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sugar water | s. reid

˗ˋˏ college au masterlist ˎˊ-

summary: spencer looks for you at a party. relationship: spencer reid x popular!fem!reader genre: angst word count: 4.4k tags: title inspired by gigi perez, mature content - MDNI!, reader having sex with another man, spencer being emo, reader is drunk, reader has a hickey, typical college student discussion of sex, reader is cynical about love, spencer is a virgin and Upset about it, spencer and reader argue, slut-shaming a/n: this is based on something i wrote forever ago with my friend ashlyn! her twitter is @/reidpnkm ! she is the sweetest, so please go show her some support if you like the dynamic between spencer and reader :3 she is my biggest inspiration for this fic & future college au fics!!! <3

❝ 𝙄𝙩’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙩, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 ❞

The house is dark, a thick layer of smoke hanging over the thrashing crowd. Spencer grimaces as he squeezes his way past drunk college students, narrowly avoiding burning himself on a lit joint being passed between two young men.

Your phone is pinging from somewhere inside this disgusting fraternity house. It’s not unusual that you would be haunting the party scene on a Friday night; in fact, Spencer would be more worried if your location had been literally anywhere else. Usually, though, you dignify him with a response when he texts you to check in.

Spencer had been working on a paper for his developmental psychology course when he noticed how late it was. The two of you had settled into a routine your first year of school, and he had grown accustomed to receiving your drunken texts and calls on weekends. No matter who you went out with, you always ended up going home with Spencer. Not in that way; rather, in the chivalrous sense that he would walk you home and hold back your hair if you had lost one too many games of beer pong that night.

Yet, the wee hours of the night are approaching, and he hasn’t heard a word from you. Rationally, he knows you’re probably fine. If anything, perhaps your phone died or you forgot to hit send in your drunken haze. Still, the anxiety-riddled portion of his brain had started to panic, convinced that—God forbid—something horrible had happened to you.

So, Spencer found himself tracking your location, since the two of you had shared it with one another when you quickly became best friends during freshman orientation. It’s a feat that Spencer still can’t believe he’d managed; you, the most gorgeous girl he’s ever met, had laughed at one of his dorky icebreaker jokes, and had decidedly adopted him as your favorite person. Him. Lanky, nerdy Spencer, who had never had a true friend before in his life.

Of course, he would be protective of anyone he thought may be in mortal danger. However, he walked especially quickly to the frat house when you were the subject of concern. Perhaps since the moment he met you, Spencer has been nursing an insurmountable crush on you. It’s not just the matter of your ungodly good looks that has him smitten; it’s the kindness you’ve shown him. The love. You treat him like he’s deserving of the whole world. While he doesn’t know what you see in him, he’s grateful for it.

His tall stature allows him to easily scan his surroundings. It’s difficult to see through the smog of nicotine and marijuana hanging in the air, but Spencer’s pretty sure you’re not among the throng of students dancing in the main room. He pushes past a frat douche grinding on a short brunette and heads down the hall.

Thankfully, Spencer has a bit more room to breathe when he reaches the corridor. There’s a few couples making out against the wall, and a series of girls giggling as they link hands and parade toward the kitchen, but you’re still nowhere in sight. Spencer checks your location once more, realizing that your contact image is hovering right atop the blue dot signaling his own position; you must be upstairs, then.

He reaches the end of the hall, white-knuckling the railing as he climbs the dimly-lit stairwell to the second floor. Upstairs, there’s notably fewer people roaming about. There’s an open bathroom door, inside which Spencer can see a group of girls huddled around a toilet, holding back their friend’s hair as she releases the contents of her stomach into the bowl. Spencer winces, reaching for the door handle and marginally pulling the door shut to offer some more privacy to the poor woman.

Turning his attention back to the long hallway before him, he starts knocking on doors and twisting knobs.

“Fuck off, Brandon!” a deep timbre calls from inside one of the rooms. Spencer’s not sure who Brandon is, but he’s certain that he does not want to piss off whoever’s in that bedroom. He continues down the hallway, trying every door until he reaches one that’s unlocked.

Spencer starts to call your name as he leans his shoulder into the door, pushing it open. The word dies in his throat, however, when he gets a good look at the interior of the room.

He barely absorbs any details of the bedroom; they’re unimportant, save the bed—and who’s on top of it.

Spencer’s heart lurches in his throat, and his face instantly heats with humiliation when he realizes he’s walked in on the girl he’s been obsessed with for months, for an entire year, fucking another guy.

Spencer barely glimpses the scene before he’s instinctively slamming the door shut, but he’s seen enough; that was definitely you, sprawled out on some frat asshole’s bed, arching your bare breasts against him and moaning his name. Spencer feels like a shameful little pervert for even thinking it, but goddamn if he hadn’t fantasized about his name spilling from your lips in that breathy kind of sigh.

He debates collapsing against the door, but decides that it would be even more perverted if he sat here and inadvertently listened to some random dude pounding into you. So, he takes a few shaky steps back in the direction of the hall bathroom. Perhaps he will join the girl on the tile floor and ask one of her friends to pat his back while he hurls, too.

His breaths are coming in sharp inhales, and he thinks there might be tears pricking his eyes, but it’s too dark to tell if his vision is truly blurring. He feels ridiculous, heart breaking over you when you had never given him any indication that you may be interested in him as more than a friend. Why would you, anyway? You’re popular and could have anyone you want, and by the looks of it, it’s obvious that Spencer isn’t at the top of that list. He might not even be on the damn paper.

Spencer’s taking the first stiff step down the stairs when a door opens behind him. Foolishly, he expects it to be you, running after him and begging for his forgiveness. Begging for him. As a matter of fact, it is you that stumbles into the hall, but you don’t exactly look prepared to grovel. Spencer watches you weave down the corridor, taking unsteady steps toward him. You’re tugging at the collar of your shirt, adjusting it so that it properly covers your bra.

He can still see a hint of black lace peeking past the fabric. Foolishly, Spencer allows a zing of excitement to climb up his spine, despite the crushing weight of knowing he’ll never be the one to remove that lace. He’ll only ever see your body in his nightmares now, while he’s being haunted by the reality of not being the man you choose.

Spencer’s lost in self-deprecating thought and hardly registers when you plant your feet in front of him, gazing at him with a sweet look of adoration. Friendly adoration, he reminds himself.

“Spence!” you exclaim in that familiar, adorable lilt. If you’re ashamed at all to have been interrupted, you don’t let it show. He wonders just how much you’ve imbibed tonight to be completely nonplussed by your best friend seeing you naked.

“You… didn’t text,” Spencer mutters, by way of greeting. In the dimly-lit corridor, your eyes sparkle like stars at twilight. Even silhouetted only by the light of the room you’ve just left, Spencer notes the faint pink dusting your cheeks, and his stomach churns uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I was…” You gesture vaguely over your shoulder, giggling to yourself at the memory. Despite your absurd blood-alcohol level, you recognize that Spencer isn’t sharing in your humor. He’s just staring at you with a cold—and slightly devastated—expression. You clear your throat and smile nervously, offering a pitiful, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Spencer replies flatly. His eyes wander the hall, though there’s really nothing to see besides you. Still, he’d much rather stare off into the uninteresting void over your shoulder than eye the small, deep reddish-purple mark that’s blooming on your collarbone.

“You didn’t have to walk all the way over here just to check on me,” you say. Spencer is tempted to point out that he did, in fact, have to check on you, because that’s what good friends do when they haven’t heard from someone. He’s dangerously close to insulting you, to venturing into the territory in which he calls you a bad friend for leaving him to worry about you, but he bites his tongue.

“I didn’t mind,” he replies instead. His voice catches, and any hope of casually moving past what’s just happened dies with the hitch of his breath.

“You okay?” you ask, cocking your head and assessing him with a beautiful, drunken gaze. If Spencer thought he had a real chance with you, he might be brave enough to just tell you why he’s so upset, but…

Spencer is cognizant of the fact that he’s a coward.

“Just… stressed,” he lies, gritting his teeth as the fib slips past his lips. While that statement isn’t inherently untrue, he follows it up by saying, “I have this paper due…”, effectively burying his feelings on the matter of your love life. Had you been sober, you would’ve seen through his unbelievably shitty facade. Spencer’s unsure if it would be better to have you call him out on his bullshit, or if he’s grateful to be let off the hook.

“Aw,” you coo sympathetically. Turning him toward the stairs and throwing an arm around his lean shoulders, you decree, “Let’s go home, then!”

Before tonight, Spencer would’ve reveled in the feeling of your body pressed against his side. He would’ve welcomed the touch, half-carrying you back to your room. However, with the knowledge that you’ve just been touching someone else in more intimate ways than a weak side-hug, he chastises himself for relishing the proximity. He shrugs off your arm, stepping away from you. He knows what he’s just done is petulant, but in your stupor, you don’t seem to interpret his action as anything malicious.

“No, uh, you can… get back to it,” he grinds out, swallowing thickly. The mere suggestion that he’d be okay with you continuing your hookup leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he reminds himself that you’ve never seen him as more than a friend. A good friend would be happy for your booming sex life… right? If all you want from him is something amiable, then perhaps he can accept that.

Emphasis on “perhaps”.

“I’m not just gonna leave you,” you declare with an emphatic shake of your head. “You walked all the way here.”

Recalling that you’re just as stubborn as he is, Spencer knows there’s no point in continuing to argue with you. Plus, he’s secretly incredibly satisfied that you’re choosing him over Frat Douche, though he keeps that tidbit to himself.

“Fine,” he grunts, the monosyllable dripping with faux reluctance. Without another word, Spencer stomps down the steps, weaving through the crowd. The air that had been thick before now threatens to suffocate him entirely as he makes his way back to the front door. It’s only when he reaches the front porch that he stops to make sure you’ve been following him; he’s far too agitated to waste any more time in the overstimulating environment of that house.

A few seconds after him, you emerge from the throes of dancing bodies, stumbling out onto the porch. It’s not even a particularly chilly night, but you shudder once you’ve parted from the crowd. Spencer’s tempted to roll his eyes at your dramatics, but even with his irritation bubbling dangerously close to the surface, he shrugs off his hoodie and offers it to you.

Wordlessly, you accept the sweatshirt from his outstretched hand, tugging it on and flipping up the hood. You sigh contently, as if you’ve inhaled for the sole purpose of enjoying how Spencer’s cologne clings to his hoodie. He looks down at you and finds the sight utterly adorable, despite how badly you’ve hurt him. He tries to remind himself that it’s not your fault that he’s so hopefully enamored with you. He’s the damn fool who won’t do anything about it.

The two of you cut across the lawn, aiming back toward campus. The yard is littered with crushed beer cans and crumpled streamers, and Spencer kicks at a can with the rubber toe of his Converse. It skids across the damp grass, doing nothing to alleviate his anger. Maybe screaming would help? He’s not going to attempt that in front of you, though; he’ll save it for his pillow.

“Can we take the shortcut?” you ask excitedly, slicing through the relative silence of the outdoors. There’s a few students wandering the streets, but most are committed to stay out far later than this or have already returned to the dorms. Spencer cuts an unimpressed glare in your direction.

“You are way too drunk for the shortcut,” he warns.

“Nuh-uh!” you pout. “I barely had a couple shots.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Spencer claims with a roll of his eyes. He had seen the way you stumbled after him upstairs; even now, you’re crossing the lawn with all the grace of a newborn deer.

“No,” you insist simply. Spencer just shakes his head incredulously in response. The shortcut back to student housing requires a trek through the woods; Spencer is pretty sure you’re doomed to twist your ankle on a rock, but maybe watching you fall on your ass would remedy the situation. Frankly, above all, Spencer kind of wants to be rid of you so he can go throw himself a pity party. The shorter the walk, the better, despite his usual tendency to milk his time with you. So, he turns off the road and ducks into the forest.

Spencer retrieves his phone from his jeans pocket and illuminates the path in front of you. You’re a few steps behind him, leaves crunching beneath your shoes as you fight to keep up with his long strides. Spencer trudges on, occasionally looking over his shoulder to ensure you’re not going to hurl down his back or have some other medical emergency.

Eventually, the tense silence becomes too much for him to bear. Spencer’s caught up in a torrent of self-deprecating thoughts, and he knows he’ll regret it if he doesn’t just ask you about tonight. With any luck, you’ll admit to having made a huge mistake, and your dynamic can return to normal, with him continuing to pine hopelessly after you. On the other hand, if this is just the first in a long line of decisions that make Spencer immensely jealous, he should probably prepare for that.

“Did, uh… that guy,” Spencer stammers, wondering if he’s making the right decision by asking. He turns over his shoulder, the movement angling the flashlight so that it hits your face. As you wince and shield your eyes, he grumbles, “Was he any good?”

For a split-second, Spencer cringes at himself. He imagines your hands dropping away from your face, a hostile glint in your eyes as you snap at him. He wouldn’t be all that surprised if you told him to fuck off and mind his own business. Then, he would have his answer; defending Frat Douche must mean you like Frat Douche.

Instead, you snort, and Spencer’s heart soars at the normalcy in the sound. You burst into uncontrollable giggles, like the idea of Frat Douche being a good lay is so preposterous, that Spencer must be an idiot to have asked you this. Your reaction is like a balm on his weary soul, especially when you accentuate a loud humored sigh with, “Oh, my dream man.”

“So he’s forgotten, then?” Spencer questions, returning his focus to the hill ahead of him in a feeble attempt to appear nonchalant. He’s not entirely sure what he hopes to gain from this conversation; even if you aren’t into that guy, it doesn’t mean you’re into him. Nor does it mean that Spencer would suddenly have the guts to do anything about his painfully massive crush on you.

“No, his sloppy kissing is haunting me,” you reply sarcastically. Spencer notes the rustle of fabric behind him as you, presumably, shudder in horror. He smirks to himself, thoroughly amused by this turn of events.

“That bad, huh?” he asks with exaggerated sympathy. You don’t seem to notice the tinge of satisfaction in his tone, prattling on about your profound distaste for the guy.

“I’m sure some girls like having a whole tongue in their mouth, but I do not,” you declare. As he steps into a clearing in the woods, Spencer decides to wait for you to catch up. He’s finally accepting that he may have overreacted to what he had seen, and that there’s a good chance your friendship isn’t actually in tatters.

The moonlight beams through the outskirt of trees, blanketing the clearing in cool light. Spencer steals a sidelong glance at you as you reach his side, admiring how the clear sky paints your features in a delicate wash of blue and white. You look absolutely breathtaking, even with your mussed hair and arms swallowed by the too-long sleeves of his sweatshirt.

Of course, Spencer has to ruin the serene beauty of the moment by making a raunchy joke.

“Right, because it was just his tongue in your mouth,” he teases. The joke was low-hanging fruit, sure, but he’s also curious exactly what went down with Frat Douche. The two of you never really talk about things like sex, given Spencer’s status of being a virgin and also hopelessly in love with you. He surprises himself by prompting you to share more, since he’s usually the one to shy away from any intimacy conversations. You gape at him, slapping his upper arm in a playful manner.

“Oh my God, Spence!” you chide. Prancing ahead of him, you announce, “I am not having this conversation.”

You look ridiculous, attempting to sashay through the clearing while drunk off your ass. An amused chuckle works its way up Spencer’s throat—the first true sign of his improving mood.

“Afraid to use the word ‘cock’?” he calls after you. You gasp, as if you’ve been scandalized by his language. But then you call back:

“I prefer ‘dick’, like how you’re being right now.”

Spencer snorts, following you across the dewy grass. When he starts to gain on you, he retorts, “At least I can say it and not choke on the word.”

You pause mid-skip, facing him with a knowing glint in your eyes. “That’s a double entendre, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” he concedes, continuing back into the woods with his phone in his outstretched hand. You keep pace with him now, scurrying along beside him due to your shorter stature.

“I will have you know that I did not suck his dick,” you say defensively. For some reason, this admission comforts Spencer. He can’t delude himself into believing you didn’t have sex with the guy—he did catch you in the act, after all. Maybe, though, you hadn’t been into him very much at all? It would appear, in hindsight at least, that you don’t think that highly of his kissing skills. That, combined with what Spencer saw, makes him wonder if maybe the guy was just a selfish prick who skipped all foreplay and went straight to fucking you.

He tries not to think about how he would do things differently, if given the chance.

“Well, aren’t you just a little angel?” he mock praises.

“Ding,” you say as you draw a halo above your head with your pointer finger. Spencer smiles, shaking his head at your antics.

“I don’t get it,” he huffs under his breath.

“Get what?” you ask. The two of you have reached the street that leads up to the dorms; Spencer’s room is part of the solo occupancy building only a little way up the hill, but you live closer to the top. He’s used to walking you all the way to your room, and tonight will be no exception, despite his earlier emotions. You hop off the curb and start trudging up the road.

“Any guy with half a brain would kill to sweep you off your feet, but you choose to hook up with some asshole who probably only wants a one-night stand,” Spencer clarifies, watching you sleepily drag your feet. “Don’t you want more for yourself?”

“Eh, love is just some fairytale bullshit,” you reply, not taking much time to cultivate your response. “If I start dreaming about flowers and handwritten letters and Prince Charming, I’ll only be setting myself up for disappointment.”

Spencer would love to buy you flowers and write you letters, but that point gets caught in his throat.

“And being some frat bro’s flavor of the week isn’t disappointing?” he says instead. It’s only when the words have hit his ears that he realizes how insulting they sound. It’s not that Spencer’s trying to shame you for what you’ve done; you’re an adult, it’s your decision…

He just wishes you would make a different one. Namely, one that includes him.

“It precisely meets my expectations, actually,” you reply, voice sounding a bit stiff. Spencer realizes too late that you’ve taken offense to his words, though he’s a bit confused why you would. He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true; frat party hookups are notorious for not leading to healthy relationships. That’s kind of the whole point. Why would you be hurt by him pointing this out? It’s nothing you don’t already know.

“Because the bar is in hell,” he says, trying to sound teasing but coming off more chastising. “You need higher standards.”

“My standards are fine,” you counter, brow furrowing. It’s clear that the two of you have reached an impasse, one where Spencer can choose to appease you or to be quite frank with his opinion on your choices.

For better or worse, he chooses the latter.

“Clearly not.”

You whirl to face him, eyes narrowing. “Please spare me the ‘holier than thou’ bullshit. I didn’t—”

“Excuse me?” he splutters. There’s only one thing to which you could possibly be referring, and it’s something you’ve never dared needle at before.

“Did that sound like the end of my sentence? Let me finish. I didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t talk to me like I’m some kind of slut, okay? Just because you haven’t had sex before—”

“Speaking of supremacy,” he cuts in under his breath, anger starting to simmer somewhere deep in his bones. You’re both stubborn as mules, and Spencer refuses to admit that he’s set himself up for this argument. Of course you would resort to mentioning his virginity, and to throw it at him like it’s something to be embarrassed of. Stupid. It was stupid of him to think that the two of you could jest about your lousy hookup without it somehow turning into a contest about who’s more lovable, a contest which you will always easily win. Because that’s what this all boils down to, isn’t it? The entire fucking campus looks at you like you hung the moon, but all Spencer will ever be—to you, and everyone else—is your loser friend.

“—doesn’t mean that anyone who has is somehow dirty or tainted or wrong,” you finish. Spencer opens his mouth to quickly offer a rebuttal, but you continue your jab by declaring, “And no, I actually don’t think that having had sex makes me ‘supreme’ in any way. I’m not responsible for your inferiority complex.”

Spencer blanches. You’ve always understood him easier than anyone else he had ever met, and it had always seemed like a blessing. Yet, as you stand before him and hurl his insecurities back in his face like he somehow deserves to hear them, his heart cracks open. You’re not even wrong; he does have an inferiority complex. That’s what this whole night has been about. He had foolishly hoped that you would subvert his expectations, but instead, you’ve turned out to be just like everyone else.

Mean.

Spencer’s never been one to stand up for himself, and he’s always had regrets about that. His cowardice has ruled him for far too long. Now, as his fingers dig into his palms and he balls his hands into tight fists, he retaliates. Like a cornered animal, he bares his teeth by saying the most hurtful thing he can think of.

“Well, hey. If your giant ego isn’t keeping you enough company, I’m sure the meth addict who sleeps in the bus stop would love to keep your bed warm tonight. You know, since you’ll sleep with anyone who asks.”

He spits the words like venom, expecting you to recoil. The words taste like ash as they leave his mouth, and he instantly realizes he’s making a terrible mistake. He expects you to recoil, to stifle a sob at the sting of his words. That would make things easier; he could hold you as you cried, whisper apologies into your soft hair and soothe the hurt you’ve both felt tonight.

Yet, things are never easy. As stubborn as ever, you scoff, “Yeah, okay. Do you need help getting the stick out of your ass, or can you reach it on your own?”

Feeling no better than his high school bullies, Spencer sighs. He feels weak and small and wants to beg for your forgiveness, but he forged this wall between the two of you, so he’s going to have to figure out how to demolish it. Evidently, his work will not start tonight; you’re already shrugging off his hoodie and tossing it to him, storming up the hill before he can stop you.

Spencer stands like a statue for a minute, watching you walk away. He should call after you, he knows he should, but something holds him back. Cowardice.

He slips his arms back into his sweatshirt sleeves, cocooning himself in your scent as he hopes it won’t be the last time he smells it.

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