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Apr 3

post-graduate

Follow up to exit counseling already my sweet boy

Fluff, suggestive but no explicit smut

my baby boyyyyy

idk if the last one had a gendered reader and I think I tried my best to not specifically gender it here, but might point to more fem reader (I write for me and only me if it happens to fit you that's great if it doesn't soz sucks to suck(kidding)) p.s. there is a line that points very much to reader being a woman I literally just realized this two weeks later

He hasn't dialed your number in years, your contact at the bottom of the list, hidden from view. He feels the stabbing bite of guilt every time he thinks of you. How he failed to be there to celebrate you like you had for him, how he has yet to grant your wish to hear him all grown up.

Years since Spencer had to leave you, about to sob, standing at the edge of the sidewalk, waving at the cab that carried him to the airport. Years and some change since the last time you'd hung out without worried talks about the future. Years and a few months since he was perfectly carefree for a brief blip in time.

Your phone rings. "Spencer Reid (college)", as if you'd forget him. You let it ring. And ring. And ring again. Finally, you pick up.

"Hello," you ask tentatively, sure this is a mistaken call. But then he says your name with hope and memory lacing every letter. "Hi," you repeat, softer, sadder. 'Why are you calling?"

"I had to," his voice is a couple notes deeper than you remember, but every other quality is the same, "I never called to congratulate you on graduating."

"That was years ago, now," you laugh, but it doesn't feel funny, it never felt okay, even.

"Yeah... they, uh, keep me busy here." He shouldn't-- can't blame his work for neglecting you for so long, but he will, so as to not reckon with why he took so much time. "I'm sorry," he mutters, barely audible over your speaker.

"It's okay, you're- you're out saving the world, right?" You pick at your clothing, and try to not sound so nervous, so disappointed, so longing. He chuckles and scratches his neck.

"I guess you could say it like that." Your phones fall silent for a few moments, which would make you wonder if the call dropped, if you weren't also speechless. "What are you up to?" You wish you didn't smile slightly at the stammered question.

"I still live by the university, I got a pretty decent job, I like it, at least."

"Good for you," he grates, honestly. "Do- Do you still play?" You burst into laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, I love having fun, how about you? With your busy, busy schedule?" You don't mean for the question to sound so conniving, and it's not, really, not in your tone, or necessarily the words themselves, but it bites him with guilt anyway.

"I have hobbies, yeah," he stilts. You hum on the memories of teaching him to let loose.

"You still do magic?" He confirms with an embarrassed 'yup'. "And you still watch Star Trek when you're hungover?" He can't watch it without thinking of you. So he does anyway.

"Yeah," he says fondly. "I got really into chess, and cards, more than just doing tricks with them, and I still read... A lot."

"Haven't you read every book ever written by now?"

"No," he chirps like it was a real question, "Just around 12,54...1?" You curl into a smile and sink into your couch.

"Do you..." you hate yourself for the question you're about to ask, either way the answer will eat at you, "have someone to remind you to relax sometimes?"

He doesn't. Just the memory of you and how you pulled him out of his dorm whenever he became too stressed about graduating.

You don't either.

"Do you ever get a day off?" He wavers to find an answer.

"Sometimes? I have a- a regular 9-5 schedule when we don't have an active case, but I can kind of get a call at any moment telling me to pack up and get to the tarmac."

You hum, "Must be hard to relax." He sighs a confirmation. "Do you ever miss it? Just being in school with way less obligations? I miss getting to sleep in until my afternoon class." He recalls the time he broke the rules, and you indeed spent all day in bed until you had to tear yourself away. It was the only time he ever missed a class, or slept in.

"I miss you."

Your breath catches in your diaphragm, your heart keeps beating, only barely.

"You were really good at calming me down." You can hear his hand adjusting around his phone.

"You're probably the only reason I didn't drop out in sophomore year," you say, trying to sound happy or playful. The air falls silent again. "Why didn't you call me?" He'd really hoped he'd gotten out of that question earlier. "You didn't call when you landed, or when you got to your new place, you didn't call when I graduated." His jaw twitches as he tries to conjure up an answer, even a bad one. "I said I loved you, and you didn't-- you didn't even call me."

"I'm sorry," he mumbles again.

"I just... wanna know why?" You aren't even upset anymore. It used to turn your stomach every time you thought of him, every time you considered just calling him yourself, but you didn't want to interrupt his new life at the FBI. Surely he always had to be doing more important things than talking to the random person he'd spent months with at the tail end of his academic years.

"I... I think I was scared," he confesses.

"Of what? Little ol' me?" You try to bring some light back in, but it doesn't work. Not while he's contemplative and introspecting.

"No-- of what you said." You sink again.

"I'm sorry."

He fires, "No! There was nothing wrong with it! O- or with you saying it, it just-- you know how things have gone for me, I got scared."

"You were always so scared of everything," your voice is a mix of pity, empathy, recollection, humour. He hums in the same tone.

"I'm not a germaphobe anymore! I grew out of that."

"Oh, thank God!" You groan with a guttural laugh. "You wouldn't touch my napkin to throw it away for me but then you'd kiss me five minutes later, it was so weird."

"Hey," he simpers, and then takes a breath. "Y'know I'm also not a... A virgin, anymore." A breath shoots out of your lungs.

"Wow," you marvel.

"Is that really that shocking to you?" His voice goes up a few octaves. Just like it used to sound.

"I mean..." you hiss, "We were together for almost a year, you never let me touch you anywhere below your shoulders, I kind of thought you just weren't into sex, my friend thought you might be gay." He groans and clenches his eyes shut.

"No! I- I thought about it a lot, trust me! I just couldn't do anything about it," he whines. The same way he used to when you dragged him away from his textbooks.

"Do you get vacation days?"

"Sometimes, why?" He says it with suspicion in his voice.

"Because I miss you."

The second he steps into your apartment, luggage still in hand, he stops to gape at your decoration.

"It's so... you." You giggle and take his bag to set it on the floor.

"I always hated the 'no thumbtacks' rule." He memorizes every piece of furniture, every picture on the walls, every book and DVD on your shelf, as if he has to put in effort to remember anything. "You sure you're okay on the couch? It was really cheap, and second-hand." He nods, smoothing out the blankets you'd already set for him.

"Remember when we shared that shitty twin bed? I'm fine on a couch." He sits down, and even motions for you to sit beside him.

"I just know college Spencer wouldn't touch a used couch," you shrug.

"Yeah, but current Spencer has slept in a lot of motel beds, at least I know your couch won't have bedbugs."

Your eyes run over the current Spencer. His hair is longer, wavier, his under eye circles are deeper, he's finally able to grow a layer of stubble, his cable-knit sweater covers his slightly, ever so slightly, bulkier frame. He's examining you right back. Both of you wear a little smile, which cause lines that had deepened in the few years.

"Did you ever learn how to make friends?" He laughs at the foward question.

"No, not- not really, I'd say I'm friends with my coworkers, but we kind of have to be."

"You guys do dangerous stuff?" Your elbow props up on the back of the couch, your legs curl into yourself.

"Yeah," he hesitates and draws out the word. You decide not to pry.

Spencer's head falls back, eyes closed, full mouth curling into a smile. The floor is sticky with decades of spilled soda, the table wobbles, the chairs creak. Across the street, the arcade sits dark, empty.

"I missed this," he nods. "We have this older Italian guy on the team, and he always goes out of his own pocket to get the best pizza in Virginia, but there's something about a pool of grease, and cheese that just drips off." He smiles into a second bite. "Sucks about the arcade, though."

"Yeah, they were already struggling when we went, it was really a matter of time," you shrug.

"Sure, but it's sad! Kids won't get the experience of the lights and the joysticks and the real buttons! Everything's on a screen now, it's so intangible." You laugh at the combination of his rant, and the real, severe pout on his lips, coated in sauce and cheese grease. Even covered in food, you reminisce on how soft they used to be.

In broad daylight, you kick into the air, on cushier seats over a ground now coated in rubber. Spencer laughs on the next swing, trying to push higher than you, but he's still not so skilled on a swingset. You try not to make a sound as you re-memorize his laugh.

Again, just like all that time ago, you get tired, and slow down. You look at the renovated play area which is almost entirely plastic now. You look at the domed structure of elastic to climb through, none of the new trees are big enough to hold a cat, let alone a child.

Spencer watches you. The remnant of a smile in your cheeks, your wandering eyes, the way your hair sits against your neck. He examines your lips. Slowly, he reaches forward, trying not to catch your attention before he can pull you in.

A soft, slow kiss, better than you remembered it. His lips just as soft as they used to be, with a few more creases, and evident experience. His thumb and forefinger frame your jaw, feather-light touch.

"Mommy they're kissing!" You break away to find yourself at the end of a child's pointing finger, like you're a zoo exhibit. Spencer turns burgundy.

Then, a disinterested mother's voice, "People do that, play with something else."

You reach your apartment, silence taking the majority of the ride home. The door shuts softly behind you, and Spencer heads for the couch. You lean through the archway into your living room.

"Star Trek?" The phrase makes him light up in an instant.

You sit on opposite ends of your couch, him curled with the pillow you left, you hunched over the armrest. Kirk is exploring another new planet, full of life and rich history. But Spencer strangely isn't filling you in with fun facts about the setting, or the characters, or the actors, or the boom operator for the episode. When you look over, his eyes are already on you, arms crossed, careless of whatever is happening in the show.

"What?" You fight a smile. He just shrugs. "You're staring." You're losing the fight. His lips kilter into somewhat of a smirk, before his arms unravel to push closer to you. His hands sit on his knees like an open invitation. You accept. You scooch closer until your leg bumps into his. "What?" He keeps staring.

"I missed you." His gaze drowns out the dialogue from your television. It feels like he's never looked at you, examined and studied you like this before.

"I did too." His hand hops to sit on your knee. He pushes forth a closed smile that makes you giggle. Gleeful. Your fingers knot into his. You go to blink, and his lips are back on yours before your eyes can reopen.

"I never forgot about you," he states, "I thought about you a lot." He squeezes your hand. "I always wanted to meet you again, even right after I left." Your heart burns with the knowledge that he never reached out sooner, but your lips burn from the touch of his.

You sigh, "it's okay."

With another slow, deep, saccharine kiss, he mumbles, "It is now."

It didn't lead anywhere. Just two people kissing on a couch until you left with the secret small hope that he'd follow you to bed. When you woke the next morning, you came out to see him deep asleep, tucked in your blankets, face squished into your pillow, with peacefully parted lips and a sleepy pink hue in his cheeks.

You remember how he always liked his coffee; mixed with roughly 19 times the daily recommended 37 grams of sugar.

He wakes to the syrupy smell of a mug being wafted over to him, and like a cartoon character on a wave of scent, he rises to take it from you. He smiles into a yawn with his first sip.

"Your coffee order hasn't changed, right?" His eyes flutter slowly, adjusting to the light peering in from below your curtains.

"I probably take it even sweeter now." His nasal voice is stuck deep in his chest, deeper than the sound of even his sleepiest, most studious voice when you first knew him. When his face scrunches up to rid itself of the sleep, a few extra creases pop up than what used to be there.

"What do we have left to reminisce on? Or what else is there to learn about you?" You're still a slightly blurry form is his vision, sitting on your own coffee table just to be facing him. And there's a thousand things he could tell you, but he can't ruin your fun with a serious talk first thing in the morning. His lip tilts.

"I don't know." You glance at the scars in his arm and accept that that'll take time. Your eyes wander up to the paintings on your wall.

"Wanna make out again?" He chokes on his coffee, and his sleepy, rosy hue turns to rust. The word 'no' refuses to leave his lips. It hardly survives as a thought.

You curl into each other like snakes, with arms coiling around the other's body, and your lips snap together magnetically. You gasp when his hands wrap around your waist, something he'd never done before. He pulls you as close as possible, enough to make the atoms in your clothes fuse. His kiss has become encompassing, deep, needy, no longer the boy terrified of intimacy and germs that you knew. His hands are different in all the same ways.

"Spencer," you sigh a bated whisper against him, his hands tighten, his legs shift. He hums a question mark, trying hard to resist interrupting whatever you'll say with more kisses. "You said you'd done this before, right?" He knows immediately what you're talking about. "Prove it?" What was supposed to be a playful demand comes out more of a desperate question. Without a word, and with much more grace than you remember, you're waltzed down the hallway and into your own bedroom.

He stops at the door to admire the room; the lamp on your nightstand, the mirror in the corner, the rug beneath your bed, every picture pinned to the wall, your framed degree that sits between them, and in the center of your bed and all your pillows, the neon pink teddy bear he'd won you one night at the arcade.

He swings back to lock your lips together and cup your face in his heating hands. With clumsy steps, you make it to the bed to forget about your feet and keeping your knees from giving way. His fingers dip under your shirt, another place they'd never been.

He shudders, 'I had so many dreams about this, I couldn't even do anything about that, either, 'cause the walls were so thin in those dorms." He still refers to the student housing with such contempt.

"Really?" You laugh. "You didn't masturbate the entire time you were in college?" He sighs.

"Not the entire time, sometimes I'd do it in the shower, but then I'd think about how many other guys did that there, I could rarely finish." His hands pause for his explanation. "But I could get back into it sometimes by thinking of you, especially after you kissed me, that first time." A prideful smile takes you over.

"And here I thought you just didn't want it." His head shakes into another kiss.

"I always wanted you, so so bad, I was so scared I'd say something or- or do something, and make you uncomfortable or you wouldn't want to." He sounds the same flustered now as he always did.

"If you'd let me know, I would've jumped you in the middle of the courtyard." His eyes flicker with a hunger you've never seen before, in anyone.

"Then we've got lost time to make up." He crashes back into you like a trainwreck, thousands of pounds of force and smoking charcoal heat. His palms imprint over your ribs, hesitating before they reach your chest. You grip his elbows to push him there. His lips pause while his hands massage you, soft, slow, like studying them the way he's studied everything about you.

He's more than you ever imagined in college, or in your sleepless nights since his graduation. His fingers are agile, if nervous, pent with energy that's bubbled since he met you. The way his brows curled in pleasure and the soft murmurs from his relaxed lips makes you shake. It's shocking.

The way he nestles into you afterward isn't surprising in the least. His fingers stay tracing over your skin with his head tucked in your shoulder, gentle breaths fanning over you.

"I wish I'd made the move on you back then." You smile at the thought of him, baby-faced and petrified, naked in front of you. "Y'know, this was the first time I've ever seen you shirtless," you realize. It's not the first time he saw you without a top, just the first time without anything else-- you stole a shirt from him that one night he let you sneak in. It's still somewhere in your closet.

"I still don't- love being nude," he fries. "It's just kind of necessary-- for this." You pet him and his puppy-soft hair.

"I hope you can grow out of that, too," you mumble, "you have a nice body." His cheek heats your shoulder.

Spencer sits in front of you, shuffling the deck of cards that's sat in your junk drawer since you moved in.

"Okay." He fans the cards out. "Pick one." Your gaze is stuck on his eager eyes and bitten back smile as you pull a random card out. "Memorize it and put it back." He opens a spot in the middle of the deck. You stare at the card for a moment, trying not to let him distract you from your task. When you slide the card back, he reshuffles them, thoroughly. "Alright," he mutters, and picks out a card. "Is this your card?" He holds it up. You grimace.

"No... did you get a little rusty?" His brows scrunch and he turns it back to inspect it.

"Maybe, let me try--" He gives the card a quick shake, before holding it back up to you.

"...Shut up!" You laugh and take it from him. When you look back up, his eyes are excited again and he's breaking bright. "You got even better," you chuckle. He tucks the deck back into the box.

"I... I still don't get out much, and we get a lot of downtime in the motels, or on the jet, or in the office between cases, I kind of only go on the Internet for research and learning new tricks." Your head drops to the side to admire him. Even with the stubble and the longer waves and the scars and the time at the sides of his eyes, he's still the geek you fell for. Because you really did fall for him. Which is why it hurt so bad when he didn't reciprocate when you laid it out for him.

"Did you love me?" You squint at his frozen movements.

"What do you mean?" He mutters almost rhetorically.

"Spencer, you know what I'm talking about." With his face still tilted downward, he glances back at you.

"Ma-- I don't know."

"I mean, you let me sleep in your bed, unless you let everyone you studied with do that."

He laughs, "No!" You let silence take your place in the conversation until he looks at you again. "I guess--maybe I-- I had never felt that for anyone else," he finishes in half a breath. You smile.

"I think I still do." His eyes avert again.

As you stand, phone to your ear, with your favorite Chinese restaurant, Spencer's starts to ring. He mumbles an apology and excuses himself to the hall. When he comes back, and you've finished placing your dinner order, his face is full of regret.

"Something wrong?" His lips purse and he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

"That was Ho-- my... boss, they have a case they've been working for a few days, but-- he told me to catch the next flight back, they need me, I guess." Your entire being drops. The memory of watching him leave for the airport, watching him leave you behind entirely. "I need to go," he whispers. His sorrowful eyes run over you. "Could I borrow your laptop to find a ticket?"

You stand against the archway into your living room, watching his fingers swipe at the track pad. His clicks are slightly aggressive, just as frustrated as you are, though your clouded mind can't see it. When he finishes, he gets up, while your eyes are stuck on the floor so you don't have to look at him. Suddenly, you're wrapped into him, toes almost off of the floor.

"The flight's in a couple hours, I won't be able to stay for dinner, I- I'm sorry." You melt against him. You return the hug.

"You'll call this time, right?"

His hands tangle in your hair, "Of course." His eyes clench shut. "Whenever I can, even if it's multiple times a day."

"You're gonna make me sick of you," you chuckle weakly.

"I'm sure that's not possible."

You sigh, "If it was, germaphobe Spencer would've done it-- Obviously he didn't."

The adult grown from the boy who didn't know how, now takes his few days off to play. The grown up Spencer Reid keeps all his promises.

#spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid fanfiction #Spencer Reid fluff #Finding images is so hard #Especially when I want an actual picture of him #He never smiles and they have Chris Carter's phobia of lighting #↑has never seen a Star Trek #↑also does not remember any star war #Also heard boy likes sweet coffee. Sorry if it's wrong #Kinda headcanon him as a never nude type #Idky #Just gives me that vibe

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