AFTERSHOCK ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x liaison!reader
summary: you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — sitting outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.
genre: smut, hurt/comfort | w/c: 3.9k
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader works for the BAU, friends/coworkers to lovers, story starts after a hostage situation/being held at knifepoint, mentions of bruises and cuts and blood and a gunshot but no major injury (to reader), fingering, p in v, spencer asks for consent like a million times #king, kind of open ending
a/n: omg my first request 🥲 i made reader an assistant media liaison bc i liked the idea of her having minimal field experience + working closely with JJ. i was envisioning like young, s2 spencer here (specifically glasses reid when he goes to check on Elle in her hotel room hence the header but hey, imagine what you wish). hope you enjoy, kind anon! 🦦
The lights were too bright.
Not in a metaphorical way, but literally. Overhead fluorescents buzzed in the corner of your vision as a paramedic waved a penlight in your eyes, asking questions you could barely process.
“You know your name?” he asked. You nodded. Or at least you thought you did. Maybe you answered him verbally — you couldn’t say for sure. “Good. You’re gonna be okay. Just some bruising and minor cuts. We’ll get your neck bandaged up then you’ll be good to go.”
This time, you heard yourself thank him, but your voice didn’t sound like your own.
In the moments after the standoff ended, everything had blurred. You remembered the moment you realized he was about to slit your throat — and how you kept your voice level anyway, how you kept talking to distract him until the team broke through the front. You remembered Hotch yelling your name, and Derek rushing forward as the unsub yanked you tighter against him — right before the single shot that brought him down rang through the air. You remembered insisting you were fine. “It’s just a few scratches.” But your hands had trembled when you signed the incident report, and your voice had cracked as you hugged JJ and tried to tell her you were okay. You remembered blood on your blouse, though it hadn’t been yours. And then you thought of Spencer.
Spencer.
You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.
Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.
So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.
His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.
You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.
“Hi,” you said softly.
His throat bobbed. “Hi.”
You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.
“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”
“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.
“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”
He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.
—
You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.
He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.
You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.
But still, there were moments.
The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.
It was nothing. It was everything.
And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.
Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.
—
You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.
“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”
His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”
You nodded, your chest aching.
The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.
“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.
“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.
“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”
You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”
He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”
You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”
So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.
When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.
You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.
“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.
“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.
He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.
“Can we go sit down?”
He stood immediately. “Of course.”
Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.
It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.
“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”
Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”
He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.
“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”
“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”
The silence stretched.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.
His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.
You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”
He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.
“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”
He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.
“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”
Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.
“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”
The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.
You stared at him.
For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.
But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.
Because of course you’d thought about it.
Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.
But it was there. It had always been there.
And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.
“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”
His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.
“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.
His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.
“Really?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”
“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”
You smiled. “Try anyway.”
“Can I kiss you?”
You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”
He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.
His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.
He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.
The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.
But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”
You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”
Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”
You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”
His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.
“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.
You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.
He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.
When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.
You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”
He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.
And still, he didn’t rush.
He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.
He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.
Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:
“Still okay.”
“Still yes.”
“Still want you.”
His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.
When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.
Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.
His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.
He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”
You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”
His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”
“Keep going,” you whispered.
His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.
“That good?” he whispered.
You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”
He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.
“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”
You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”
He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”
You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.
“Spencer,” you breathed.
And he knew what you meant.
He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.
One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.
“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”
Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.
“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”
His breath hitched — and only then did he move.
Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.
You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.
You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.
He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.
A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.
“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”
You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”
“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”
You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.
“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”
His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”
You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”
He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”
You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”
He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.
“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”
You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.
When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.
Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.
Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”
He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.
—
Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.
Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.
You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.
ᝰ.ᐟ
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