thought I could ask.”
“I'm me?”
“We’re close, and I did kinda have you in my mouth last night. It didn’t seem like a silly question at the time,” he crinkles his eyes like he needs emphasis on the last sentence.
Despite the fact that he looks like a sad puppy, his cock is still hard against you, throbbing with destitution that doesn’t go unnoticed by you.
“It’s not silly”, you whisper with intent to soothe his worries. You avoid eye contact when you speak next, your focus solely on the way he twitches in his boxers “three.”
“Three you’ve had sex with or just-”
His words cut off, fading quickly at the glance you give him. Your eyes bore into his; no words need to be spoken because the look that burns into your gaze is enough to silence the conversation. To be fair, it's the kindest look you could have given him for attempting to speak the words ‘seriously, please stop’ through only your eyes.
“Are you going to let me touch you now?” You ask cockily, raising your brows in question.
“You’ve been allowed to touch me”, he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, his big brown eyes looking at you through thick lashes.
“I mean touching you without being stopped”
“I never told you to stop”
You're not even sure Spencer meant to make it sound that dirty, but to you, as the words leave his mouth your almost certain that was the dirtiest thing ever spoken to you, the throbbing between your legs can testify. He didn’t say it lowly; his voice didn’t waver or drop to something rough; he said it like it was an absolutely normal thing to say.
It should be his brain short-circuiting, not yours.
You shuffle your body down the length of his, stopping when your feet hang over the bottom of the bed, and the soft breeze wraps itself around your toes. Your face is so close to his cock that you can feel the heat practically radiating from him in waves. When you finally tear your eyes away from his cock to look up at him, you notice just how blissed out he looks, how eager he is to have you wrapped around him.
His hair is bed messy, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open as if he was having problems regulating his breathing. And when you do finally grip the waistband of his boxers and nudge them down with the help of him lifting his hips, he looks even more flustered than before. And not just his face.
Was it normal to think a dick was pretty?
He was a lot more impressive than what his bulge gave away; he wasn’t thick as so, but he was long, like a good seven inches long. It half excited you, and the other half was more timid, thoughts on how exactly the physics of fitting that into your mouth was possible.
The tip is flushed pink, with clear beads of precum pearling the slit; they gleam in the sunlight, like the cherry on top of something that already looked desirable.
You can feel his eyes on you, not wavering for even a second as he watches what flits across your eyes. Desire you suppose. His body is tense, pulled tight as though he isn't sure of anything going through his head, whether he should buck his hips into your mouth to get what he so desperately needs or if he should wait for you to move first, with patience he wasn't sure he had.
Saltiness swims your taste buds as you move down and caress the flatness of your tongue across his soft tip, you lick up every bead of precum like a delicacy to be savoured. Just the act of it is enough to elicit a soft gasp from Spencer; his hips bucking up a little, you assume he didn't have much control over it. His tip nudges your closed lips, and you gently open up to him.
The head of his cock nudges into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the soft velvetness of it. It throbs against your tongue, demanding your attention. As you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, Spencer exhales a small, ragged breath.
All the noises spilling from his mouth edge you on; the whimpers and gasps give you a feeling of empowerment.
“Feels so good”, Spencer weakly whimpers.
“Yeah?” you ask, wittiness laced into your words. Your mouth pops off, and your hand comes to hold the base of his length for some sort of contact between the two of you. Facing him, you look into his half-lidded eyes, and you feel complacent over the way his face displays his emotions. “Do you want me to go deeper?”
He nods eagerly as though he's never heard something he wants as much as that.
You keep your hand wrapped around the base of his cock when your mouth comes down on him again. You let him in even more this time. He hits the back of your throat easily, and it takes a minute, but your throat accommodates him so that you're not gagging or salivating excessively but taking him in with genuine determination.
After spitting on your hand, you enclose it back around the base of his cock, and after thinking about it, you decide that you want to try something you had only done once, but honestly, you loved it as much as the last guy did. It was such an easy thing to do for such a pleasurable reaction.
“Can I try something?” you ask.
“Mhm, what- what is it?”
You smirk against his tip and don't answer him verbally, but instead show him. You spit on his dick, your bubbly saliva trickling down his length to where your hand sits. The movement of your hand sliding upward has Spencer whimpering, your hand tightens around his tip, and your mouth presses against the opening of your fist where his tip pokes out.
When your hand moves back down his hardness, so does your mouth. You time it right so that with every stroke of your hand, your mouth copies. His tip slips in and out of your mouth with precision that you have mastered after only very little practice.
‘That- holy shit, where did you learn that?”
You would smile around in response to him swearing, but you didn't want his first time to be accompanied by you accidentally biting him or scraping your teeth against him. You hum against him, not much of an answer at all, but you wanted to acknowledge his words. It wasn't unusual for him to swear, but you had never heard it come from him so easily.
You keep pumping your hand, occasionally switching to just a handjob or just a blowjob. You take notice of every reaction he shows, where exactly he likes to be touched more, and you show him just how good it can feel when the giver knows what the receiver wants. You take mental notes of when to flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, tighten your hand and moan around his cock.
The room is filled with the noise of Spencer's whimpers and moans as well as the sexual sounds of your slurping, sucking and deep throating that had you groaning around him.
It was a sound better than any song you had ever heard, something more special than the awakening of birds chirping. This was a sound to be treasured, something only you have ever had the opportunity to drink in; no one else but you has had the pleasure of being the cause of such sounds slipping from Spencer's mouth.
Billions of people treasured the sound of the birds chirping, and billions of people drank in the sound of the seaside. But only you had ever heard the melody of Spencer's wants and begs, his needs for more, his whimpers of thankfulness.
You were the only person who knew how Spencer Reid sounded on the edge of an orgasm.
You can tell how close he is based on the hand that grips your hair, the redness decorating his neck like watercolour and the way his breathing picks up. When the words “I'm close” claw themself out of Spencer’s throat, you take it as a slight indication too.
Spencer has a weak attempt at pulling you off, tugging your hair with the same strength as a duckling. He doesn’t want you off him, it's so obvious, but of course, the gentleman he is, how would he ever allow himself to flood your mouth with his cum.
“You- mh- you don't have to, I haven’t drunk enough-” he gasps as you deep throat him “, I haven’t drunk enough water, it's probably not- oh god- nice or anything. You really don't have t-” Every word seems like a struggle, as though looking through a haze.
The last thing going through your mind was his taste; it was at the bottom of your ‘I care about this’ list. You don't stop your mouth because you know he doesn’t want you to. The hand pulling your hair gives up after a few seconds, but when his hips buck, and a strangled gasp stumbles from his mouth, he tugs it back harder.
You're blissfully aware that if he wanted to pull you off, he would have used that strength before.
A small, barely there pain sparks in your scalp as he pulls you off his cock. Your hand slips from around him, and his own takes over the space yours abandoned. He jerks his length, chasing his high with purpose. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, his chest falls and rises nimbly, and the lust on his face is vibrant.
His grip on your hair doesn't flatter; in fact, it tightens the closer he gets to his orgasm. Your face is still close to his cock, so close that with every upstroke, his knuckles nudge your nose.
You can see the moment the elasticity in the pit of his stomach snaps, and the moment you do, sticking your tongue out seems like the only reasonable response. He sees your tongue as a welcome despite the way he pulled you off before, you don’t wrap your mouth around him, but instead let him watch as his cum lands on your tongue. It pools in your mouth, the warmth a pleasing feeling.
His eyes don't leave your mouth, even when he’s spent dry, and the cum residing in your mouth drips down your chin and onto his stomach. He watches in awe, his eyes glowing boyishly as you bring your tongue in and close your mouth.
He isn’t clumpy or uncomfortable to take down; his release is smooth and flows down your throat with ease. He doesn’t taste as bad as he was worried he would; it is more bitter than salty or sweet, but the copious amounts of coffee he consumes daily probably doesn’t help. He doesn’t taste amazing, but definitely not bad, you're sure you would have swallowed even if it was disgusting anyway.
The blush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils seem like a deserving enough reward for you.
“Mh’ sorry”, he says softly, the scratchiness of his voice a faintness.
Your eyes soften, furrowing at the embarrassment in his voice, “Why?”
“I didn't mean to- that quick and in your mouth” Avoiding eye contact, he watches his cock rest against his stomach in its worn-out form.
“Spence”, you put two fingers under his chin to get him to look at you “It's okay. I wanted it in my mouth more than not, and the quickness, dont- dont worry about that. I would be slightly embarrassed if it took you longer; it's normal to finish that quickly for the first time. Honest.”
His glance switches between your eyes, looking for any lie in your words. He's never going to find it because it's not there. Being his first was something special to you, and the way it went was perfect; you didn't want it any other way.
“It didn't taste bad?”
You shake your head.
“Did it taste like coffee?”
You laugh at that “slightly.”
He tilts his head, the space between his eyebrows creasing, “You don't like the coffee I drink”
Rolling your eyes, you huff out another laugh, “Yeah, well, I liked your cum”
His eyes widen slightly, his puppy eyes making a reappearance, “I- am I meant to have a response to that?”
“Not if you can't think of one”
He seems content with that; he goes to lean in to plant a kiss on your lips, but you pull back with a smile before he can. “You have morning breath, and I've just swallowed your semen.”
“Not even a peck?” he whispers, not at all deterred by your specifics.
“One, you get more after we brush our teeth.” You cave in; you've never been one for morning kisses, but Spencer brings out things in you that you weren't sure were even there until he came along.
You're surprised that he even wanted to kiss you, given his whole germaphobe thing, but perhaps he has a reason for it?
He extends the kiss for longer than it needs to be, two seconds becoming five. His lips are softer in the morning, not as soft as the head of his cock, but soft in its own ‘sink in’ way.
“Okay cmon” you nod your head over to the bathroom.
“Can't walk”, he lies.
“Spencer, come and brush your teeth”
“Come and kiss me again”
“Spence”, you say firmly, determined not to fall flat on your face and crawl into his comfort.
“Really?”
You give him a look that gets him rolling his eyes, but thankfully, moving up.
⊹ ₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
“Do you really have to go?” he whispers against your lips, tightening his arms around your waist and pressing your chest closer to his.
Your sat in his lap on the leather couch in his living room, the birds stopped chirping a while ago, sometime between the shower running and Spencer dragging you to the couch for his much-needed makeout session.
His tie needs fixing again, you thought you had done it tight enough, but the hum he did when you pulled on it earlier was too much to resist, so it had become slightly loose. The top button on your top was undone, but that was a fashion choice; you're not so sure you're red and used lips were much of a statement, though.
Well, depending on what type of statement you were going for.
‘Spencer, you're coming with me, Hotch asked for both of us on this case,” you chuckle, bringing the knot of his tie up more to tighten it.
“I know”, he whispers, “but it means that we can’t do this, that this version of you, of us is gone.”
You search his eyes, not sure what to search for, but perhaps something that digs up his words and gives away the true meaning, “What is this version of us?”
You find something, but you're not sure if it's what you want.
“I'm not sure”, he hesitates, his thumb strokes the skin of your stomach where your top rides up.
The conversation ends with a kiss, and another one and more after. They all have heaviness to them, unspoken feelings that you can't depict; his mouth is home, and you're not sure why.
Climbing off him feels cold, packing your bag and pulling your shoes on feels wrong. Putting your gun in your holster and your badge in your pocket feels normal.
You're a whirlwind of emotion when you step through the door, Spencer at your side.
He’s in one of his sweaters that he wears to work, such a difference from the nothing he was wearing earlier. The air outside the apartment is easier to breathe in, or perhaps its placebo.
You don’t look at him as you both walk down to your cars, you smile at him in the friendliest ‘I don’t still have your cum in my throat’ look you can manage.
It's normal, your friendship is normal, and the way you act as co-workers together at work is normal, the briefing and plane ride are normal, but everything feels compact.
You're glad it's not awkward, that work isn't tension-filled, but occasionally you catch yourself wondering what's fake and what's not.
There is so much to let out of the box, and you're not sure when the box is to be opened. At the moment, it is tied up with a pretty bow that both you and Spencer had a hand in tying.
a/n: I wonder what would happen if you decide to cheat in a chess game against Spencer..
thank you @hotchnerss for being the judge of this ;)
“Reid,” Emily said, rubbing her temples and leaning her head on the cold window to her right, “I’m so done with this stupid game.”
“Chess is not stupid; it just requires focus and strategic foresight,” Spencer said, collecting the pieces scattered on the table between him and Emily. You tilted your head toward the two, taking one earbud out of your ear, the flight was getting boring and nothing is more entertaining than riling Spencer up, “Are you calling her stupid?”
Your voice was disgustingly velvety and it was one of the many things that infuriated Spencer because every single thing that came out of your mouth made him itch to argue. He never had a real reason to hate you, not technically. Maybe it was the way you never seemed amused by what he says. Or the fact that you were — in his words — “childish” and “immature”. You never missed a chance to tease him and challenge his thoughts to watch him unravel.
“No, I'm just saying that the game needs focus and Emily is kinda tired right now. I do also think it requires cognitive maturity, but you wouldn’t know much about that.” he shrugged.
A small smirk crept up on your lips, he’s so predictable. You huffed, shoving your earbuds in the small pocket of your jeans, “Oh I’ll show you cognitive maturity, Reid.”
He wanted nothing more than to ignore you, but he couldn’t help but glance up at you. You slid into the chair next to Emily, your movements graceful and unbothered by the tension radiating off him.
“Do you even know how to play chess?” Spencer asked as he laid the two-toned brown chess board flat on the table in front of him.
“I’ve never lost a single game.” you shrugged. That was a lie. You were a good chess player, but you’ve definitely lost some games in your day. It’s hard to keep a “forever” winning streak in a household full of chess freaks.
A wide grin formed on Morgan’s face, and he whistled to ruffle Spencer’s feathers, “Oh she’s coming for your throat, Reid.”
“You just wait and watch me ruin him.” you picked the black side, cupping your hands against the table to pull all your pieces to your side.
Spencer let out a short, dry laugh, “Hm, you wish.”
At this point of the flight, everyone was bored out of their minds, so they were getting to that stage of stirring anything up for a bit of amusement.
JJ was snacking on some salted chips in her seat that was close to yours, with only the narrow aisle between the two of you. She was watching you two as if you were a show on TV, “What do you get if you win?” she asked you with a subtle smile.
You gave her a small laugh and looked up in thought.
Spencer scoffed, “She’s not going to win.” he looked at you, his index finger pointing at you, “You don’t have to think of a reward. We won’t be in need of that, don’t worry.”
If you wanted to beat him a few moments ago, now you needed to. You had no other choice.
“If I win you have to make my coffee exactly how I like it every morning and get me a glazed donut with that.” your smile widened, “I don’t wanna burden you, but you’ll have to warm up the donut before I come to work.”
“What- No!” Spencer’s voice shot up as his face scrunched in disgust. The way he was so dramatic always fucking annoyed you.
“Why not?”
Morgan let out a laugh and raised a brow, “What, are you scared, Reid?”
“I’m not scared. I don’t wanna humiliate you in front of everyone.”
“If you’re so sure you’re gonna win, why be worried?” you tilted your head, “Unless you know I’m gonna drag you to filth.”
He placed his elbows on the table between you two. Glared at you, in the lovely, endearing you he always did. Then leaned back, “Fine but when I win, you’re gonna be delivering my paperwork to and from Hotch’s office.”
When.
The arrogance in that single word made you want to beat him even more. And it’s exactly why you never missed an opportunity of twisting his mind and nerves and pinning him down —figuratively— to show him just how pathetic he truly was. But when you think about it, pinning a completely dazed, breathless Spencer beneath you —literally— would taste even sweeter.
“Deal.” you smiled sweetly.
And now the game shall begin.
You crossed your arms on the table and straightened your back while he moved his first pawn. You made your opening move the second his fingers left the piece.
Quick.
Spencer’s eyes flicked up briefly before returning to the board.
You hid your smile.
You knew the classic traps and techniques wouldn’t work on Spencer, so you tried to be creative. As creative as you can get in chess without being too reckless.
Spencer’s brows never relaxed once, and he was biting his lip with so much force as if it would ignite new ideas. He usually didn’t need much effort to find a way around people’s moves.
But you played unpredictably enough for his brows to slightly twitch every few moves. Changing the rhythm, and ending every pattern before it was recognized was key to confusing him.
His moves finally became slightly slower.
You leaned forward, eyes locked on his hands that hesitated between two pieces, “You’re stalling.”
“I’m not.” he finally settled on a piece to move, “I barely took eleven seconds. I played six moves in under 49 seconds and you took 55.”
“You’re keeping track?” you looked up at him,watching his eyes lock onto yours in an instant.
That was the perfect time to make things go a bit faster.
Your fingers brushed the board lightly, nudging the knight one square to the left, a square it shouldn’t be able to reach.
You were just giving the game a push. Trying to be more efficient wasn’t a crime. Not if your intentions are pure.
His eyes flicked back down to the board, “Of course I’m keeping track.” he muttered,”We don’t have a clock.”
You bit back a smile.
You could feel the moment he was finally trapped. His posture shifted and his teeth switched to his top lip.
You clicked your fingers close to his face that was practically moving into the board with every move.
“The clock is ticking Reid!”
He slightly swatted your hand away from his face and made a move he wasn’t too sure of, “Your knight couldn’t have gotten there.”
You lazily pointed at the knight, “It literally did. Look at it.”
“No, because your rook-” his brows drew together.
“Sounds like someone’s losing.” you murmured, leaning back in your chair like you hadn’t just shifted the entire balance of the game.
Suddenly, playing chess was a million times more fun.
“I’m not losing.” he immediately bit back.
He slowly moved his rook, his fingers lingering on it for a moment too long.
You made your move confidently without a second thought.
“..that knight shouldn’t be there,” he said again, his chin now resting on his palm. More like digging into it.
“It was there for a while.”
“That’s impossible,” he shook his head, replaying the game in his head.
“It is possible,” you said simply.
“You couldn’t have gotten it into that spot with that little amount of moves.”
“Well, I did,” you gave him a shit-eating grin and leaned closer across the table, “you just weren’t paying attention when I made that move.”
“I was paying attention.”
You faintly smiled, “Not enough.”
“Oh my god,” his eyes widened and he pressed his palms on the table on either side of the board. “You fucking cheated.”
“I did not.”
His hands moved above the board, “You absolutely did.”
Your final move landed and his eyes zeroed on your bishop.
“Oh.” he quietly said.
You tilted your head slightly, “Oh?”
“That’s checkmate.” he simply stated, trying to convince himself of this unexplainable mistake. He knew you cheated.
“I told you I’ve never lost a game, Reid.” you smiled, “Maybe you’re a bit tired. The game requires deep concentration." you mocked, quoting him back to himself.
“This doesn’t add up,” his fingers twitching over his captured queen, “The probability of your knight ending up in that spot without at least three intermediate moves is zero. It’s literally zero!”
“Just take the L, kid,” Morgan chuckled and patted Spencer’s shoulder, “she dragged you. Accept it.”
“I didn’t get dragged,” Spencer snapped, his face flushed in frustration. He looked up at you, eyes burning with sheer vexation, “You did something. I don’t know what, but you did something.”
You slipped your earbuds back into your ears, relaxing your head on the headrest behind you, “Don’t forget Spencer. Two sugars and no creamer. Oh and microwave the donut for exactly fifteen seconds. I'll send it back if it’s cold.” you closed your eyes with a triumphant smirk plastered on your face.
You could feel his eyes burning into your skull and you loved it.
An hour later, you finally touched ground. JJ nudged you awake and you rubbed your eyes in exhaustion, your headache thumping behind your eyes harder than it was before napping.
Spencer had already gotten up from his seat, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder stiffly before getting off the plane with only a few long strides.
“Jeez, is he still pissed?” you yawned and slowly got up, your muscles gradually defrosting.
Emily chuckled, holding out your black leather bag, “He barely read twenty pages this past hour.”
You took your go bag, the weight of it on your shoulder easing some tension, “Thanks.”
“Have a good night everyone. Paperwork can wait till tomorrow morning.” Hotch announced when everyone got off the jet.
“Ugh. You’re an angel.” you clasped your hands together, still half asleep, thanking Hotch.
Hotch paused, glancing at you as you fell into step next to him, “You did a good job. Not that I approve of your illegal knight movements.”
Your heart skipped a tiny beat, a small guilty smile forming on your face, “You saw that?”
Hotch didn’t break his stride, and his lips slightly turned up, “I did. Go home and get some sleep.”
He probably didn’t say anything in the moment because you were Spencer’s karma to the time he cheated on cards while playing with Hotch and JJ on the jet a few weeks ago.
The sleep fully faded as soon as you got to the door of your apartment.
You were physically exhausted but your head was never more awake.
You took an hour long hot shower as a form of meditation. You didn’t bother turning on the main lights or changing into your clothes. You held the towel around your body and collapsed face-first into the mattress. The sheets were cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the long two busy days you spent in Los Angeles.
When you finally decided to stand and properly get ready for bed, your phone started ringing, pulling you out of the static ease you finally forced your head to fall into.
You turned your phone over.
Spencer.
“Tell me how the knight got to b5.” he blurted out.
You sighed, rubbing your eyes and moving toward your closet in the corner of the room, “Are you seriously still crying over this?”
“I’m not crying. And I didn’t lose. The game doesn’t count because you cheated.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I did not cheat? Maybe I’m just a prodigy and you don’t know it.”
“Oh please,” he scoffed, “You are not a prodigy.”
Spencer sounded deeply irritated and sleep-deprived.
“You’re adorable when you're spiraling.” you teased with a coy smile.
You knew your words would only stimulate a reaction. Anger.
“You disrupted the entire structure of the game-”
“Reid, if you’re so sure I cheated, come over and prove it.” you interrupted him, your voice dropping to a lazy tone, “I have a board. Come beat me if you can, Spencer.”
The silence on the other end stretched for a few seconds.
Spencer huffed, “Fine but if I-”
You hung up before he could continue. What’s better than irking him even more.
You decided to get comfortable and change into a graphic tee and cotton shorts. You needed a clear mind, a good plan, and all the luck in the world to “recreate” the game.
As expected, he was at the door in under twenty minutes. Three firm knocks pulled you out of your peace, just like every other thing he ever did.
You were met with a polite looking Spencer. He changed out of his work clothes into another one of his work outfits. He was overly prepared for this and it was starting to worry you. He is not letting you win again—not when he has his suspicions now.
“You hung up on me.” he accused, stepping past you into the warm, dimly lit apartment.
“Your voice was annoying me,” you shrugged, locking the door behind him, “and I told you—if you want to prove I’m a fraud, do it on the board.”
The black and white wooden chess set was already laid out in the middle of your green couch.
You sat sideways, cross-legged on one side of the couch, facing the board. Spencer gently lowered his bag onto the floor next to the couch and sat across from you, his long legs bent awkwardly to fit his tall frame into the limited space.
“White or black?” he asked, his eyes settling on the board.
“Take white. Give yourself the advantage,” you teased, resting your palms on your knees as you gave him a calm, challenging look, “you’re going to need it.”
“I don’t need an advantage to beat someone who can’t stick to basic rules of the game.” he muttered, moving the white pawn regardless.
The game progressed quickly, both of you taking only a few seconds per turn.
Unlike the jet, there were no distractions. The rhythmic, aggressive snapping of pieces cut through the silence of your apartment.
You quickly realized that even if you wanted to play clean, you were getting further away from winning with every turn. But you kept your confidence strong, making every move with undeniable certainty.
You pulled your eyes off the board, keeping them on him.
He glanced up for a second, “What are you doing?”
“I’m playing the game.” you kept your eyes fixated on the curls that fell over his face, “Your moves are very predictable and it’s getting boring.”
He looked up at you, “I know, playing by the rules must be very boring for you.”
The subtle dig hung in the air. You chose to not say anything back and give him a lazy smile, refusing to break eye contact.
You slowly uncurled your leg from your crisscrossed position, draping it over the open edge of the couch—letting your bare thigh rest only a few inches away from Spencer’s knee, close to the board separating the two of you.
Spencer’s eyes flicked to your leg for a fraction of a second. It was agonizingly obvious that the sight had thrown him off his axis.
You bit back a smirk. “You seem kinda tense, Reid.” you whispered, cocking your head to the side.
“I’m fine.” the words were sharp.
You decided to press your advantage. Your finger slowly grazed the right edge of the board, reaching the corner close to him, then bringing it back to your side.
He took a deep breath, trying to regain his focus. His focus was fracturing under the weight of the room that only kept getting heavier.
“Are you losing your focus, Spencer?” you whispered, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“No.” His eyes were completely pinned to yours now, dark and dilated. A faint shade of pink was trailing up his neck, finally settling on his ears, giving him away. Poor Spencer was nervous.
Every time he looked down at the board, all he could see was your bare thigh invading his peripheral vision. All he could hear was the soft rhythm of your breathing as you kept getting closer above the board.
He had to stare at your face whenever looking at the board wasn’t an absolute must. So when it was your turn his eyes were wide and fixated on your face as if it took monumental physical effort to keep them there.
Luckily for you, you’ve been running different possibilities of how the game could go every few moves.
You looked down, crunching two moves into a single turn—which completely altered the route of the game.
He hesitated for a moment, but didn’t want his distraction to be too obvious, so he made the impulsive choice of moving the piece that his slender fingers were hovering over.
“Ha! Checkmate!” a wide smile took over your face.
“What- no this isn’t possible-” he was stuttering with so much frustration, only making your smile widen.
You teasingly leaned forward, right on the boundary line of his space, “You just can’t handle losing to me.”
At this point, the normal thing to do was to start packing the pieces back into their place silently, but where’s the fun in “normal”?
So you didn’t move. You were still leaning over the board. Waiting for something you couldn’t figure out.
Who would’ve known that making him lose focus would be this easy.
“You did something, I just know it.” his voice lost its sharp edge, now sounding heavier, “You were distracting me on purpose.”
“What? Having normal conversation is illegal during a fun, friendly game?” you tipped your head a tad bit closer.
“It’s not my fault you couldn’t handle the heat.” your heart was hammering against your ribs at the intensity of his eyes glaring at you.
You always teased Spencer, but you always took a step back just before it got too much. And now, it was getting too much.
Spencer’s gaze dropped to your lips for a moment, his throat bobbing. “You’re so insufferable.” he rasped.
The underlying tension that had been building between you over the months of constant psychological warfare finally snapped. Spencer reached across the short distance, crashing his lips onto yours clumsily.
It wasn’t smooth at all. His teeth bumped against yours— a physical manifestation of his lack of composure. He froze and his hands awkwardly hovered in the air between you two, having no clue where to rest them.
You didn’t pull away. Your hand cradled his jaw and you leaned into the kiss, parting your lips slightly. A low, desperate sound caught in the back of his throat, making the corners of your mouth twitch.
Your fingers tipped his head and he immediately obliged, letting his head tilt backwards. You slightly tugged on his bottom lip before pulling back slightly. His eyes were frantically scanning every feature of your face as if you were an odd, foreign object in a dream.
His breath was heavy, and weirdly enough—you didn’t mind breathing it in with your own mingling breath. Your hands moved down to his chest, gently pushing him back to rest on the back of the couch—his shaky legs uncrossing and slipping down on the floor to sit properly.
He didn’t know what you were doing, but he was so dazed and weak that he’d do whatever you told him to. You crawled over the chess board, knocking off some pieces that Spencer tried catching so they wouldn't fall on the floor, “Don’t,” your voice made him stop and lean backwards immediately.
You slid your right leg over his lap to sit properly. Your mind was fuzzy and you weren’t thinking straight. The way his body was leaning into yours hypnotized you in a way that made it impossible to stop now.
His brows drew together once your weight settled on his lap as he let out a small grunt. His hands immediately, gently gripped your hips without much thought.
You connected your lips again, but this time the clumsiness was gone. The initial shock was now replaced with mutual desperation. He opened his mouth further, giving you permission for more. Your hand moved to his soft curls, tugging on them as you slid your tongue into his open mouth.
You shifted your weight slightly, grinding your core against him, and Spencer let out a small whimper. Your body was desperate for friction, just like him, but you couldn’t let yourself get too carried away just yet.
“What was that Spencer? Already a whimpering mess?” you struggled to keep calm.
His eyes flew open, completely blown out, his brown irises completely swallowed by his pupils.
“No.”
You rolled your hips with more force, pulling another whimper from his wet, parted lips, “please.” he whispered.
His hips bucked as you deliberately shifted again, a slow torturous grind that had his fingers gripping the fabric of your shorts.
You lowered your voice to a honey-sweet tone, “Did I say you could move, Spencer?”
“No,”
You could feel his bulge straining his pants between your thighs. “So needy.” you shook your head with a smug smirk.
“Already so hard, Spencer?” you looked at his face with fake sympathy, keeping the slow rhythm of your hips.
He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but his shaky hands trailed up your back reverently, trying to hold onto every bit. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, making you gasp softly.
You leaned in to kiss his slightly open mouth, then kissed your way to his jaw. You nipped at the sensitive spot behind his ear, “oh my god,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice to himself so you’d stop teasing him.
You couldn’t help but smile, “I didn’t know you were this weak, Spencer.”
“I’m not,” he whined, his eyes squeezing shut.
He looked so beautifully, entirely at your mercy.
He slid his cold hands underneath your tee, his thumbs pressing right under your breasts, his long fingers splaying across your ribs. The coolness of his hands against your skin spread goosebumps all over your torso and made your hips stutter for a moment.
“So handsy for someone who hasn’t been given permission,” you teased, leaning down so your lips hover closely over his.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
He picked his head up, trying to reach his lips to yours.
You pulled your head back just an inch, denying him the contact.
He let out a defeated whimper, his head falling back against the couch.
“You can touch,” you whispered, as much as you wanted to keep him restrained and away from feeling you; his touch had this hypnotic pull that you couldn’t resist.
He placed his hands higher on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands, letting his thumbs brush over your nipples that were already hard and sensitive. The contrast of his cool palms against your feverish skin dragged a gasp from your throat.
You pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the chess board next to the two of you.
Spencer’s face warmed fast and he went completely still. This was the first time he’d gotten so intimate with a woman-- not because he was entirely inexperienced, but because no one ever had this much control over his mind.
“Spencer,” you murmured, “You have permission. Don’t freeze up on me now.” your words vibrated against his soft lips.
Your words broke the spell. His trembling hands returned to your boobs, kneading them slowly, testing the soft fullness. He leaned up, peppering kisses on your chest, getting closer and closer to your sensitive spot.
He looked up at you once he reached one of your nipples, he tenderly pecked the peak before swirling his warm tongue over it and taking it between his lips. Your hands carded through his locks, letting the string of whiny, desperate sounds leave your agape mouth.
You slid one of your hands down his shaky chest and to his covered crotch.
The sudden sensation of your palm resting directly over his throbbing covered cock sent a shockwave through his body, making his movements immediately falter, his teeth slightly biting your nipple.
Your finger traced the strained line of his erection.
“You’re not gonna come now, are you?” you whispered, your voice dropping to a cruel purr.
He quickly shook his head, clearly struggling, “I’m not,”
“Yeah, cuz that would be really embarrassing, right?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, your hand moving with more precision now.
Spencer didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
“Admit that I won, Reid.”
His brows furrowed, “What?” he panted.
“You heard me, Spencer. Admit that I played better than you.”
“No- but you cheated- I know you did.”
Your hand stopped, stalling your movements entirely right when he needed you most, “I won’t let you come if you don’t admit that I rightfully won.”
“Please.” the desperation sounded like music to your ears.
“Just say it, Reid.”
“This is so unfair.” he looked up at you with a silent desperate plea.
You punished his stubbornness by rolling your hips forward, a slow friction-loaded press against his aching length. The burning friction made your core pulse, the tight knot in the pit of your stomach tightening.
“Don’t be so stubborn, Reid. Come on, just tell the truth.”
“But it’s not the truth,” he stammered.
You raised your hips, denying him the release he was so desperately chasing. His hands lingered on your skin, not wanting to let go as you stood up.
“Take your clothes off.” you pushed the chess set further away from where he was sitting.
He blinked up at you before quickly standing and working to unbutton his shirt.
You calmly walked over to the wooden coffee table, pouring yourself a glass of water, needing something to cool some tension and heat out of your body.
You sipped the chilling water as you looked back at Spencer who was fumbling with his belt buckle, “Want some water?” you asked.
He nodded, “please,” you poured some more in your glass before handing it to him. Spencer took the glass from your hand, his fingers trembling as he brought it up to his lips.
The sight of him trying to hold onto a shred of his dignity, shirtless, belt unbuckled, exposing the strain of his erection against his boxers more clearly now was intoxicating,
“So what’s the limit? How far are you willing to go?” you tilted your head to the side.
“I don’t.. I don’t want to stop.” he whispered, the words tearing out of him as if physically pained him to admit it. “You completely turn off my head and I don’t want this to stop. I want to go as far as you’re willing to go.”
The raw intensity made your head spin and your stomach turn. Were you nervous?
You took the glass from his hand, nodding your head once toward the couch, gesturing for him to sit back in his place after he’d stripped out of his clothes—minus his boxers.
“I really.. really need this. Any of it.” he sounded like he was about to cry.
You took slow, delicate steps until you were standing in front of him, “God, you’re so pathetic.” you shook your head, looking down at him—completely undone.
Spencer didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stared up at you as he tried to even out his breaths.
You felt a little nice, so you didn’t keep him waiting much longer. You climbed back onto his lap, straddling his hips and resting your hands between the side of his jaw and neck. He immediately held onto your thighs and surged forward to kiss you like a man gasping for air.
You glanced down to where your hips met, seeing a small dark, wet stain on his navy boxers. It wasn’t big enough to prove that he came without your permission, so you smirked, “You want it that bad?”
“Yes,” he choked out.
Your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers trailing down his burning chest, finally reaching his waistband. Your index finger hooked the elastic of his boxers before pulling the fabric, letting his cock spring against his stomach.
Your body shuddered, suddenly needing some sort of warmth to soothe your frayed nerves.
“God..” he dropped his head back against the couch, taking a deep breath to steady his violent heartbeat that filled his ears.
His thumbs brushed over the goosebumps on your thighs on instinct.
You wrapped your fingers around his painfully throbbing cock, bringing your thumb to the slit of his tip, swirling the precum around the crown with minimal pressure, making him drop his head on your shoulder with a stifled moan.
You leaned your flushed cheek against his curls, letting your fingers tighten lightly around his cock.
“Look at you, Spencer,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a soft, teasing hum, “you can’t even hold your own head up. Where did all the smart words go, huh?”
You gave his shaft a few slow, tight pumps, looking down at the new forming precum. You hadn’t expected him to be this big, pulsing against your hand in a way that sent a sudden thrill straight to your core.
It only took two minutes for him to lose control over his hips, which were now helplessly, involuntarily twitching against your hand, letting you know that he was close to the edge. You pressed a short soft kiss on his temple, abruptly releasing your hand, completely cutting off the friction just as you felt his veins hammering against your palm.
“Please don’t do this to me..” he picked his head up to shake it, giving you those devastating puppy eyes that made your heart ache just a little.
You tapped your ear, “ I didn’t hear you say the magic words yet, Spencer,” you stood up, walking to your brown coat that was hung by the door.
“But you didn’t win fairly,” he whined, following your movement with his eyes.
“And you’re not gonna come.” you shrugged, walking back to the couch with a condom in your hand, “are you sure this is okay?” your voice was a bit softer now, the teasing toning dropping for a second to make sure he’s fully onboard.
He shook his head frantically, “Yes. One hundred percent.”
You gave him a small smirk, tossing the condom to him. He quickly tore open the wrapper before rolling the condom down his length, giving himself some friction to ease the aching.
You took off your cotton shorts before returning to your comfortable spot on his lap, immediately being held by his trembling, reverent hands.
You slid your hand down to your folds, swirling your thumb on the tight bundle of nerves before slowly pushing two fingers into your entrance to warm yourself up before doing anything with Spencer.
After pumping your fingers into your dripping heat a few times to slick yourself up, you were ready to take him in. You slowly pulled your wet fingers out, trailing them up his chest before bringing them to his lips.
Without waiting for a command, Spencer wrapped his lips around your fingers without a second thought, sucking them clean with needy, heavy hunger that pulled a soft moan out of your pretty lips. The knot in your core only tightened further, a throbbing ache settling between your thighs. You slowly withdrew your fingers from his wet mouth, leaving his lips glistening and parted.
You raised your hips, using your hand to line him up with your aching entrance. You took a deep shaky breath that made Spencer press a tender kiss to your collarbone, his hands trailing up and down your sides in an attempt to soothe you.
You slowly lowered yourself down, letting his tip stretch your tight entrance. A shaky gasp caught in your throat as you moved your hips down an extra inch. He didn’t move his hips, he looked up at you with quiet patience, waiting for you to move, “We don’t have to-” he whispered.
You cut him off by sinking down with a broken moan, your hands clawing his shoulders.
“Spencer,” you breathed out, feeling him fill you up completely before lifting your hips slowly, dragging the friction against your walls.
You pressed back down, burying him deep inside you again, feeling him throb against your pulsing pussy. He murmured incoherent words that sounded a lot like your name in a loop against the crook of your neck.
You found the perfect pace after a minute of fractured rhythm while you were adjusting to his size. You adjusted your position, making his tip hit just the right spot, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as a wave of blinding pleasure rippled straight through you.
Spencer’s grip tightened on your hips, holding you with more confidence now that he felt your inner walls clench around him.
“Right there,” you panted, shutting your eyes as you lifted your hips and rolled them back down to hit that same spot again.
“Oh god,” his words vibrated against your skin, filling all your senses.
“Say it, Spencer. Tell me I beat you.” you whispered, shifting your hips in an agonizingly slow circle, making him cry out as his eyes rolled back into his head.
“You won..” he whined into your neck, “you beat me.”
“And was it- fuck- was it fair?” you choked out, struggling to keep up the teasing because you were just as needy as him right now.
“So fair. So fair, and I know I had no chance of winning,” he lied, his voice breaking entirely.
You smirked, a deep wave of satisfaction washing over you at the sound of his absolute surrender.
“Spencer,” you took a shaky deep breath in, “fuck, I’m so close..” your words were cut off by your own overwhelming noises.
“Let me come with you,” he pleaded, his voice breathless, “please,”
You nodded, pressing your forehead against his, for some reason trying to hold back the unraveling knot that was taking over your senses.
His glassy eyes locked onto yours as his hips bucked upwards one last time, hitting that perfect, sweet spot, shattering whatever was left of your control.
A high, strangled gasp tore from your throat as your walls convulsed around him, your back arching into him, pressing you to his chest as your muscles went weak.
The intensity of your release triggered his own; Spencer’s head nuzzled further into your neck, biting down before kissing the spot in apology, his arms wrapping around your back tightly as his hips continued moving to draw out both of your staggering orgasms.
It took a few moments to come down and melt onto one another. You both panted with closed, heavy eyelids.
You pulled your head back to look at his hot, damp face, “See what happens when you admit the truth?”
Spencer was still heaving with closed eyes, a faint shade of crimson still painting his neck and chest. Your brows slightly knitted, “Are you okay?” you murmured softly.
“Yes. You’ve proven how truly evil you are.” he admired your flushed face, focusing on your swollen pink lips.
You let out a soft chuckle, “Good.”
You slid off of him, the emptiness immediately hitting you at the loss of contact. “I’ll go shower. I won’t take long, you can go in after me.” you kept your eyes on the floor as you picked up your clothes to head to your room.
Disappointment settled in Spencer’s chest. He knew that this was nothing more than releasing some built up tension between them, but he hadn’t wished for the aftermath to last only a few seconds. Barely any words were exchanged, and he didn’t know what she thought.
Did she regret this?
Was he bad at it?
For the first time, he didn’t really know what he was expecting, but his chest was completely hollowed out by your subtly shielded mind. Even after such an intense experience, you didn’t attempt to connect—to let him take a quick peek into your head.
He slowly stood up, taking quiet quick steps to the tissue box that was neatly placed on the coffee table. He cleaned himself up before disposing of the condom and putting his stained boxers and wrinkled shirt back on. He contemplated putting his slacks back on but decided against it.
His eyes flicked to the closed door of your bedroom, cursing at himself for craving closeness to you. What was happening to him?
OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: when the team realizes spencer has a secret girlfriend, garcia launches a glitter-covered investigation that’s equal parts profiling and meddling. the problem? their “mystery girl” profile is so wrong it hurts — and then the case cracks wide open, whether you’re ready or not.
genre: hurt/comfort, fluff tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, accidentally suggestive comment from spencer lol, garcia being the office gossip, BAU team shenanigans, reader has insecurities over if she’s wrong for spencer/how she’s perceived/her entire personality basically, team dinner at rossi’s, reader is warm fruit’s #1 hater, kissssing, purposely suggestive comment from reader, they’re so down bad it’s gross, no use of y/n
a/n: i feel like this hopefully goes without saying, but zero offense is meant to the type of girl described in this fic — i just needed a contrast to greenaway!reader! anywho, this one has been a loooong time coming so I hope you enjoy (and plz appreciate the silly goofy visual aid I made on canva that you’ll find below lol) | GIF by eva @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
Spencer’s alarm goes off at 6:15, but you’re pretty sure he’s been awake for ten minutes already and just pretending not to be so he can keep his arm around you.
“Turn it off,” you mumble into his chest.
“I got it,” he says as he reaches for the clock.
You crack an eye open. “Too early.”
He ignores your complaint in favor of dipping his head to kiss your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. You kiss him back, slow and lazy, one hand curling in the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
“If we don’t get up now, we’ll be late,” he says, very much not moving to get up.
“You say that like you didn’t design your alarm timing around a twenty-minute buffer,” you reply, sliding your leg over his.
“Sixteen-minute buffer, actually,” he corrects. “We typically spend an average of seven minutes kissing before I spend the other nine between your—”
“Spencer!” you shriek, cutting him off before he can finish a statement like that at six in the morning.
He smirks. “I was just providing data.”
You pinch his side. “Provide less.”
He laughs again, sleepy and warm, and grins like he’s proud of getting you flustered.
You kiss him again. It’s easier now that the part where you pretend not to want to stay has worn off. You just want to stay, and you let yourself.
When you finally peel out of bed, it’s with mutual groaning and the kind of reluctant separation that would be disgusting if it were anyone else. He presses a quick kiss between your shoulder blades as you swing your legs over the side of the mattress; you pretend it doesn’t make your chest do something stupid.
By the time you’re dressed and make your way out of the bedroom, Spencer’s apartment smells like coffee and toast. He’s in the kitchen in a button down and slacks, tie draped around his neck, reading something in the newspaper with a little furrow between his brows. There’s a mug waiting for you — your mug, chipped on one side, living here now without discussion.
You snag a piece of toast off his plate, bite into it, and lean your hip against the counter while he wrestles with his tie. It’s a new one — navy with small, neat polka dots.
“Come here,” you say, setting your mug down.
He steps closer automatically when you hook two fingers in his belt and tug him in. You untie the knot and redo it, straightening it with careful precision. He watches your face like you’re doing something much more interesting than fixing his tie.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “I just… like you here.”
You roll your eyes because the alternative is something mushy, but then you lean in anyway and let your lips find his.
The kiss is soft and familiar and still somehow manages to make your knees a little shaky. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and home, which is a terrifying thought you refuse to examine this early in the day.
He breaks away first, forehead resting against yours. “We should go.”
“Yeah,” you say, not moving.
A beat passes, then another long kiss. Eventually you both laugh, step back at the same time, and pretend you’re ready for reality to hit.
You grab your jacket and badge off the hook, he grabs his satchel and keys, and you walk out the door together.
—
By the time you pull into the Quantico lot, the radio is off and his hand is resting, casual and warm, on your thigh. You let it stay there until you’re close enough to see the building, then you nudge it away and give him a look that says later.
He gives you one back that says I know.
The practiced routine kicks in — you get out and head inside first, he waits three-and-a-half minutes before doing the same.
Spencer barely makes it to his desk before Rossi appears beside him like a well-dressed shadow.
“Ready to go?” Rossi asks, coffee in hand, already halfway turned toward the bullpen doors.
They’re headed to the academy building across campus, today’s guest lecturers for a criminology training. Spencer always pretends he’s indifferent to that sort of thing, but the second he’s in front of a whiteboard, he lights up.
Spencer blinks, then nods. “Yes. I just need—”
“Your notes are in your bag,” Rossi says. “You sent me five drafts already. Come on, kid, the cadets await.”
Spencer glances in your direction automatically. You lift your eyes just long enough to catch his and tip your chin, a small, private acknowledgment no one else would notice.
He smiles — barely there, but there — and then heads out with Rossi. You watch them go, then drag your focus back to the report in front of you.
You get maybe three minutes of peace.
“Greenawaaay,” Garcia sings, appearing at the edge of your peripheral vision like a colorful mirage.
You don’t look up yet. “If this is about your whipped cream experimentation with Kevin, I already told you I’m not certified in exorcisms.”
“It’s not about the whipped cream,” she says. “It’s much more important than the whipped cream. Which should tell you the stakes here are astronomical.”
You sigh, close the file, and finally turn. JJ and Prentiss are hovering behind her with matching she-already-recruited-us-but-we-don’t-know-what-for expressions. Morgan leans against the nearest desk, arms folded, clearly already in on whatever this is.
“What did you do?” you ask.
“Me?” Garcia bats her lashes. “Nothing. But we’re about to make history. Come on.” She jerks her head toward the hallway. “Top secret meeting in my office.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m on the clock, Garcia. I have work to do.”
“As do I,” she says. “This is… related to work. Trust me.”
You should say no. You should go back to your paperwork. Instead, curiosity wins and you slide out of your chair.
Garcia herds the four of you down to her lair like a cheerful, bedazzled sheepdog. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, the lights of her monitors bathing the room in neon. On the far wall, there’s a corkboard you don’t remember seeing before.
At the top, in big, bold letters outlined with glittery tape, it says:
OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL - O.M.G.
Garcia plants herself in front of the board, hands on hips. “Welcome, my beloved profilers and communications liaison, to the inaugural briefing of O.M.G.!”
JJ presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Morgan isn’t even pretending to not be thrilled. Prentiss looks like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck.
“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you say.
“This,” Garcia announces, pointing dramatically at the corkboard, “is a fully serious, very important investigation into the case of Dr. Spencer Reid’s mysterious secret girlfriend.”
You blink. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She gestures dramatically to the board again. It’s already populated with printed photos, sticky notes, and colored yarn connecting pins like you’re standing in front of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.
At the bottom is a sheet of paper featuring a stick figure of a woman with a giant question mark over her face. Around it: headings that read EVIDENCE SO FAR, POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS, and VIBES in Garcia’s handwriting.
You step closer despite yourself.
Under EVIDENCE:
Suspiciously happy like all the time
Volunteering for less overtime than usual
New clothes??!!
His aura just screams I’M IN LURVVV
“Some of this is actually pretty accurate,” Prentiss says, leaning in.
“I’ve been monitoring his behavior for weeks,” Garcia says proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. Our boy genius is smitten, and he is hiding her from us.”
Morgan shakes his head. “He’s definitely hiding something. We’ve been saying that for a while. And at O’Keefe’s the other week, he didn’t exactly deny it. He just said ‘no comment,’ which means there’s definitely a girl.”
“He has a right to privacy,” you point out, mostly because you’re trying not to gnaw through your own tongue.
“Absolutely,” Garcia says. “He has the right to privacy, and I have the right to gossip with my friends about our other friend. Both things can be true.”
Prentiss snorts.
Garcia taps the POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS column, where there are several options listed already:
Kindergarten teacher
Librarian
Baker
Social worker
“Seriously? You think he’s dating a kindergarten teacher? A librarian?” you ask.
JJ lifts a shoulder. “He does like to read.”
“And he’s good with kids,” Morgan adds. “Makes sense he’d go for someone sweet and gentle like that."
“It’s probably someone outside the FBI,” Prentiss proposes. “Normal job. Normal hours. No guns.”
“She definitely wears super cute colorful cardigans,” Garcia adds, already scribbling it down under VIBES. “And I’d venture to guess that she bakes cupcakes when she’s stressed. Smells like vanilla!”
“Vanilla,” you echo, deadpan.
JJ tilts her head. “You don’t think he’d be into someone like that?”
You shrug like it’s theoretical, like your heart isn’t doing something unpleasant in your chest. “He might be, I don’t know. But I think he needs someone who can actually handle the job. The hours. The… everything. This kind of life isn’t exactly gentle.”
“Exactly,” Garcia says. “Which is why she’s gotta be gentle. She provides a counterbalance. Yin and yang, crime and cupcakes. It’s poetic.”
She writes CUPCAKES under VIBES.
Morgan points his pen at the pinned drawing of the stick figure woman. “Come on, Greenaway. You spend a lot of time with him. Help us out.”
“I do not spend a lot of time with him,” you deny automatically.
Four pairs of eyes look at you.
You lift your hands. “Fine. I spend an appropriate amount of professional time with him. Not my fault Hotch pairs us together a lot.”
“Point is, you know him. So, from a purely hypothetical standpoint,” JJ says, “what kind of person do you think he’d be happy with?”
You stare at the board for a moment, at the fake girl they’ve built out of cardigans and vanilla extract. Then you pick up a pen.
“Someone smart,” you say. “He’d need that. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a walking encyclopedia but also doesn’t get lost or zone out when he goes off on a tangent. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly,” you continue. “You all know what this job does. You don’t get to just… opt out of the darkness. If you’re with him, you’re in all of it.”
You tap the pen against the board, then force your tone lighter. “And yeah, okay, probably someone nice.”
Garcia grins, scribbling down NICE under VIBES and functionally ignoring the rest of what you said. “See? This is why I invited you. You have insight!”
Morgan grins. “So we’re in agreement. She’s smart, sweet, likes kids, bakes.”
“And probably has no idea how lucky she is,” JJ adds.
You swallow back the instinctive no, she definitely knows she’s lucky and say instead, “Can I go back to work now, or are we building a composite sketch?”
Garcia swats the air. “This is just Phase One, my fine furry friend. We will reconvene later. In the meantime, I expect you all to investigate.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Great. Can’t wait to see what Phase Two has in store.”
As you step back, your gaze catches on the stick figure again. On the glitter, the stickers, the ridiculous heading — O.M.G.
According to the board, Reid’s mystery girl should be someone who wears cardigans. Smells like sugar. Teaches kindergarten.
Definitely not someone like you.
You shove that thought down where it belongs, under seven layers of scar tissue and denial, and head back to the bullpen like nothing in here touched you at all.
—
The rest of the morning unfolds like any other day at the BAU, if you ignore the fact that one of your coworkers has unknowingly built a conspiracy wall about you.
You try to ignore it.
You work a consult. You write up a report on last week’s case. You argue with a detective over the phone until he backs down, and when you hang up, Morgan’s watching you like: damn, remind me to never piss you off.
“You good?” he asks.
“Peachy,” you say, tossing the file onto your desk. “Please tell me Garcia found a new hobby in the last hour.”
He grins. “Not a chance. She’s real committed to this one.”
You roll your eyes and open your email.
There’s a subject line from Garcia that reads: “O.M.G. – Phase Two Meeting Tomorrow - Agenda Enclosed!” with three heart emojis.
You don’t open it. You’re not that masochistic.
Around noon, your phone buzzes against your desk. You assume it’s another follow-up from Garcia and flip it over, already cringing. Instead, it’s Spencer.
Spencer: Cadets have already asked 3 questions that make me concerned for the future of law enforcement.
You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it, shoulders loosening.
You type back under the desk.
You: important news from the home front: i am currently the unsub in an unsanctioned profiling experiment being conducted out of garcia’s lair
There’s a long enough pause that you can imagine him reading it twice, brow furrowed.
Spencer: …What?
You: penelope has formed a task force
You: codename: operation mystery girl
You: acronym: O.M.G.
You: there’s glitter. so much glitter
You: and specific instructions not to tell you about it. oops
This time, his reply is almost immediate.
Spencer: Why can’t I know?
You: because you’ve been “suspiciously happy” so they’ve decided that gives them grounds to reverse-engineer your love life
You: they’re profiling your “type.” your mystery girl.
Another beat. You can practically feel him flushing through the screen.
Spencer: What have they concluded so far?
You: that you’re dating a bubbly, perfect kindergarten teacher who smells like vanilla
There’s a full minute of silence this time. You picture him in some Academy auditorium, phone in his hand under the desk while Rossi lectures about offender typologies.
Finally:
Spencer: I don’t even like vanilla that much.
You laugh under your breath and stare at that for a second, heat curling low in your stomach for absolutely no good reason as his second text comes through.
Spencer: I prefer more complex flavors.
You roll your eyes at your phone, because of course he somehow made that sound unintentionally sweet and slightly filthy without even trying.
You: stop flirting with me during class
You: you’re supposed to be educating the next generation of the fbi
As if on cue, Hotch’s door opens and he steps out into the bullpen, scanning the room. You turn your phone face-down on your desk.
By late afternoon, O.M.G. has evolved. Every so often you catch someone making a note — Garcia walking by while scribbling on a sticky, JJ whispering something in her ear, Prentiss and Morgan analyzing Spencer’s desk from a distance.
It’s fine. It’s all stupid and harmless and fine.
Your phone buzzes again around four while you’re in the hall heading back from the bathroom.
Spencer: Wrapping up here, should be back soon. Any further developments on the O.M.G. front?
You glance down the hall towards Garcia’s office. The door is closed, a faint glow spilling out from beneath it like a witch’s cave.
You: more of the same
You: i’ll fill you in tonight
You hesitate, then tack on one more message before you can talk yourself out of it:
You: miss you
It’s reckless and feels entirely too honest, but your thumb hits send anyway.
The reply comes before you’ve even locked your phone.
Spencer: I miss you too. See you soon.
You swallow, looking around like the words might be visible in the air, but no one’s looking at you. No one has a clue.
Yet.
—
By the time you make it to Spencer’s apartment after work, your brain feels like it’s humming inside your skull.
You kick the door shut with your heel, toe your shoes off in the entryway, shrug out of your jacket and scarf and hang them on the hook you’ve claimed as your own. Spencer drops his satchel by the couch and heads for the kitchen.
“Dinner,” he calls, opening the fridge. “Option A: leftover lo mein. Option B: grilled cheese. Option C: both.”
“C,” you pick.
He smiles faintly and pulls out the takeout container. It’s all so normal — him moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, you leaning your hip against the cabinets as you watch him. This is your life now: FBI agent by day, domestic lovergirl by night.
You watch him butter bread and portion out noodles like he’s solving a complex equation. He glances up.
“You said you’d fill me in,” he reminds you. “On O.M.G.”
You snort. “Right. Your fan club.”
He raises his eyebrows. You sigh and attempt to pick the least sharp version of the recap you’ve been brewing in your head all day.
“Garcia built a case board,” you say. “There are doodles and glitter tape and stickers. She has lists pinned to it for ‘Evidence So Far,’ ‘Potential Occupations,’ and ‘Vibes.’”
He blinks once. “…Vibes.”
“Vibes,” you confirm. “And according to our coworkers, apparently the ‘vibe’ is that you’re secretly dating a kindergarten teacher slash librarian slash cupcake baker who smells like vanilla and wears colorful cardigans and definitely doesn’t carry a gun or have years of trauma to work through in therapy.”
He pauses in the act of flipping a sandwich. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” You pick at a chip in the countertop.
“And what did you contribute to the investigation?” he asks.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “That whoever you’re with would have to be smart. And able to handle the job. And not treat you like you’re made of glass. Clearly, my influence was minimal.”
The grilled cheese sizzles. The lo mein goes in the microwave. Silence fills in around it, heavy and familiar.
You eat on the couch, plate balanced on your knees, a National Geographic documentary playing low on the TV.
You make jokes at first. You tell him about Prentiss and Morgan’s intense study of his desk for “data collection” and Garcia’s email subject lines. Spencer laughs in all the right places. He looks at you more than he looks at the screen.
But by the time the plates are empty, the jokes have dried up.
You stack the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them off like the hot water might scald the thoughts out of your head. When you look up, he’s still on the couch, watching you with that careful focus of his.
“What?” you ask.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says.
“Please specify which thing,” you say. “I have a lot of things.”
“The thing where you brush something hurtful off like it’s funny but then go really quiet and your shoulders get all tense.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
“I never said you weren’t.” His voice stays soft, but there’s a thread of seriousness underneath it. “I said to come here.”
You sigh and drop onto the couch beside him with more force than necessary. He shifts closer, thigh warm against yours. His hand finds the back of the couch behind your shoulders, not quite touching you yet.
“So,” he says. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because we both know that’s not true.”
“It’s stupid,” you grumble, staring at the coffee table.
He gently lifts your chin with his finger. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, throat tight. You’ve been replaying it all day — the board, the stick figure, the list of traits that are a complete juxtaposition to your entire personality.
“I…” You trail off and try another angle. “The team loves you. They just want you to be happy. It’s sweet, honestly. A massive overstep and an insane invasion of privacy, but still sweet. I understand their curiosity.”
“But,” he prompts gently.
You exhale, sharp. “But… they built you a perfect imaginary ideal girlfriend, and she’s nothing like me.”
He’s quiet. You push on before you can lose your nerve.
“Like, not even a little bit,” you say. “She’s soft and gentle and bakes when she’s stressed and doesn’t know what a glock looks like. She smells like vanilla.” The word tastes bitter on your tongue. “And the thing is, Morgan and Garcia and JJ and Prentiss know you. Like, really well. They’re your best friends. So if that’s the woman who pops into their heads when they think about who’d be good for you—” You break off.
When you look up, his eyes are still on you, open and steady.
“When they eventually find out it’s me,” you go on, forcing the words out, “they’re going to look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you traded in a cupcake for… I don’t know. A Molotov cocktail or something.”
“You don’t honestly think,” he says, “that they sat there and consciously decided, ‘Reid should be with someone who is the total opposite of Greenaway.’”
“No,” you say. “I think they didn’t think of me at all.”
The words hang there, more naked than you meant them to be.
He goes very still.
“Not that I wanted them to think of me and figure it out, but still.” You stare resolutely at the coffee table. “And, like, I get it. I’ve spent a long time cultivating a vibe that says ‘do not perceive me unless you want to get bit.’ I don’t exactly radiate ‘nurturing life partner’ energy. It would almost be funny if it didn’t feel like—” You motion helplessly at some vague point in front of you. “Like confirmation,” you say. “That I’m wrong for you. That when they do eventually find out, they’re going to wonder how badly you hit your head.”
There’s a prickling behind your eyes. You blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t help much.
“And I hate that it’s getting to me,” you say. “I don’t care what people think. That’s, like, my whole thing. I have built an entire personality around not giving a shit. But I…” You flex your hands, fingers curling against your knees. “I care what they think of you. And of you with me. And apparently that’s enough to scramble my brain, because now I’m sitting here wishing I could be some fucking vanilla-cupcake-librarian for you because you deserve someone that sweet and soft and kind, but that’s— that’s not who I am. I don’t know how to be that girl. And I am so fucking tired of being the wrong kind of girl in every room.”
There’s a long moment where the only sound is the TV and your own breathing, too loud in your ears.
Then Spencer moves.
He reaches over, gently pries your hand away from your knee, and laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm. His grip is firm without being possessive.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. It feels like standing on the edge of a roof and choosing, deliberately, not to step back.
“You’re right, they do know me,” he says. “But they don’t know what it feels like to be in my apartment at three in the morning when my brain won’t shut off and you stay up with me just so I’m not alone. They don’t know what it’s like to sit in a car with you at a crime scene and have you make the darkest possible joke at exactly the right moment. They don’t know how it feels when I start spiraling and you say, very firmly, ‘Reid, eat something,’ and shove a granola bar into my hand.”
You start to object. “That happened, like, one time.”
“It was three times,” he says. His thumb strokes along the side of your hand absentmindedly.
“They’re still a bit stuck on the version of me that existed before… a lot of things. Before Tobias Hankel. Before Gideon left. Before losing people changed the way I look at everything. They still see the kid who needed to be protected from himself.”
“Sometimes you still are that kid,” you say softly.
“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I’m also a man who knows what he wants. Who he wants.” His eyes are steady on yours. “And it’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”
Your throat tightens.
“They want me to have someone gentle,” he says. “And I get why. But gentle doesn’t necessarily have to mean cupcakes and vanilla and kindergarten.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re gentle with me in all the ways that matter. You know when to challenge me and when to just… be here.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want a cupcake,” you say slowly.
“I’m saying I don’t want to be handled,” he corrects. “I don’t want to be someone’s fragile project. I don’t need to be saved from my own life by a nice woman in a cardigan.”
He leans in a little, eyes not leaving yours.
“I chose you,” he says. “Not because I’m convinced you’re secretly soft underneath it all and one day you’ll transform into their idea of what my life should look like. I chose you, completely as you are. Sharp and stubborn and infuriating and the only person who’s ever told me to shut up not because you didn’t care what I had to say, but because you wanted to kiss me so badly you couldn’t wait."
Heat flickers under your skin at that memory. Your eyes sting again. You blink hard.
“They love me,” he says with a nod. “You’re right. But they also love you. They trust you with their lives. They’ve seen you bleed for this team. Do you really think that when they find out I’m with someone who understands all of that, who gets it down to the bone, they’re going to… what? Stage an intervention? Tell me I should hold out for someone better?”
You look away, jaw tight.
“If I didn’t want you,” he says, voice even, “I wouldn’t be with you. If I thought you were wrong for me, I wouldn’t let you into this part of my life.” He squeezes your hand. It’s grounding, the pressure. “I’m not going to look at Garcia’s corkboard and suddenly decide I made a mistake. I’m in this because I want to be.”
You swallow, hard. A traitorous tear finally escapes despite your best efforts; you swipe it away with the heel of your hand before it can go rogue.
“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter. “I’m mad at a fucking bulletin board.”
He smiles, small and fond. “You’re not mad at the board.”
He shifts closer, finally letting his arm drop around your shoulders, pulling you in until you’re halfway in his lap.
“I just don’t want to be the wrong choice,” you whisper.
“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re the right one. And if that conflicts with our friends’ wild imaginations, then that’s their problem to solve. Not ours.”
You swallow, breathing uneven. He’s so close you can count his eyelashes. You let your head tip against his shoulder as his thumb draws idle circles on the back of your hand.
“Okay,” you say eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “But if they look at me like I’m a bad idea when they eventually find out, you’re in charge of reminding them I’m not.”
“I can do that,” he promises.
You stay like that for a while — documentary murmuring in the background, the universe shrunk down to the circumference of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At some point, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair.
“You know Garcia’s going to put glittery heart stickers around my face if she ever adds me to that board,” you mumble against him.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m so keeping it if she does.”
You pinch his side. He yelps, then laughs, then presses another kiss into your hair.
Let them have their glitter for now, you think to yourself. Let them build their wrong profile. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re choosing each other.
—
Rossi’s email hits your inbox on Thursday morning, wedged between a case update and a training memo.
BAU Pasta Night at Villa Rossi: Saturday. 6pm. Mandatory attendance.
You read it twice. There’s something about dinner at Rossi’s that feels less like an invitation and more like a command.
Your phone buzzes with a text five minutes later.
Spencer: Did you see Rossi’s email?
You stare at the screen longer than you need to, then type back:
You: yep
You: guess we’re having pasta this weekend
Once Saturday night hits, Garcia is on Spencer before he can even take his coat off in Rossi’s foyer.
“REID,” she announces, planting herself in front of him with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for hacking and cross-referencing. “You came alone.”
Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. “Hi, Garcia.”
Morgan appears behind her with a glass of wine, already grinning. “No plus-one, man? C’mon.”
Emily lifts her eyebrows in amusement. JJ’s smile is softer, more sympathetic than nosy.
You keep your face blank and slip past them toward the kitchen, waving awkwardly to Hotch as you pass by the living room, because if you have to stand there and listen to this, you will commit a felony.
Rossi intercepts you with a dish towel over his shoulder and a look that says I got you, kid.
“If you’re looking for a way to escape Penelope’s witch hunt, go ahead into the cellar downstairs and pick out another bottle of red,” he says mercifully. “Barolo or Chianti preferably, but it’s your choice."
“Yes, sir,” you say sarcastically, and take the out.
The basement is cooler, quieter. You let yourself breathe for a minute, fingers trailing over labels, pretending you’re here for the tannins.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Spencer is doing his best impression of a man who is not currently being cornered by three BAU agents and one extremely glitter-motivated tech analyst.
Garcia doesn’t even bother easing in.
“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands. “We have respected your privacy for—”
Morgan coughs. “We have attempted to respect your privacy.”
Garcia glares at him, then refocuses on Spencer. “—for a completely appropriate amount of time. But I simply cannot wait any longer. In my heart of hearts I know you’re seeing someone, and I’m DYING to know who she is.”
Spencer rubs the back of his neck. “This is, uh… really none of your business.”
Emily leans against the counter, entertained. “You’re surrounded by profilers, Reid. Being in other people’s business is kind of what we do best.”
JJ steps in a little. “Look, Spence, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” she says, and she means it even though Garcia’s threatening her with dagger eyes. “But we’re your friends. We notice when something changes, and we just want the chance to be happy for you.”
Spencer’s ears go pink. “I—I know. It’s just— It’s private.”
Garcia’s eyes widen theatrically. “So she IS real! Private means real!”
Morgan tilts his head. “C’mon, fess up. You seeing someone, pretty boy?”
Spencer hesitates for an awkward beat, running through the options in his head. He supposes that confirming the existence of a significant other isn’t the worst idea in the world, considering they’ve already pretty much figured it out, and it’s not like he has to tell them who the “mystery girl” is. That’s a boundary line he can draw and stick to. Plus, maybe they’ll chill out on O.M.G. and leave you some room to breathe if they at least have a few nuggets of information to hold them over for a bit.
“Yes,” he admits finally. “I’m…seeing someone.”
Garcia makes a sound like she’s about to ascend. “OHHH MY GOD. I KNEW IT.”
“So,” Emily says. “How long has it been?”
Spencer exhales. “A… while. Things started slow, so it’s somewhat hard to quantify.”
As if he doesn’t know the exact amount of time down to the minute that’s passed since you first kissed him in Ohio.
Morgan’s cheeky grin softens as he claps Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says.
Spencer nods and looks down, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. JJ’s expression brightens in a way that’s genuinely excited for him.
“Well,” Garcia says, leaning in like she’s about to jump into full-on detective mode. “Tell us about her! I want to know everything.”
Spencer’s eyes flick up. “I—”
“Not actually everything. We’re not asking for her social security number,” JJ clarifies. “Not even her name. Just…are you happy? Is it going well?”
Spencer nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s…good. Really, really good.”
Garcia’s voice turns unexpectedly soft. “Is she good to you?”
Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Emily taps her fingernail against the counter. “What sorts of things do you two do? Do you go out? Stay in?”
“Both,” Spencer says. “We do, uh, normal things.”
Garcia squints. “Define ‘normal,’ because your normal includes reading hundred-year-old Russian novels for fun.”
He gives a small, helpless shrug. “We… we go on walks. Run errands. Go out to eat. There’s this little Italian restaurant in Georgetown she really likes. But… we also stay in a lot. We cook together sometimes. Talk. Read. Watch movies.”
“What kind of movies?” JJ probes.
Spencer thinks of you engrossed by a classic horror film or picking apart some terrible romcom with surgical cruelty, pointing out every dumb decision while somehow still being fully invested. He does not say that out loud.
“Uh, anything, really,” he says instead. “She made me watch Pulp Fiction recently, and I showed her a documentary about black holes last weekend. She… likes indulging my interests.”
Emily’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that. JJ files it away. Garcia is practically vibrating.
Morgan jumps in next. “So, you planning on bringing her to one of these things eventually?”
Spencer’s throat bobs. “…Eventually.”
“In the meantime, I need more. What does she like?” Garcia presses. “What’s her favorite—food, music, whatever. Give us something, Reid! One harmless little detail.”
Spencer’s brain scrambles for something that feels safe. Something that won’t point to you. Something small.
“She… she has a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “Brownies, cake, cookies… you know. But she hates warm fruit. Something to do with the texture. We went to a diner once where the waitress gave us free slices of pie, and she picked out all the fruit and just ate the crust and ice cream.”
Emily laughs. “That’s unhinged.”
Garcia clutches her heart. “Oh, a woman with a quirk! I just know I'm going to adore her already.”
Spencer’s eyes flick toward the cellar door for the briefest of seconds — instinctively, as if his gaze is trained on you like a magnet — before looking back at his nosy friends with his signature awkward, tight-lipped smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “I have a feeling you will.”
—
When you come back upstairs with a bottle of Barolo, the evening has already moved into that easy, warm groove: plates clinking, voices overlapping, Rossi refilling wine glasses.
You laugh at something JJ says. You argue with Emily about her taste in horror movies. Spencer watches you like he’s trying to memorize your face. As if he hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.
By the time the pasta plates are cleared and Rossi heads into the kitchen to grab dessert, you’ve almost forgotten about O.M.G. entirely. The team has, mercifully, taken it easier on Spencer after the conversation you missed while seeking refuge in the wine cellar.
Whatever he said to shut them up, it must’ve worked, you think to yourself.
Rossi returns to the dining room and sets a slice of apple pie in front of you. “Made from scratch,” he boasts.
You eye it. The apples are glossy and soft. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. But the crust looks deliciously sugary and flaky and you’re not about to insult Rossi in his own home mansion, so you manage a polite “Thank you” and pick up your fork.
Across the table, Spencer freezes.
Not a subtle freeze — no. It’s a full, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights freeze.
He clears his throat too loud. Knocks his fork against his plate. His foot finds your ankle under the table with a series of frantic little nudges.
You glance up, confused, eyes clearly asking what the heck is your problem.
He’s staring at your plate like it’s an unpinned grenade.
His mouth opens. Closes. He tries again, smaller, more desperate: “Uh—”
What? you mouth, eyebrows raised.
His eyes flick back and forth — pie, you, pie, you — like he’s trying to telepathically beam a message directly into your skull. But there is, unfortunately, no universal signal for if you eat your pie like a feral raccoon our coworkers are 100% going to figure out our secret so please just be normal this one time, so you just stare at him blankly.
Weirdo.
You gently kick his foot away — more confused than annoyed — and turn back to your plate.
And then you do what you always do.
You begin to push the warm apples to one side of the dish with the edge of your fork, methodically separating fruit from crust like you’re field-stripping a firearm.
Spencer’s face goes beet red in anxious anticipation, but the room doesn’t go silent all at once.
It’s staggered. Like a line of well-spaced dominos, toppling one after another in perfect succession.
Garcia notices first. Her whole face lights up, brows practically shooting up to her hairline. A strangled noise catches in her throat, and her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s trying to keep herself from screaming.
JJ freezes mid-bite, fork suspended, eyes wide and snapping to Spencer.
Morgan’s grin falters into disbelief. “No way,” he says, like he’s arguing with reality.
Emily’s jaw goes slack. “Oh,” she breathes. Then her eyes sharpen, bright with dawning glee. “Ohhh.”
You look up at the sudden weirdness and find four faces locked on your plate like you’ve just confessed to arson.
“What,” you ask carefully, “is happening. Why are you all staring at my pie.”
Morgan points his fork at your dish and turns to Spencer. “Reid,” he says, voice pitched with amusement, “didn’t you literally just tell us your girl does that? That she won’t eat warm fruit?”
Spencer shuts his eyes for a second — brief, pained — like he’s watching himself die in third person. When he opens them, he looks straight at you.
Pure apology. Pure guilt.
He winces. “I… I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”
Something in you goes cold and then hot at the exact same moment you catch up to what’s going on.
For half a second, your brain offers you the classic Greenaway solution: vanish. Run and never look back. You can practically feel the panic trying to crawl up your throat, because this is what you were dreading — the second everyone knows, they get to have opinions. They get to look at you and Spencer like a math problem and decide you don’t add up.
Except… they’re not at all looking at you like you’re wrong for him.
You scan the room. Garcia’s smiling so big it looks painful. JJ’s gaze is warm, not sharp. Emily looks like she just won a bet she never told anyone she made. And Morgan is staring like he can’t believe you got one over on him, but there’s no anger in it — just that big-brother okay, show me you’re serious energy. The only person in the room who looks horrified is Spencer, who’s clearly just trying to cope with the fact he accidentally revealed your relationship in maybe the stupidest way possible.
You take a breath, feel your pulse in your throat, and then — because you’re not going to let all of your control over this situation be ripped out of your hands — you say:
“Congrats everyone, you cracked the code. Yes. Reid and I are together.”
Garcia explodes.
“MYSTERY GIRL IS YOU,” she shrieks, half out of her chair. “It’s been you this ENTIRE time. Oh my GOD. I made a board! I made assumptions! I said cupcakes and cardigans when in reality, Mystery Girl was right in front of me in boots and a leather jacket and—”
“Garcia,” Hotch warns.
JJ’s earnest expression is the first thing that cuts through the chaos. “This makes so much sense,” she says.
“Yeah,” Emily agrees. “The second you say it out loud, it’s like— of course. How did we miss that?”
Morgan sits back, still staring between you and Spencer like he’s recalibrating. Then he lets out a laugh — half disbelief, half delight. “Man,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I thought you were cuddled up with a librarian or something. Meanwhile you’re out here dating the most terrifying Greenaway sister,” he says, then winks at you like he’s trying to make sure you know he means it as a compliment.
You lift your chin. “Say that again and I’ll throw this pie at you.”
Morgan grins, hands up. “See? Exactly what I mean.”
Rossi sips his wine with a chuckle. “About time you bozos figured it out.”
Garcia whirls on him. “You KNEW?!”
Rossi’s mouth quirks. “What can I say, I’m good at my job.”
Hotch sets his fork down with the resigned patience of a man who has filled out a lot of paperwork on this exact subject already. “I’ve also been aware for some time,” he says evenly.
Garcia makes a noise that sounds like she’s dying. “BOTH of you knew?!”
Spencer clears his throat, still pink, still looking like he wants to apologize to you in six different languages. His eyes don’t leave your face.
Garcia’s hands clap together like she’s calling court to order. “O.M.G. never stood for Operation Mystery Girl,” she announces, breathless with triumph. “It stood for OH MY GREENAWAY all along.”
JJ’s gaze meets yours. “For what it’s worth,” she says, "I'm really happy that Mystery Girl is you.”
Emily lifts her glass in a small toast. “Me as well,” she adds. “This is good. This is really, really good.”
Morgan’s grin softens into something fond and protective. “As long as you’re both happy and nobody’s getting hurt,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”
Garcia’s voice goes thick, emotional, and she tries to bulldoze right through it with dramatics. “I’m so happy,” she declares. “I’m also a bit devastated I wasn’t included in the secret circle of knowing earlier, but mostly I’m happy because you two are…” She gestures wildly. “You’re you. And it’s perfect.”
Something in your chest steadies instead of cracks.
“Okay,” you say, exhaling. “Cool. Great. Everybody get it out of their system?”
Garcia points at your pie plate, still half-disassembled. “Not even close. I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but I can’t get over that THIS is what did it.”
You deadpan. “My beef with pie is never-ending.”
Rossi claps once, satisfied. “Alright. Now that the children have finished screaming, eat your dang dessert.”
Laughter rolls around the room again, warmer now, less sharp.
Under the table, Spencer’s shoe nudges yours.
You nudge back.
And when you finally escape an hour later, the night air is cold and quiet, and Spencer grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to drive his guilt into the pavement.
You watch him from the passenger seat, heart weirdly calm.
He doesn’t say much on the drive. Neither do you. The secret is out, the world didn’t end, and for now, that’s enough.
—
Back at Spencer’s apartment, the quiet hits you like a soft wall.
No Garcia shrieking. No Morgan cackling. Just the click of the lock, the hush of the hallway outside, and Spencer standing there with his keys still in his hand.
“You okay?” you ask, toeing your shoes off.
Spencer exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding it since the pie incident — and sets his keys down with exaggerated care. Then he turns to you, eyes wide in that way they get when he’s trying not to catastrophize and failing.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You don’t need to be.”
He shakes his head. “But I am. I’m so sorry. For all of it. For telling them the fruit thing. I didn’t realize I was outing us. I—I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”
“I gathered that,” you say.
He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to touch you but doesn’t want to assume it’d be welcome.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he continues, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “It was stupid. I thought giving them a hyper-specific detail would give them something to fixate on and shut them up, and that one seemed harmless enough, but then I saw the pie and I—” He swallows. “I really did try to warn you.”
“You did,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You were practically doing Morse code against my ankle.”
“I panicked,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “And then it all happened so fast and you looked—” He stops, eyes flicking over your face like he’s searching for hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you hate being… perceived.”
He takes one more step. You can feel his warmth now, close enough that it seeps into you.
“I keep thinking about the other day,” he says quietly. “How scared you were for them to find out.” His throat bobs. “And then I was the one who—who basically handed them our secret on a silver platter.”
You tilt your head. “On a pie platter, actually.”
He looks pained. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”
“Spencer,” you say seriously. “I’m not mad at you.”
He lets out a breath, but it’s not quite relief yet. He’s still braced for impact.
“And I’m not mad that they know,” you add, watching him closely. “I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that my downfall was pie of all things, but—”
His mouth finally lifts, small and uncertain.
“But,” you repeat, “it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”
You push off the wall and close the space remaining between you, because you’re tired of him hovering at the edge of you and want him to feel how not-mad you are.
His hands find your waist the second you’re close enough, careful at first, then firmer when you lean in like you belong there.
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
You nod. “I’m sure.”
“Because you could—” He swallows. “You could decide this is too much. Too exposed. And I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d miss you.”
Something in your chest goes tight and hot.
You slide your hands up his arms, feel the muscle under his sleeves, the faint tremor he’s trying his best to hide. You clasp your fingers behind his neck and pull him down until his forehead nearly brushes yours.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.
His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the words physically steady him.
“You’re not?”
“No,” you say, and you let yourself mean it. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m not running. The worst thing that happened tonight is that our coworkers found out I have psychopathic dessert habits.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Besides,” you add, because you can’t help it, “you looked kinda hot when you were trying to telepathically get me to eat my pie like a normal person.”
His eyes open, startled. “I— what?”
“You did,” you insist, deadly serious. “Somehow, panic is a good look on you. Big fan.”
His cheeks go pink, but now it’s in a good way.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide the smile.
“And you,” you say, sliding your thumbs along his jaw, “are catastrophizing.”
“I know,” he admits. “I just… I care about you.”
The words hang there, heavy and honest and dangerously close to a bigger truth, but you don’t let it scare you. Not tonight.
You kiss him instead.
It’s slow at first — soft, testing — like you’re proving something to him with your mouth: I’m here. I’m fine. Then it deepens, because Spencer never stays soft for long once you give him permission. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to misunderstand.
His mouth is warm, familiar, and still somehow new every time. You feel him exhale against you, a quiet sound that sinks into your skin.
When you pull back, he looks at you again and cups your cheek like you’re something precious.
“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” he says.
“I’m okay,” you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m… actually kind of relieved.”
His brow furrows. “Relieved?”
You roll your eyes, because you refuse to be poetic about it. “Yeah. It’s out, and they didn’t—” You falter, just a flicker. “They didn’t look at you like you were making a mistake.”
His expression softens.
“No,” he agrees. “They didn’t. I told you they wouldn’t.”
You nod once. “And you were right. So, I’m good.”
“Good,” he echoes, but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.
Your gaze drops to his mouth again. His eyes follow it, and his breathing changes — subtle, but you know him by heart now.
You smirk and lean in closer until your lips are brushing with every breath. “And hey, now that the team knows, we don’t have to pretend we’re not together every second of the day anymore,” you tease.
His voice goes a little rough. “We still shouldn’t, uh, do anything at work, you know.”
“Obviously,” you say, like you’re offended he even suggested it. “But we’re not at work right now, are we?”
He shudders softly as his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, drawing you closer like he’s been waiting all night to do this without consequence.
“No,” he murmurs. “We’re not.”
You kiss him again, deeper this time. He gives in completely, following your lead with that sweet, earnest hunger that always makes you feel a little wicked and a little adored at the same time.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing differently. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.
“I’m still sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t be,” you say. “It’ll make a good story someday.”
His throat works. His hands tighten on you like he needs the confirmation in his bones.
You press your mouth to his once more, slow and sure, just to make the point stick.
“Case closed,” you murmur against his lips.
Spencer’s smile turns soft and helpless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Mystery solved.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
→ next part
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
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before you started dating, you'd noticed the little hints of his germaphobia; the way he refused to shake hands, how he wouldn't sip from someone else's drink, how he kept his desk meticulously clean.
so, when you started dating, you had assumed spencer would keep to himself for the most part. and whilst you were partly correct, seeing as he wasn't particularly big on pda, you were yet to be introduced to post-case spencer.
as you were only a secretary, you weren't required to go on cases. so whilst spence would jet off to god knows where, you would keep your regular hours behind your desk.
it was the first time since the pair of you started dating that he'd had to go away, and whilst you missed him greatly, you hadn't expected him to miss you so much.
it started small, with texts.
I saw a dianthus plumarius today.
what's that?
oh sorry, garden pinks. they
made me think of you. :-)
well thats very sweet, dr reid :)
he'd message you things like this almost daily. small trinkets he saw that reminded him of you, random facts in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep on the uncomfortable hotel mattress.
you'd found it a little odd, the sudden influx of texts. whilst spencer usually had some random anecdote or fact to tell you, it had never been so much as this week. he even scolded you over text when you replied during your work hours, despite the fact that he spent most of the case texting you underneath the table like a highschooler.
you thought that he was being clingy over text; you weren't prepared for what he'd be like when he got home.
he'd gotten home at about half ten that night, the sound of keys jangling in the lock notifying you of his arrival. perking up from the couch, you scamper over to the door, just in time to see him toe off his shoes and shrug off his coat. it was a warming sight, seeing the spaces that had felt so empty for so long (a week) be refilled.
he notices you then, head tilting towards you like a curious puppy. despite the tiredness in his eyes, you see that familiar flicker of affection ignite. dragging his feet, he closes the short distance between you two, wrapping you up in his arms. "hi, honey."
his voice is so warm, so full of sleepy tenderness, and you feel butterflies fill your stomach, burying your head into his shoulder. his shoulders are tense for just a second, before they deflate with the aid of your hug.
he doesn't leave your side for the rest of the evening.
or the rest of the weekend.
saturday morning, you decide to bake for your bookclub that afternoon. he spends the entirety of it with his arms looped around your waist, head resting on your head the entire time, pressing kisses every two seconds.
when you try to move to the fridge for the eggs, spencer weighs you down. "spence- i can't move."
he flusters a little, blushing as he hesitantly removes his arms from around you. "oh. sorry." he flexes his hand, scratching the back of his neck bashfully.
he's basically a wreck when you have to leave. he's seconds away from begging you to let him come with you, but he has some dignity.
staying home, for that dreadfully long hour, is like hell. he's restless, he cant stay still for a second. he tries to watch doctor who, but he cant seem to pay attention. he tries teaching your cat to do tricks, but juno is uncooperative and he keeps getting frustrated.
so he sits on the couch, bouncing knees, and stares at the door until he sees you walk through.
sunday is a similar affair. you both decide to stay in, and spencer spends it with his head in your lap, or braiding your hair. he even goes to far as to sitting next to the tub whilst you have a bath, reading to you from whatever obscure russian novel he'd reading.
laying in bed that night, with spencer's arms wrapping around you from behind, cheek pressed against you back, you realise. you realise that spencer is just as clingy as you, just as needy for affection, he just needs an opening.
and so you grant him that opening, here and there. you lay your legs over his when sat on the couch, you link your pinky with his on walks, you borrow his sweaters without asking.
these actions, as small as they seem, that you thought only made you anxious, you realise, make him just as nervous too. so you take one for the team, being brave in the small moments to make the concept of big moments possible.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
