hiii pls for halloween: Spencer and ditzy/unconventional reader have been sleeping together, Spencer thinks they’re dating and in love, reader thinks they’re just having sex, but he does something for her that makes her realise he’s in love
You’re used to this. Used to men liking you, but only over the phone, only in the dark, only in the bars five miles away from home. You know what it’s like to fuck someone for nothing, not a scrap of affection, no sweetness or softness involved, so when things start with Spencer and he’s kind to you afterwards, you’re a dog to a bone. You go crazy for a hint of love.
Spencer’s pushing the hair back from your face. His eyes are on the TV and he’s got a hand curled around your thigh that speaks to what you’re expecting from him, but he’s not touching you like that.
The hair falls in your eyes and he pushes it back. It falls into your eyes, again and again, jostled by his hand pushing it back and gravity letting it tip back down, tickling your face. It’s a motion. He’s not moving it aside to see you better, he’s not looking at you, but he’s stroking your forehead up to your hair as though it’s important to do. He fumbles with the remote, and he lets go of your thigh rather than your head. Soft touching. You’re basically numb.
You doze some in the corner of the couch, your legs dead weight in his lap. He just keeps on stroking your face, arm wrapped skewiff behind your head to cross frontwards, a tented novel crinkling in his lap.
It’s an unsure amount of time later when you wake up and find him in the exact same position. His hand is still going, though slower, and the room is dark. The TV is off. Your eyes ache when they open but Spencer’s only sat there scrolling through his phone. You shift your head, must shift in your sleep, because Spencer doesn’t look up. He clicks on to an article and hums under his breath.
You try to read the lines through blurry eyes. He reads so quickly you can’t keep up, until he pauses.
… your girlfriend falling asleep on you doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all. She might be tired, or stressed, or sick. Or, she might just trust you enough to sleep where she is. Try not to worry, but always contact your physician should you deem it necessary.
He scrolls onto the comments.
You stare at the side of his face. He looks concerned, now you know what he’s reading. His eyebrows are pulled together tightly. He isn’t angry you fell asleep here, how many times have you apologised for overstaying your welcome and been met with outright confusion? No, he’s worrying about you.
The article got things right, you realise. You do feel safe with him. You trust Spencer to let you rest.
You close your eyes and make a light little sigh that’s fake and not half as guttural as your usual waking grunts. “Spence,” you whine under your breath.
“What?” he asks, quiet but worried, obviously so.
“Keep rubbing my head?”
He turns into you —onto you, pulling your head toward his face. He presses a touch of a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Oh, sorry, angel,” as he continues his ministrations.
“This is nice.”
He nods against your head. “It’s perfect.”
“Can I stay?”
“You don’t… don’t ever have to leave, I always tell you that.”
“Sorry, I…” didn’t realise, you think, puffing out a breath too close to his face, wrapping your arms around him in a cuddle he didn’t sign up for but apparently wants from you dearly. “I wanna stay.”
“Then stay,” he stresses. “Please, you don’t have to go home tonight. Stay, and sleep. I’ll make breakfast in the morning and we can go and get you, like, everything you need. Just stay.”
You smile, pushing up to line his jaw with kisses, slow ones that don’t end before they start again, a row of them on the slight scratch of stubble.
Summary: Spencer Reid x fe!Reader -> Despite the fact that you and Spencer are mortal enemies, you still trust one another. And made a pretty good undercover couple.
Disclaimer: This is going to be a multi-part story. Enemies/strong dislike to lovers, avoidance in feelings, yearning, undercover kiss, platonic!penelope, found family vibes with the team.
Not only had you surprised yourself when you decided to kiss Spencer Reid, but you’d also surprised him.
It had been a simple undercover job; sit in a jazz bar, posing as a couple, waiting to see if the guy a witness had described seeing would turn up.
Emily was sitting at one end of the bar, sipping on a virgin cocktail. Derek was sitting at one of the tables by a dim lamp, ‘eying’ up Emily. JJ and Hotch were in the surveillance van outside, Gacia was waiting at her desk, watching the CCTV.
And yourself and Spencer were waiting at the bar for a booth to free up.
Despite your and Spencer’s relationship, which wasn’t smooth sailing for anyone, you both did pretty well at selling the ‘couple’ thing.
Dressed in a sharp suit, Spencer’s arm rarely left your waist. He kept you steady on the stiletto heels that fit the dress code for the building.
Once you were both seated at the bar, you crossed one leg over the other. You could feel the black silk of your dress slide away for a moment, exposing a little more of your leg through the slit of your dress. But it was still classy.
You really needed to ask Penelope where she’d found your dress.
“You’re too far away,” Spencer said, quietly.
To anyone else, the comment might have felt…flirtatious. The low tone of his voice, the hushed notes floating out from his mouth that caused goosebumps across your entire body.
But, despite your efforts not to, you knew Spencer.
He wasn’t being flirtatious. And, as much as the effortless way he’d reached under your stool and pulled you closer to him, opening his legs a little so your own could slot between them, made a small part of your brain question if you’d judged him wrongly. He was doing it for the show.
You were too far away to be considered a couple on a date. The distance would let someone, like the Unsub, read into you both and maybe set off alarm bells.
But then he rested his hand just above your exposed knee.
“Spencer.”
Suddenly, he looked at you. And not because you sounded like you were going to tell him something.
You’d used his first name.
You never used his first name.
For less than a second, your confusing feelings surfaced, but you quickly slipped your mask back on. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to read you and was annoyed you hadn’t given him a chance, or if he was simply annoyed at you.
“What?”
Forcing yourself to look away, you were thankful when a waiter came over and said there was an open booth if you would like to take it.
Spencer nodded, looking back at you as if you were the love of his life. Then, stepping away from the stool, he held out his hand to you and held it all the way to the table.
Despite your feelings for Spencer Reid, you had to hand it to him; He knew how to act.
As just over an hour passed, Derek had convinced Emily to sit with him and have a drink, yourself and Spencer had finished your dinner and somehow managed to fake a delightful conversation.
Though, you didn’t know how much credit you could give to yourself and Spencer considering Hotch and JJ had done most of the work over comms.
Paying for the bill, Spencer signed the check like it was second nature to him and stood from the booth. For a brief moment, as you took his hand and let him help you stand, he kissed your knuckles.
You swore you heard a lady gasp on the next table. And you didn’t blame her because you wanted to gasp, too.
You really hadn’t known how thick Spencer would lay on the romance. Even if it was subtle to the public, every woman knew what lay behind every gesture and touch.
Care. Tenderness. Consideration. Passion. Love.
If they only knew the truth.
Your history with Spencer Reid was not one of friendship or kindness. Trust, sure. Neither one of you could do your jobs on the team if you didn’t trust one another. But that didn’t mean you had to like one another.
Hotch would try every once in a while, to pair you up together as a team. But it always resulted in the same outcome; arguments and very clear tension that could be cut with a blunt knife, nevermind a sharp one.
Finally leaving the building, you both heard JJ tell you both to head back to the bullpen and that they’d meet you there once Derek and Emily left.
However, you both only got to the end of the red carpet outside the building, before you spotted a guy with incredibly familiar features.
And he spotted you looking.
He stalled for a moment and your internal alarm went off. If either you or Reid made a movement close to him, he’d flee.
So, your brain came up with the next best idea.
In your eyeline, you could make it look like you were looking at Spencer. You stepped forward and gave Spencer one warning in the sentence of; “Put your hands on me.”
Then, putting a hand at the back of his neck, you pulled him down to your level and kissed him.
You could feel his surprise in the kiss, but must have heard you because half a second later, his hands were on you. On your waist, down to your hips and pulling you in.
But, just before you pulled away from the kiss, you’d felt a small pull in your stomach. A hidden gasp of shock.
Because Spencer Reid kissed you back.
Pulling away for a moment, you saw the confused if slightly drunk look in Spencer’s eyes. Meanwhile, you tried to catch your breath and steadied yourself by placing your hands on his chest.
As a figure passed you both by, you let out a breath. And once the doors to the building closed behind him, you said; “He’s just walked in.”
Neither you or Spencer spoke the entire way back to the bullpen. Not in the car, not walking into the building.
Maybe words would have been exchanged when Spencer, who perhaps got caught up in the act, helped you before you stumbled in the stilettos. But as the elevator dinged and you both stepped inside, you let the sound of the tracks fill the silence.
Thankfully, Penelope was there to greet you both.
“So, tell me what happened? You spotted him outside?”
Reid cleared his throat, excusing himself from the moment as he headed towards the bathroom, leaving you to tell Penelope what happened.
“We saw him and…that was it. Walked right past us and into the building,” Spencer heard you tell Penelope before the bathroom door swung shut behind him.
Why didn’t you tell her? He had to sit in the briefing room for twenty minutes, listening to you tell Penelope about a date you’d gone on with some guy from accounting. So why didn’t you tell her what happened?
By the time Spencer walked back into the bullpen, you were at your desk with Penelope.
“Hey,” Penelope smiled before looking down at his suit. “What happened to your tie?”
Spencer had to look down to understand what she meant. He wasn’t wearing it.
“It’s…I took it off.”
Thankfully, Garcia didn’t question it but simply chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a tie on. It’s a good look on you.”
Then she turned to you, “I’ll go and grab your shoes from your locker.”
You smiled as relief washed over you, seemingly eternally grateful for her gesture. “Thank you, Pen.”
“Sweetheart, if I could have found you a pair of block heels that were suitable for that place's management, I would have done.”
You nodded. “I know.”
“Be back in two ticks.”
As she disappeared, you took a brief moment to study Reid. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d been running his hands through it. His jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled to his elbow. Meanwhile, his tie was very much off his body and the first couple of buttons looked like they’d been torn open.
What the hell happened in the bathroom?
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Spencer clipped. “I’m gonna start setting up the interview room. Emily and Derek will probably bring the guy in.”
It was a little shocking to you, but you felt a little worried for Reid. “You sure everything’s-”
“Yeah. Fine.” Again, clipped. But, if you were being honest, that was always Reid’s tone with you.
It was usually yours with him, too. But after spending nearly six hours breaking in stilettos, walking in them and being on the edge of adrenaline, and…
You were too tired to fight with him for the moment.
“Okay?”
By the time the others got back, everything seemed to be back to normal. Except from when you and Spencer were faced with each other.
You were still in the silk dress, going over the case. He was still dressed in his suit and you couldn’t lie; Penelope was right. Spencer Reid without a tie was a good look on him.
You’d barely looked at one another, which wasn’t anything new. But looking at each other when the other wasn’t – now that was different.
“You should all head home and try and get some rest,” Hotch told you all. “This will still be here in the morning and it doesn’t look like anything is gonna change from here.”
With it approaching midnight, none of you argued with Hotch’s logic and headed home.
But, even with a change of outfits and fresh showers and not so dreamless sleep, it was clear to you something had changed between yourself and Reid.
You just couldn’t gauge if it was leading to a bomb going off, or something changing for the better.
abstract: they weren’t supposed to cross that line, not yet. but one quiet night, something shifted, inbetween soft laughter, sleepy touches, and confessions that had waited too long.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)
genre: explicit smut!! basically smut with a dash of plot lol, but also some fluff
note: i have been having terrible writer’s block and feeling a wee bit unmotivated so i’ve just been writing fluffy stories in order to try to get back into my mojo, and, a smutty fic somehow snuck in between the cracks, oopsie. so i thought i might as well post it while i keep trying to get my writing on par with my ridiculous expectations lol. (this goes out to my fiendish readers, i see you, babes.) this one is pretty explicit compared to my one other smutty fic so be warned!! i’d like to think i’ve improved from my one direction fic days but we’ll see how it’s received…insert devil emoji, jk. enjoy, my lovelies!
The street was still humming.
Not loud like it had been hours earlier, when the bar spilled laughter and neon across the sidewalk, when Emily was dancing on a curb and Morgan was ordering tequila like it came with a discount. Now, just past midnight, the storefronts were shuttered, windows aglow with the last flickers of life: someone washing a dish in their kitchen, a television muttering in a second-floor walkup, headlights sliding past in a lazy hush of rubber on wet pavement.
Spencer’s tie hung loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His sleeves were pushed up unevenly, one arm showing more skin than the other, and his hair—usually tamed by some miracle—was falling in soft, chaotic waves across his forehead. He looked untethered in a way he rarely allowed, and somehow it made him lighter.
Or maybe it was the bourbon.
Beside him, Y/N stumbled slightly on the curb’s edge, still in her heels — though the left strap was half undone and threatening rebellion. She steadied herself with one hand in the deep pocket of her coat, the other brushing his arm for balance. Her hair was a little windswept, eyes glassy with that soft, half-drunk gleam, and her mouth still wore the edges of a smile from something he’d said five minutes ago.
“Your definition of dancing,” she said, stepping carefully over a crack in the concrete, “is offensive to rhythm itself.”
Spencer shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I wasn’t dancing. I was… responding to external stimuli in a kinetic way.”
“That sounds like how a robot would describe dancing.”
He tilted his head. “I didn’t want to break your concentration. You were—” He faltered for a second, clearing his throat. “You were having a good time.”
She turned to look at him, walking backward now, the city light haloing her in a golden blur. “So you were watching me.”
He paused mid-step. “You looked happy.”
That stopped her.
Not dramatically—just a small shift in her expression. Something quiet behind the eyes, like she wasn’t used to someone noticing that. Or maybe used to people noticing the wrong things.
She looked at him for a beat too long, then turned and kept walking. “So did you,” she said. “Happy.”
They didn’t say anything for the next block.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was with them. Just filled with city noise and the click of her rings against her shoes, and the brush of her coat sleeve against his every few steps.
When they reached the intersection, Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at it. “You live closer than I do.”
“Are you inviting yourself over?” she said, mockingly scandalized.
“I’m asking,” he said, with the kind of soft boldness that sounded foreign coming from his mouth. “If you want company. I’ll go home if not.”
Y/N stopped walking. They were under the streetlamp now, and her face was dappled in warm light and shadow, tired and flushed and pretty in a way that made his throat tighten.
“Don’t go home yet,” she said.
And that was that.
They turned the corner in sync.
Her apartment door clicked open with a low metallic sigh, the sound echoing faintly down the quiet hallway. The moment it swung inward, the air changed—cooler inside, tinged with the fading scent of sandalwood and something sweet, like dried orange peel or old perfume absorbed into the walls. Familiar, in the way her space had always felt to him.
“Don’t judge the mess,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”
Spencer smiled faintly. “I won’t.”
She stepped in first, flicking on the small lamp near the kitchen. A pool of golden light spilled across the hardwood, catching the curve of her shoulder as she shrugged out of her coat, letting it slip from her fingers to the hook by the door. She was in black slacks and a deep brown camisole, the kind of thing that walked a perfect line between casual and devastating, and her hair fell around her shoulders like she hadn’t even tried.
Spencer closed the door behind them and stood still for a second, adjusting to the hush of the space. It was like the city had pressed pause outside.
“Make yourself at home,” she said gently, tossing her keys into a ceramic bowl on the counter. “I have wine. Or whiskey. Or that plum soju Garcia left behind last time.”
“Dealer’s choice,” he murmured, loosening his coat and folding it over his arm before draping it on the arm of the couch.
She smiled at that—something small and lazy. “God, you’re always so polite. Even drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re tipsy and poetic,” she said, barefoot now as she padded into the kitchen. “Which is worse.”
He moved to the record player in the corner, almost by instinct.
“Can I?” he asked, fingers already ghosting over the sleeves.
“Please,” she called. The pop of a cork followed.
He flipped through a few records, pausing on one he recognized. Nina Simone. He smiled softly, fingertips grazing the worn cardboard cover before lifting it out and placing it on the turntable like it deserved reverence. A moment later, slow jazz bloomed through the room: smoky and sultry, older than either of them but more alive somehow. The kind of music meant for dim rooms and unspoken things.
“I like your place,” he said.
“You’ve been here before.”
“I know,” he replied. “I still like it.”
She looked up from where she was stood in the kitchen and towards him, and her eyes softened, just slightly. “That was very Reid of you.”
He grinned. “Can’t turn it off.”
“No,” she said, returning with two glasses of wine, deep red, nearly black in the low light, “but I don’t want you to.”
She handed one to him, fingers brushing just for a second, and lifted her own in a loose, crooked toast.
“To surviving the BAU social scene.”
He took the drink, ignoring the way her touch lingered like heat long after it was gone, and clinked his glass against hers. “Barely.”
They both sipped.
“Mm.” Spencer considered the wine, his brows drawn in mock-concentration. “It’s not terrible. A little tannic, but—”
“You’re such a snob.”
“You invited me,” he reminded her.
She raised one brow. “Still deciding if that was a mistake.”
He let out a laugh—low, surprised, and warm. The kind he never let himself have in briefing rooms or hotel lobbies or anywhere the world might listen. This was different. Here, no one else could hear it.
She curled onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath her and pulling a throw blanket into her lap. “Sit, Spence. I’m not going to quiz you on wine regions, I promise.”
He joined her, a little more hesitantly. His thigh brushed hers as he sat down, and he didn’t move away. Neither did she.
For a while, they just drank.
Talked softly. Laughed under their breath about Morgan’s karaoke attempt and JJ’s dramatic reading of a cocktail menu. The record spun on, humming something slow and smoky beneath the hush of their voices.
Y/N leaned back on the couch, wine glass balanced lazily between her fingers, her gaze flicking sideways with a mischievous glint. “You know that girl at the bar was flirting with you, right?”
Spencer glanced up, half-suspicious. “What girl?”
She scoffed. “The pretty one in the leather jacket. Red lipstick. Kept asking you questions she absolutely didn’t care about. Like if you came here often or believed in astrology.”
Spencer blinked, genuinely baffled. “She asked about Jupiter’s moons.”
“She asked if you wanted her number,” Y/N laughed, tipping her glass to her lips. “And you said, ‘Actually, there are seventy-nine confirmed moons—’”
“I was being polite.”
“You were being adorably oblivious.”
He rolled his eyes, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring a little more into her glass with exaggerated precision. “Says the woman who spent ten minutes explaining bourbon notes to the bartender while he tried not to drool on the counter.”
Her brow arched. “Are you jealous?”
He smirked, shrugging one shoulder. “Only if you are.”
She paused — just for a second too long — then gave him a coy smile. “Please. I have excellent taste.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, sipping slowly, “but you have no idea how many guys watch you when you’re not looking.”
Her smile faltered slightly, not from discomfort, but from the shift in tone. It had turned warmer. Quieter. Something flickering at the edges.
“You do,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Watch me.”
He met her gaze. Didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The moment stretched — soft and electric.
And then she nudged his knee with hers. “Still not admitting the girl wanted your number?”
“I’d rather have yours,” he said, offhandedly, sure, but his voice was low now, almost surprised at his own boldness.
She stared at him for a breath too long.
And then smiled, slow and sure. “You already do.”
Their glasses got lower after that. The space between them shrank without effort. And the music kept playing.
At one point, she reached for the bottle again and leaned across him to pour, her wrist near his jaw, the scent of her shampoo flooding every neuron in his brain. He didn’t move. Just watched her fingers tilt the bottle and set it back down with care.
She sat back, looked at him, and tilted her head. “What?”
“You’re really close,” he said.
“You want me to move?”
“No.”
There it was again. That stillness. That moment just before something tips over the edge.
The music curled around them like smoke. The city outside kept breathing. But in here, it felt like nothing else existed except the way her gaze dropped to his mouth, and the way he didn’t stop her.
The needle kept spinning. Nina’s voice low and molten, curling like smoke around the edges of the room.
Y/N took another sip of wine, slow and deliberate. Her fingers lingered on the rim of her glass, nails tapping gently, thoughtfully, as she looked at him—really looked at him.
“You’re staring,” she said, not unkindly.
Spencer blinked, caught. “Am I?”
“Mhm.” Her lips curved, just barely. “Not that I mind. You’re just bad at being subtle when you’re drunk.”
“I told you, I’m not drunk.”
“Tipsy, then. Poetic. Loosened.” She leaned in a little, head tilted, voice dropping just slightly. “You get quieter when you’re like this. But not in a bad way. Like you’re… watching everything.”
“I do that all the time,” he murmured.
“Not like this,” she said.
“I told you I was watching you. In the bar.”
That stopped her for a beat, just long enough for his gaze to dip lower, flick to her mouth, then back to her eyes.
“You looked…” he began, then tilted his head slightly, voice rougher now, quieter. “Like you belonged to no one. Like everyone wanted a piece of you.”
She inhaled softly, her lips parting — the smallest shift, really.
“And you?” she asked, smile pulling at the edge of her mouth, almost breathless. “Did you want a piece?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“I wanted all of you.”
Her breath caught, barely.
And then she smiled again, slower now. More like surrender. “That’s a bold thing to say, Dr. Reid.”
He leaned in, just a little closer. His knee still pressed to hers. “It’s been a long night.”
Her eyes never left his.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s just starting.”
He set his wine glass down on the table, slow and careful, like the action might ground him. Like if he focused on the glass, he wouldn’t notice the way she was looking at him now—eyes soft, mouth parted slightly. Waiting.
Y/N’s gaze dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. “You’re thinking too much again.”
“I always do.”
She nodded. “I know. But right now, maybe you don’t have to.”
The invitation was quiet. Threaded into the air between them like something sacred.
Spencer’s pulse thrummed in his throat. His breath faltered. The room seemed to still with it: the soft hum of the record, the golden pool of lamplight, the faint hush of the city breathing through the cracked window. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her or if he already was.
And then — slowly — he reached out.
His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light. She turned into the touch immediately, like her skin had been waiting for it. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes kissing her cheeks, and then opened again, heavy-lidded and searching.
He leaned in.
Not rushed. Not unsure. Just… drawn. Like gravity. Like she was inevitable.
Their lips met in a hush — no sudden heat, no gasp. Just a quiet, breath-warmed kiss that landed and stayed. She shifted toward him, hand slipping over his knee, sliding slowly up his thigh as she kissed him again, more certain now. Her other hand curled behind his neck, fingers threading gently into the base of his hair.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone.
When he kissed her again, his lips parted slightly, letting her deepen it — and she did. Not with force, but with intent. Her mouth moved over his like a promise. Like something she’d thought about too many times not to get right.
He sighed into it, low and shaken, and let his other hand fall to her hip, drawing her gently across the couch until she was straddling him. The weight of her settled into his lap and he exhaled like it undid something in his chest.
Her forehead pressed to his as their mouths parted just slightly, breath mixing in the space between.
“I’ve wanted this,” she whispered.
He swallowed, his hand still resting at her jaw. “Me too.”
“How long?”
He laughed under his breath, one of those low, warm sounds that only came out when he forgot to be careful. “I think since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in a briefing.”
She smiled, nose brushing his. “You deserved it.”
“I know.”
She kissed him again. Slower. Surer. His hands moved over her now — waist, back, ribs — not grabbing, not greedy, just there. Learning her. Mapping her. Holding her like something sacred.
She rocked against him once, subtle and smooth and unable to help herself, and he gasped softly into her mouth, his hands tightening just slightly.
“You’re still thinking,” she whispered, breath shaky against his cheek.
“I’m trying not to,” he murmured, kissing just beneath her jaw. “But you make it hard.”
She smiled faintly, flushed and breathless. “Still thinking about that girl at the bar?”
He let out a quiet laugh against her skin. “She didn’t exactly leave an impression.”
“Oh no?” she teased, moving just enough to roll her hips against his, stealing his breath.
He gasped, actually gasped, then looked up at her, eyes wide and wrecked. “She didn’t watch me like this.”
“Like what?” she breathed.
“Like you’re watching me now.”
And then he kissed her again, deeper this time, like the air between them had finally gone thin, and she moaned softly into his mouth, letting the moment pull them both under.
But as they moved, slow and flush together, her lips brushing his jaw again, Spencer’s voice dropped lower, just a shade darker.
“You know…” he murmured between kisses, his mouth brushing the edge of her jaw, “I still can’t stop thinking about the bartender.”
She stilled slightly, not pulling back, just pausing, and opened her eyes to meet his.
“What about him?”
Spencer's gaze flicked to her mouth, then lower. His voice was quieter now, rougher. “The way he looked at you. Like he’d already decided you were his.”
She arched one brow, breath catching as she watched him curiously. “Still jealous, Doctor?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just kissed her, slow and claiming, before pressing his lips to her throat.
“I’m not good at sharing,” he whispered.
She smiled then, but it was different now. Less teasing. Her hands slid up into his hair, eyes suddenly darker, softer.
“Good,” she said, voice barely audible. “Neither am I.”
Neither of them moved for a long, loaded second.
And then he shifted, just slightly, gripping her hips more firmly, pulling her closer. The contact made her gasp — sharp and soft — her hands clinging to his shoulders like she needed him to anchor her.
“Spence—”
His mouth found her collarbone, biting down gently before soothing it with his tongue.
“You smiled at him like that,” he whispered against her skin. “Like you’re smiling at me now.”
Her breath hitched. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” he said. “I know. But he got to see it.”
He rolled his hips up into hers, slow and deliberate, just enough for her to feel the press of him, the need simmering just beneath the surface.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently. “Spencer—”
His eyes fluttered at the pull, his jaw tightening as he guided her hips down against him again, nothing rushed, nothing sharp. Just heat and ache, the slow grind of want, their bodies catching on each other like waves.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he murmured, voice rough, lips brushing her collarbone. “Him watching you. Wanting you.”
She arched slightly, forehead falling to his. “You have me.”
“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I need you to feel it.”
She gasped as their bodies dragged together again — slow, desperate friction — and her spine arched, a soft moan breaking free.
“I do,” she breathed.
“You’re mine right now,” he said, still soft, still reverent, but with a quiet ache in it. “He doesn’t get this.”
Her moan cracked open in her throat, hips rolling harder now, chasing the edge he was teasing her toward. His hands steadied her, guided her, pressed her closer until their bodies fit like a lock and key.
“You like this?” he whispered. “Me jealous?”
She nodded, breathless, face flushed.
“Good,” he breathed, lips brushing hers. “Because I can’t watch you smile at someone else and pretend it doesn’t kill me.”
Her breath was coming faster now — shallow, open-mouthed, flushed against his cheek. Her hips moved instinctively, drawn to the way his hands guided her, but every roll of their bodies made the fabric between them feel heavier. Too hot. Too much.
Spencer’s hands flattened at her waist, gripping a little tighter — not to control her, but to hold her together. To hold himself together. She could feel it in the tremble of his fingers, the way his jaw clenched beneath her kisses.
“God,” he rasped, voice breaking as she ground down again, slowly, “we’re still—fully clothed—”
She let out a soft laugh, breathless, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”
His mouth found her jaw, then her throat, and then lower, kissing over the thin fabric of her shirt like he couldn’t stand not touching her properly. “You’re burning up.”
“So are you,” she whispered, dragging her hands down his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt. Her fingers hesitated at the hem.
He looked up at her then, eyes wide, reverent, a little wrecked. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” she said immediately, firmly, but soft. “Do you?”
He shook his head once. “Not even close.”
She smiled then, not coy, not teasing, but sure. A quiet kind of knowing.
Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, warm palms against his stomach, and he shivered beneath her. She moved slowly, pushing the fabric up inch by inch until he raised his arms for her. She lifted it over his head and tossed it aside, her fingertips grazing his skin on the way down.
Spencer looked up at her, breath caught in his throat.
“Okay?” she whispered, her hands settling at his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, awe-struck. “You?”
“Yeah.” She kissed him — soft and long — before guiding his hands to the hem of her own shirt.
His breath hitched. “Can I?”
She nodded.
He peeled it upward, slowly, reverently, revealing warm skin, inch by inch, until it joined his on the floor.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Still straddling him, still fully pressed together, but more bare now. More seen than before. Her hands on his chest, his at the curve of her waist. No rush. Just being here.
His voice was low, barely audible. “You’re perfect.”
She leaned down and kissed him again, mouths parting in the heat of it, her hands finding the back of his neck as she murmured against his lips, “So are you.”
Everything smelled like her: orange peel and wine and faint perfume and something he couldn’t name but knew by heart. Her skin was warm beneath his hands. Her breath brushed his mouth. She was close, so close, and yet something in him still hadn’t fully let go.
Y/N pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him.
Not teasing. Not smiling.
Just… looking.
His heart clenched.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, more fragile around the edges. Her fingers traced a lazy shape along his shoulder. “You’re quiet.”
Spencer swallowed hard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His hands were still on her hips. Her body was still pressed to his.
But something needed to be said before they could lose themselves again.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend after this,” he said, so quietly he wasn’t sure she’d hear it. It came out before he could stop it. Like it had been living in his chest for months.
Y/N blinked. And then she looked down — lashes brushing her cheeks, lips still parted, pink from kissing.
She didn’t move away.
“You don’t have to,” she said, like it was simple. But her voice caught faintly at the end, something flickering behind her calm. “We’re not in the field. You don’t have to be careful with me right now.”
“I always feel like I do,” he whispered.
Her hand slid from his chest to the side of his face. Not guiding. Just there. Her thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw, grounding him.
“You don’t,” she said again — firmer this time. Quieter, but sure.
Spencer’s throat worked. He nodded, barely. “I’ve thought about this,” he said, the words trembling as they left him. “For so long. And not like this—not drunk, not after a night out. But… I’d take it a thousand different ways if it meant getting here.”
She broke then — not fully, but beautifully. Her mouth softened. Her breath trembled. And then she smiled — slow and stunned and real.
“Hey,” she murmured, nudging her nose against his. “You’re not drunk.”
He exhaled, something sharp in him releasing. “No?”
“No. Just…” She smirked faintly, brushing her lips over his. “Seduced.”
That made him laugh — a real laugh, low and shaken and absolutely ruined. His head tipped back slightly as he did, and she watched the way it lit him up from the inside out. Watched the boyish part of him that still believed she couldn’t possibly mean it.
God, she did.
She kissed the edge of his mouth, slower this time. Tender.
“You okay?” she asked again, lips brushing his.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping. “Are you?”
She nodded, then added under her breath, “I just… didn’t expect it to feel this much like you.”
He kissed her back like it was an answer. Like it was yes. Like it was always.
And when they moved again, when her hands slid down his shoulders and his mouth found the curve of her shoulder, it was less about heat and more about reverence. Something holy in how they touched each other now.
Like they knew this mattered.
Like they knew what came next wouldn’t be careless.
Y/N shifted first, her hand sliding down his chest, slow and unhurried. Her fingertips brushed the edge of his waistband, and he inhaled like she’d touched a nerve. He looked at her — not with hesitation, but with something like reverence, like he couldn’t believe she was really here.
Her lips hovered just over his. “Okay?”
He nodded once, breathless. “Yeah.”
She kissed him then — soft, grounding — and began to undo the button of his pants. Her hands moved gently, fingers careful, like she wanted to give him every chance to stop her. He didn’t. He just watched her, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the tenderness.
When she eased the fabric down over his hips, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His eyes fluttered closed, then opened again as her hands slid back up his thighs, palms warm and reassuring. She leaned in and kissed his chest, just above his heart, and he trembled beneath her.
Then it was his turn.
His hands moved slowly, reverently — first to the waistband of her pants, fingers brushing just beneath the fabric like he was asking, are you sure? She nodded against his lips, breath catching as he kissed her again, deeper this time, fuller. Like he needed to anchor himself before daring to go further.
He slid her pants down carefully, his palms trailing over the curve of her hips, knuckles grazing the skin of her thighs. When the fabric caught around her knees, he stilled.
Lace.
Soft and black and clinging. His breath faltered.
The flush hit him high on the cheeks, heat blooming down his neck, and he tried not to stare, but he was already gone. She was still straddling him, bare from the waist down save for that thin, delicate lace, and it was nearly translucent with how wet it was. A dark patch where the fabric met her center. A glisten along the inside of her thighs.
Spencer swallowed hard, once, then again, like he couldn’t get enough air.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
She looked down at him, the barest hint of a smile playing at her lips, not teasing, not smug. Just knowing.
He ran his hands up her thighs, slow and shaking, and hooked his fingers under the lace. His breath stuttered as he pulled it down — past the curve of her hips, over her trembling legs, until she lifted to help him and it slipped away entirely.
And then she was bare.
Her skin damp, flushed, warm and real above him. His eyes dragged over every inch; the way her thighs flexed to keep balance, the way her breath hitched when his fingers grazed her again, even without meaning to.
“You’re—” he tried, voice wrecked and aching. “You’re so—”
“I know,” she whispered.
She was soft and flushed and real, breathing a little harsh, her chest rising and falling with quiet urgency.
“You okay?” she whispered, touching his face.
“I—” His voice cracked. “Yeah. You’re just… I didn’t know you could want something this much and still be this careful.”
Her smile broke gently, her thumb brushing his cheek. “That’s what you do to me.”
He just stared for a moment.
The kind of stare that wasn’t crude or possessive, but stunned. Quietly reverent. As if something had unraveled in his chest just from seeing her like this. Completely bare. Completely his.
His hands hovered at first, unsure where to begin, until she reached for him, wordlessly, her palm curling over his wrist and guiding his fingers to her waist.
He touched her like she was an answer he’d been chasing for years.
Long, slow sweeps of his hands down her sides, over her hips. His thumbs curved along the dip where her thighs met her pelvis. He exhaled softly when she sighed — a small, broken sound in the back of her throat — and glanced up immediately, eyes wide like he’d just solved something.
“Was that good?” he asked, voice hushed, fingers still resting against her skin like he wasn’t sure if he could do it again.
She nodded, breath catching. “Yes, Spence.”
He blinked slowly, lashes fluttering, as his hands resumed their quiet study. One hand slid up her back, over her ribs, tracing the shape of her spine with featherlight touches. The other moved between her legs — tentative, aching — and when his fingers brushed against her there, slick and swollen, he drew a breath so sharp it made her shiver.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
His touch was delicate at first. Exploring. Mapping her with the same precision he used to dissect crime scenes or quote obscure physics. But now, now it was paired with breathless awe. A scientist, yes, but a man hopelessly in love, desperate to learn every inch of her.
When his fingers slid gently through her folds, she whimpered.
He looked up again, startled by the sound, his brows furrowing like he needed to know exactly what he’d done to cause it, and how to do it again. He adjusted, thumb slipping to circle softly where she was most sensitive, and her whole body jerked.
“Spence—” she gasped.
“That?” he murmured, hypnotized. “That felt good?”
Her hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t stop.”
So he didn’t.
He kept his eyes on her the whole time, his fingers moving in slow, purposeful circles, the sound of her arousal soft and slick between them. Her breath grew uneven, shallow. Her thighs quivered around his waist. And every time her hips moved, every time she made that sweet, breathy little sound — he looked up, hungry and stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
“Tell me what you need,” he breathed, his voice cracking around the edges. “Please, Y/N, I want to do it right.”
“You are,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, her body rolling toward his hand. “You are.”
And his thumb pressed just a little firmer, his fingers curving just so — and her head tipped back, mouth open, another soft whimper escaping her lips.
The sound of it undid him. He swallowed hard, face flushed, mouth parted like he was the one losing control. Like her pleasure was his.
“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, and he meant it. Every word.
His fingers kept moving, featherlight and trembling, like he was terrified of breaking her. But her body welcomed every motion; hips tilting toward his hand, her thighs falling wider around him, soft gasps catching in her throat as she whispered his name like it was the only word she remembered.
Spencer watched every reaction like it held a key to something he didn’t yet understand.
He traced lower, then up again, circling with his thumb, watching her tremble. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted as she tried to breathe through it, her voice catching on each exhale like she couldn’t keep herself quiet anymore.
“Spence,” she mewled, her hands gripping his shoulders, her hips stuttering as she pressed into him.
He flushed at the sound, gaze flickering between her face and where he was touching her, already soaked, already shaking. “You’re—God, you’re so soft,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “So warm.”
His fingers curved again, more pressure this time. She cried out, just a little, just enough. Her hand shot down instinctively, not to stop him, never that, but to anchor herself. And in the same breath, she touched him.
Her fingers wrapped around him, just barely, and he jolted like her skin was fire.
“Y/N—oh—”
She brushed her thumb across the tip — slick, flushed, impossibly warm — and Spencer’s whole body jolted beneath her like he’d been shocked.
“F-fuck, that feels—” His voice cracked, hips stuttering forward into her hand. His eyes fluttered closed, then snapped open again, wild and glassy. “That feels so good—”
She felt the wetness spread between her fingers, warm and slippery, his arousal smearing across her palm with each shaky movement. He twitched in her grip, pulsing against her skin like he was already on the edge.
“Yeah,” she gasped, her breath catching hard. “I want you, Spence. I need you.”
Her words knocked the wind out of him.
He let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking again, more desperate now, chasing the friction, his hands gripping her hips so tightly it bordered on reverent. His whole body was trembling, unraveling with every second she touched him.
“Don’t make me beg,” she whispered, curling her fingers tighter, teasing him again as slickness spread down.
But Spencer’s eyes found hers, pupils dark and unfocused, lips parted as he barely managed to speak:
“I want you to beg.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even confident. It was needy, desperate, like the sound of her pleading might be the only thing that could keep him from falling apart right there in her hand.
“Please,” he added a second later, broken and breathless. “Please. I need to hear it.”
She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, her breath shaky with want.
“Please,” she whispered. “Spence… I need you inside me. Need you to help me take it.”
His breath hitched, chest rising in short, sharp pulls.
“I want you to fuck me,” she murmured, voice trembling now, nearly a whimper. “I want to feel all of you, every inch. Will you let me?”
He let out a broken moan, high, desperate, like it had been waiting in his throat for years. One of his hands fisted in the blanket beside him. The other slid up, slowly, reverently, to her waist, then her ribs, then settled just beneath her chest, like he couldn’t decide where to hold her because he wanted to touch everything at once.
“I know,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to rush.”
“You won’t,” she promised, leaning in to kiss him — slow and still — her hand cupping his jaw. “We won’t.”
Then she shifted her hips, aligning them with a softness that felt sacred. Her breath caught as she hovered above him, and his hands settled at her sides, fingers flexing as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.
“Okay?” she breathed again.
His head bobbed in a dazed nod, but she didn’t move.
Her hands slid up his chest slowly, deliberately, until her thumbs rested just below his collarbones, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath her fingers.
“I need you to say it, Spence,” she whispered, voice soft but steady. “With words.”
He blinked up at her, breath catching. His lips were parted, flushed, trembling. For a second, he couldn’t find the sound—just the feeling, all of it tangled up in his throat—but then he swallowed hard and rasped, “Yes. Please. I want you.”
She smiled, slow and warm, eyes flickering over him like he was the only thing in the world.
“Good boy,” she whispered, barely audible, her breath catching on the words.
Spencer let out a strangled sound — part gasp, part moan — and she felt it the moment it hit him. His hips twitched beneath her, jolting with a sharp, helpless pulse against her as if the praise had short-circuited him.
His hands clenched reflexively at her hips, fingertips digging in just a little, like he needed to hold onto something, anything.
“Jesus,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut for a second, already undone and she hadn’t even moved yet.
And then, inch by inch, she sank down onto him — slow, steady, trembling with the effort to stay present. Letting him feel every part of her choosing this. Letting herself feel the ache of being filled like that for the first time; all the way, all at once, like her body had been waiting for this exact shape.
Spencer’s head tipped back against the couch, jaw tight, lips parted.
“Oh my god—”
His voice broke.
The words left him on a gasp, soft and whiny, like his body had outpaced his ability to hold anything in. His hands fumbled at her hips, not to guide her, but to hold on. Like if he didn’t anchor himself to her, he might fall apart.
Y/N was already watching him; flushed, bare, her hands flat on his chest like she needed to feel the stammer of his heartbeat. Her thighs trembled slightly around his hips. Her breath caught in her throat.
She reached up and cradled his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks, her eyes shining with something unnameable.
He gasped again, almost disoriented.
“Yeah?” she whispered, her own voice shaking slightly now. Her lips ghosted against his jaw, then hovered by his ear. “Feel good?”
That pulled something raw out of him — a sound that wasn’t a word, just a broken, aching yes.
His hands slipped up her back, clumsy and reverent.
“You don’t even know,” he whispered, voice cracking like the moment was too full to carry. “You feel like—like everything.”
She kissed him then, slow and steady and deep, guiding his mouth back to hers like she was still teaching him how to breathe.
And he let her — let her hold his face and move against him and carry them forward, bit by bit, into something that no longer felt like the edge of want but the center of it.
Y/N moved over him in a rhythm that wasn’t steady anymore — not perfect, not planned. Just instinct. Just need. Her hips rolled because she couldn’t not, because the feeling of him deep inside her made her stomach twist and her breath stutter. She was trembling, not from nerves, not from effort, but from the ache that bloomed with every breath, every drag of skin, every tiny shift that made him gasp beneath her.
His hands gripped her waist, tight and unthinking, and her fingers clawed at his shoulders like she didn’t know what to do with her own body anymore. Her forehead bumped his, their mouths barely apart, eyes fluttering closed and open again with every shock of sensation.
“Spence—” she breathed, her voice broken now, lips brushing his.
He let out a sound that didn’t even sound like a word — just breath, just want, his mouth falling open against her neck. He couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop moving. She felt too good. She felt like nothing had ever come close to this.
Her nails scraped through his hair, and he moaned into her throat. “You—fuck, you feel—” He cut off again, lost in it, dragging her down harder as his hips pressed up to meet her.
“God,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck, her voice dissolving into a shaky cry as her body clenched down around him, tight and wanting. “Spencer, I—”
He was gasping now, jaw slack, fingers bruising at her hips. “I can’t—I’m gonna—Y/N—”
“I know,” she whispered, even though she didn’t. Even though she was already starting to fall apart, already shaking, already gone. “Me too.”
Their rhythm shifted — deeper, messier. Not graceful anymore, not careful. Just pure feeling. Her hips lifted and sank, dragged friction through the center of them both, and Spencer’s moans caught in his throat, softer now, more breath than sound. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think.
Y/N could feel him unraveling; in the way his fingers flexed on her hips, in how he pressed up into her like he couldn’t not, like staying still was suddenly impossible. She was gasping too now, her forehead falling to his, their noses brushing as they moved together, lost in the drag and the ache and the heat.
“Spence,” she breathed his name like a prayer, like a plea.
“I don’t—” he tried, but couldn’t finish. His voice cracked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she whispered, but it was half a gasp, her head falling back slightly as he shifted beneath her and hit that place that made her see stars. “You couldn’t.”
His hands gripped harder. “You feel—fuck, you feel—”
“I know,” she breathed, and her voice was shaking too now, coming apart at the edges. “I know, I—Spence, look at me.”
And when he did — when their eyes met — it hit her like a punch. His face was flushed and open and wrecked. His mouth parted, his eyes glassy and wide and too full of everything to speak. Just need. Just her.
And then he moved — all instinct, all surrender — pulling her down against him with a force that wasn’t rough, just desperate. Like he couldn’t take being apart from her for even an inch. Like he needed her closer. Needed all of her.
Their bodies fit like they were made for it. Every roll of her hips made his breath catch, every grind of him inside her made her thighs shake. And there was no room left for language now.
Her thighs flexed around him as she rode him, slow at first, hips lifting, circling, sinking again in a rhythm that made him groan, head tipped back, neck arched. She pressed her hands to his chest for balance, fingers splaying over his heart, and the shift in angle had her gasping too; her breath catching with every downward roll, every glide of him so deep inside her it felt like she was melting.
The couch creaked faintly beneath them, its old frame groaning in time with every rise and fall of her body. Her hair slipped over her shoulders in soft, undone waves, falling around his face like a curtain as she leaned into him, moving faster now, more sure. Her chest brushed his, damp with sweat, her breath stuttering near his mouth.
Every motion dragged a moan from him — helpless, wrecked — and she could feel it building in herself too, high in her chest, low in her belly, a flicker that turned into fire with every grind of her hips, every press of him inside her.
“Spence—” she gasped, voice breathless and thin. “I’m gonna—”
Her thighs began to tremble from the effort, rhythm faltering as the pressure inside her built too fast, too strong. She was still trying to move — hips lifting, circling — but it was falling apart, every breath catching, every motion stuttering as her body tried to keep up with the feeling.
“Spence—” she gasped, eyes fluttering, “I—I can’t—”
He saw it in her face, the way her mouth fell open and her brows pinched, her body struggling to hold on to the rhythm as pleasure coiled tight and threatening. And that was it. That look. That sound.
That’s what undid him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, breath shuddering, “Come here—”
His hands clamped around her hips, holding her in place as he took over — rolling his hips up hard, fast, brutal almost in his desperation. Their bodies met with wet, dizzying rhythm, the couch groaning beneath them, the air thick with breath and heat and the sharp, helpless sounds of both of them falling apart.
She cried out, body jolting with every thrust, hands gripping his shoulders like she was trying to ground herself, to hold on. Her head fell forward, forehead brushing his, mouth parted against his cheek.
“Spence—Spence, oh my god—”
“You sound so pretty,” he gasped against her skin, voice broken and raw. “So fucking pretty—look at me—please—”
She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, and what he saw there made his breath catch: flushed and glassy, mouth swollen from kissing, trembling and wide open just for him.
“Come for me,” he whispered, voice almost pleading, hips still driving up into her. “Please, baby—come for me—”
She was right there.
Every breath spilled like it hurt to keep it in, her body drawn so tight it felt like she might snap from the inside out. Her thighs trembled as she moved, his name slipping past her lips in a soft, choked gasp. Every part of her was alive with sensation; her skin electric, her chest flushed and aching, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt like lightning wrapped around bone.
He saw it—felt it—in the way her rhythm stuttered, how her nails dug into his shoulders, how her mouth dropped open without a sound at first. Just air, no words. And then—
“Spencer—” she breathed, almost tearful. “I’m—Spence, I—”
He didn’t let up. Couldn’t. His hips kept surging up to meet her, driving into her with a desperate, focused rhythm. One hand still gripped her hip, fingers pressing bruises into her skin; the other slid up, caught the nape of her neck, tangled in her hair.
And then he leaned forward — lips finding her chest, his mouth open and hot and worshipping. He kissed her there like he needed to feel her heartbeat against his tongue, needed to know this was real, that this was happening. His teeth grazed the swell of her breast before he sucked gently at her skin, reverent and wild all at once.
That’s when she shattered.
Her back arched, neck long, jaw slack, the sound that tore from her throat was high and unrestrained, a broken, beautiful cry that echoed in the dim hush of the room. Her body clamped down around him, helpless and overwhelmed, her thighs squeezing his hips as her climax rushed through her in waves.
It was like being lit from within.
Her vision blurred, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and all she could see behind her lids was starlight. Not metaphor. Not fancy. Real constellations — Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major — all the ones he used to whisper about during stakeouts and long walks back from crime scenes. They bloomed behind her eyes like galaxies, like he’d left fingerprints in her brain and now they were burning, glowing, everywhere.
“Oh—fuck—” she gasped, voice raw and unrecognizable, her body convulsing with the force of it.
Still, he didn’t stop. Still, he moved beneath her — chasing her through the stars.
Then his hand tugged gently at her hair, grounding her. He leaned up, breath ragged, pulling her face down toward his. Their foreheads bumped, her breaths hot on his mouth.
“Let me see you,” he whispered, voice ruined. “I want to see you come.”
And she did.
Eyes fluttering open through the haze, locking on his as her body jerked in his lap again, one last wave tearing through her, eyes glassy, lashes damp. Her mouth trembled as she tried to speak — couldn’t. She just kissed him instead, open-mouthed and desperate, like she was falling into him and didn’t want to land.
It was too much.
The way her body still pulsed around him, soft and fluttering in the aftermath. The way her breaths landed against his mouth, shaky and stunned. The way her hands trembled as they cupped his face like she was still coming down and didn’t want to let go of him to fall.
And the sounds — god, the sounds.
She was whispering his name in that broken, honeyed voice, lips brushing his cheek like she couldn’t stop saying it. Like it was the only word that felt safe in her mouth. And her moans—soft, whiny, drawn out like ribbon—sank into his skin and rewired every nerve in his body. She leaned in, still dazed, still breathless, and murmured it against his ear:
“You feel so good, Spencer… you’re so deep, it’s perfect, it’s—god—stay just like that, please—”
He broke.
His brain — that hyperactive, endlessly connecting, wildly calculating brain — short-circuited. It couldn’t process anything but her. The smell of her skin, the echo of her moans, the slick grip of her body around him. It was data overload; no logic, no equations, no escape hatch through reason.
Just her. Just this.
“Fuck,” he gasped, hands clawing at her hips now, breath ragged, his body taking over. He couldn’t stop the way he thrust into her — desperate, erratic, hungry. “I can’t— I can’t hold it—”
She kissed him through it, soft and slow, but messy now, like she needed to feel him fall apart under her. Like watching him lose control was her favorite part.
And it was blissful torture: his body was spiraling, tightening, burning from the inside out, and her voice was there, soft and trembling against his mouth.
“Spence—” she whined, her forehead bumping his, lips brushing his. “Please—please, I need it—need you to let go for me.”
Her words undid him. Not just the sound of them, but the way she said it, like she was begging for him, like she couldn’t stand the thought of being without this moment.
“You feel so good,” she moaned softly, the words falling out like she couldn’t stop them, like she wasn’t even aware she was speaking. “Please, baby, I want to feel you—please…”
That’s all it took.
His eyes rolled back. His jaw slackened, lips parting in a soundless gasp before the wrecked, high whine finally spilled out of him — raw and breathless, almost broken. His brow furrowed hard, as if it hurt to feel this much, like the pleasure was too big for his body to hold.
And then his hips slammed up into her — sharp, uncontrollable, desperate.
Y/N cried out, her whole body jolting from the force of it, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her fingers fisted in his hair, nails dragging against his scalp, and when the second thrust hit — just as brutal, just as deep — she bit into the curve of his neck, hard, like her body didn’t know how else to survive it.
She clenched around him; helpless, breath shattering, vision going hazy.
Spencer groaned again, louder this time, pitched and desperate. His hands gripped her hips tight enough to bruise, dragging her down onto him like he needed her fused to him, needed her everywhere all at once.
“Oh my god—Y/N—” His voice cracked again, soft and choked. “Fuck, you—”
The words died on his tongue, overwhelmed by the flood crashing through him. It ripped him apart. Every nerve was fire, every inch of him straining toward her, his release pouring through him like it had been waiting years to be set free.
His whole body convulsed — spine arching, chest rising in short, helpless gasps — and he buried his face in her shoulder like he couldn’t bear to be seen in this moment of ruin. She held him, breathless and clinging, skin pressed to skin, letting him tremble through every last wave of it.
It was too much; it was perfect.
His world narrowed to her: her breath on his neck, the clutch of her around him, the soft whimper she let out as he rocked up into her one last time, like he couldn’t stop.
“Don’t let go,” he murmured, half-delirious. “Please—please don’t let go—”
Her fingers threaded gently into his hair, her lips brushing his temple in a hush of warmth. Her voice was still trembling, still wrecked, but sure.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, Spence. I’m right here.”
He clung to her like the world might fall apart if he didn’t.
And still, she held on.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.
Slow, uneven, stunned.
The city still whispered outside, the faint hiss of passing cars, the low hum of a train echoing through the bones of the building, but here, wrapped in the heat of her living room, everything felt impossibly still.
Spencer’s head rested against her chest, eyes closed, arms looped tight around her waist like he didn’t trust the world not to take her away if he let go. His heartbeat raced against her ribs. His breath warmed the hollow of her throat.
Y/N’s fingers were in his hair, gentle now, smoothing back the strands she’d tugged too hard. She blinked slowly, dazed, every inch of her pulsing and flushed, barely tethered to the ground. Her legs trembled around him still, not from strain anymore, but from aftershock.
Neither of them spoke.
Until she let out the tiniest laugh: a stunned, breathless sound that made his lashes flicker against her skin.
He shifted, nose brushing her collarbone. “What?”
“I just…” she pulled back an inch, enough to look at him — cheeks pink, lips swollen, her expression equal parts wonder and disbelief. “We really—just did that.”
He smiled, small and awed, and didn’t let go. “We really did.”
Her hand slid down his shoulder, lazy and slow, until her fingertips traced the edge of his jaw. “You okay?”
Spencer opened his eyes, glassy, wide, soft. “I don’t even know where I am right now.”
That made her laugh again, this time louder — giddy and breathless and beautiful.
“You sure you’re not drunk?”
“No,” he said, blinking up at her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m just completely fucking in love with you.”
That caught her off-guard — not the words, maybe, but the softness in them. The way he said it like it wasn’t new. Like it had always been true.
Y/N’s smile turned gentler. She kissed him once, then again, and then let her forehead rest against his.
And then she blinked, glanced down between them, and made a face.
“Oh my god.”
Spencer’s eyes followed hers, and his face flushed immediately.
She sat back slightly, still straddling him, hands braced on his chest. “We made a mess.”
“I—yeah,” he said, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” she cut in, grinning despite herself. “Just… wow.”
He buried his face in his hands. “God, I’m never going to recover from this.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Eventually.”
When she finally moved — carefully, slowly — it was with a quiet whimper she couldn’t hold back. A soft, shaky sound as she lifted herself off of him, breath catching, body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything they’d just done.
Spencer let out a low, helpless moan at the loss of her — broken and warm in his throat. His eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back against the couch as he exhaled hard, like he was trying to slow a runaway train inside his chest.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
Y/N steadied herself on his shoulders, still catching her breath, hips aching in the best way. Her thighs felt like water. Her heart was still stuttering somewhere in her ribcage.
“Sorry,” she whispered with a sleepy wince. “Didn’t mean to crush you.”
“You can crush me whenever you want,” Spencer mumbled, voice rough and wrecked.
She laughed, low and dizzy. Her hand brushed through his hair, soft and absent, and then she stood — slowly, carefully, the stretch of her legs making her sigh again.
She reached for the hem of his oversized shirt and tugged it on, barely covering the mess of love bites blooming down her neck, the curve of her breast where his mouth had been, the bruises he hadn’t meant to leave on her hips. She didn’t care.
Spencer was still on the couch, dazed and staring like she was holy.
“Come on, doctor,” she murmured, tilting her head toward the hallway. “You can’t sleep in… that.”
He blinked once, then again — and finally stood, breath catching as he moved. His hands came to her waist instinctively, grounding himself.
“I’m not sure I remember how to walk.”
“Good thing I do.”
Their fingers stayed linked as they padded down the hallway, bare feet on warm floorboards, their bodies moving in lazy unison. The apartment smelled like them now. Like orange peel and sweat and wine and everything unspoken that had finally found its way into the light.
In the bathroom, she flipped on the softest light and reached for a towel, tossing it over her shoulder as she moved to the cabinet. Spencer leaned against the doorframe behind her, watching — half-naked, flushed, his hair an absolute mess.
“I feel like I just ran a marathon,” he said, voice soft.
She met his eyes in the mirror. “You kind of did.”
They smiled.
She ran warm water into a cloth, then turned to him and held it up like an offering. “Want me to—?”
Spencer stepped closer. “Please.”
So she cleaned him up — slow, quiet, unhurried. Her fingers ghosting over his skin. His hands finding her hips again, just because he could. Just because they were allowed now. She kissed his jaw when she finished, and he kissed her back like she’d just saved his life.
He pressed their foreheads together, eyes still closed.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“I live here,” she whispered back, laughing into his mouth.
“Oh.” His lips curved. “Right.”
She turned off the bathroom light with a sleepy flick, the hallway behind her cast in a soft golden blur as she padded back toward the living room. The apartment had gone quiet — save for the distant hum of city traffic and the low whir of the old fridge — but everything still felt hushed and glowing, like the night hadn’t quite let go of them yet.
Spencer followed, still loose-limbed and dazed, his hair a little damp where she’d smoothed it down, collarbone marked faintly from her mouth. He stopped at the threshold and just watched her — the curve of her in that worn oversized shirt, hem brushing the tops of her thighs, legs bare and warm and glowing in the spill of lamplight.
She crossed into the kitchen without a word, reaching for two mismatched glasses from the open shelf. The water ran quietly. She filled them both, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the counter as she blinked slowly, dreamily, still floating a little.
Then she turned.
She handed him one glass, like it mattered, like it was sacred, like she was still giving him something of herself. He took it carefully, their fingers brushing, and she smiled.
“I’m not letting you leave ever now,” she murmured, voice low and certain. “You know that, right?”
Spencer’s face broke open into the softest, most astonished grin. He stepped forward, gently taking her hand again, pulling it up to his chest like it was some holy thing.
“Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go.”
She leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth, not rushed, not teasing, just real. “Come on. Bed. Before you collapse on my floor and I have to drag your genius ass.”
He let her tug him down the hallway, stumbling a little just for show, still grinning as they reached her room.
The lights were already low. The sheets looked soft, slightly rumpled, like they’d been waiting for this. Spencer followed her in with quiet steps, one hand wrapped around the glass she’d given him, still cold against his palm.
Y/N moved toward the dresser, hair falling in soft waves down her back, the oversized shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder as she crouched to open the drawer. He took a sip of water, then another, watching her, chest still rising a little too fast from everything they hadn’t quite come down from.
She stood, turned, and tossed him a shirt and a pair of boxers — grey, worn in, unmistakably his.
“Wait,” he said, catching them midair. “These are mine.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said innocently, turning to grab her glass of water from her nightstand after setting it down. “From your place.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been stealing my clothes?”
She took a sip of water, then turned toward him, eyes wide with faux guilt. “Only the ones that smelled like you.”
He blinked. She smiled wider.
“And don’t act like you didn’t almost catch me,” she added, pointing at him with her glass. “That case in Denver? That grey sweater I wore in the precinct all day?”
“That was mine?!”
“I panicked when you stared at me for too long. I thought you were gonna say something.”
“I was,” he muttered, mock-scandalized. “I was trying to figure out why I wanted to kiss you even more than usual.”
She choked on a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re a thief.”
They both smiled as they changed; backs to each other, but grinning at the quiet of it, the comfort. She slipped on a pair of sleep shorts and tugged an oversized shirt back over her head, body still damp from steam and skin-warmth. Spencer pulled on the stolen boxers and that soft shirt like it was always meant to end up here.
She climbed onto the bed first, settling into the pillows with a sleepy stretch. Spencer crawled in beside her.
And then — dramatically, teasingly — she rolled toward him, climbed right into his lap again, curled sideways across his chest like a smug little blanket.
“Round two?” she whispered in his ear, all warm breath and dangerous sweetness.
Spencer let out a low, playful groan, burying his face in her neck. “You’ll kill me.”
“You’ll die happy.”
“I’ll die fast.”
She threw her head back laughing, one hand carding through his hair as he mock-growled into the curve of her throat. His arms came around her, pulling her in, and for a moment it was just that — tangled limbs, soft laughter, heartbeats finding each other in the dark.
Eventually, they shifted — limbs untangling just enough to fit side by side, her head on his chest, his hand tracing lazy shapes on her shoulder. The kind of quiet you only get when you’ve said everything you needed to without speaking at all.
She kissed his chest once, then again, slower this time.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Spencer breathed in, deep and quiet and stunned. “I love you more than anything.”
Outside, the city hummed on.
But here, in the hush of their shared bed, they let the stillness hold them. Fingers linked under the covers. A future tucked gently between their bodies.
Sleep came slow and sweet; like dusk, like memory, like something they could finally call theirs.
Summary: The three times Spencer loathed to see you and the one time he pleaded to
Trope:Angst; think post Tobias Spencer Reid
w.c: 5.2k
Disclaimer: I am no way a medical personnel, least of all a psychiatrist so there will be medical inaccuracies
A/N: this is part one of my house!daughter series and it’s angst, babes. Spencer is just mean and lashing out here which is totally understandable. It also took a while since writing such heavy pieces of fiction takes a toll on me but I hope, especially to the ones who were excited for this series, love it still. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗
masterlist
The first meeting
Spencer didn’t want to be here—here being in this cream colored, four cornered room, facing off the ultimate nemesis of profiler. Not an unsolvable case, not an unsub, but rather a psychiatrist contracted by the FBI for psych evaluation.
He was fine, he insisted to Hotch. He can compartmentalize well, he rationalized to Gideon. He just needed rest and the comfort of his own bed, he stated to the whole team. But protocols were protocols and his unit chief was a stickler to rules especially when it involved the care for his team.
That was how he found himself on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in silence and watching the ticking of the clock as if it was the most interesting piece of art there was.
The tension was stifling. Spencer could almost see it tainting his vision red. Biting the insides of his cheek, he wanted to keep everything in.
No, he needed to.
He knew he was being rude, petulant even but for once, he didn’t have it in him to care. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger being paid by the government to report back any findings that could keep him out of the field. It wasn’t fair. You were just accepting the call of duty but you bore the brunt of his ire and hostile gaze.
In the normal setting, he would have found you intriguing. Your office colored in taupe—cold, distant, and linked to the desire to escape from the world but in the farthest side of the room was a shelf littered with books and small knick knacks that seemed to be collected over the years rather than curated to match the professional setting. The books ranged from published psychology dissertations, medical teaching materials, and collections of essays from well-revered and obscure writers.
You were dressed in black and white, standard for your importance, but your nails were painted in a pale pink color—close to looking natural but not quite. And lastly, your looks.
You were beautiful, don’t get him wrong, he may not have the same experiences as Morgan did with the opposite sex but he knows a beautiful attractive woman when he sees one. No, it wasn’t that, it was how young you looked—almost or maybe even sharing the same age as him.
A genius, then.
A prodigy in your own field just like him.
“Doctor Reid,” the low timber of your voice bringing him out of his musings. It sent a shiver down his spine when he first heard you speak. A reaction that he catalogued in his mind as a mystery to be revisited later on.
He subtly tilted his head to the side, an indication that you had his attention albeit reluctantly.
“Anything you say in this room is strictly confidential,” you gestured with your hand. “No file or notes will be passed to your unit chief or any personnels of the brass. I promise you.”
He scoffed, breaking his vow of silence. “That’s not a hundred percent true, Doctor. Lying to get your patient to talk can only get you so far.”
“I understand where you’re coming from but all I submit to the FBI is my conclusion if you’re fit to go back to work or not, patient-confidentiality still stands—” your delicate fingers feebly holding your pen. “Now, I sensed a little resentment. Is it coming from your self-loathing about having to choose a victim for Tobias Hankel or is it your displaced anger from separating with your team liaison, Agent Jareau?”
He glared at you. How dare you imply the seething anger from within him is directed at anyone but himself. “What? No, no, no. I’m not angry at anything or anyone! Maybe at you and this whole evaluation but never at JJ or—” he cut himself off.
“The suspect,” you continued on for him, jotting down notes on your black leather journal.
“The unsub. Unknown subject.” He corrected, second nature of him to do so. “We call them the unsub.”
You nodded, a lock of hair falling away from your bun. A distracting motion that momentarily rendered him speechless. “Alright. Are you angry at yourself and your decision to separate with Agent Jareau during the case?”
He scoffed but opted to stay silent. Spencer had already given too much of his emotion away by answering the earlier questions.
For any regular citizen, it may seem like the opposite but given the sound of you scribbling away on the pages of the notebook, you beg to differ.
You crossed your pant covered leg and stared into his eyes, a maneuver that could mean two things: 1) you were sizing him up, which was highly unlikely given the dynamics, regardless of his hostility or 2) you were trying to connect with him, a move backed by science that stated eye contact releases oxytocin—a bonding hormone.
A study he didn’t want to prove right at the moment.
“Do you perhaps feel remorse for the unsub?”
His left eye twitched. “Tobias Hankel.”
“Is there a reason behind why you’d prefer to call the unsub by name?” You further asked, having found a sore subject to poke and prod to elicit a reaction.
The answer was yes, of course. Tobias was just a victim as much as he, Spencer Reid, was—the unsub, in his eyes, was a victim of bad fate that resulted in fracturing his psyche but a shrink didn’t need to know that.
To be exact, the FBI didn’t need to know that he, an active and upstanding agent, felt remorse and guilt for not being able to save Tobias. Human emotion rarely had a place in bureaucracy and paperwork.
“How old are you?” Spencer nonchalantly inquired to throw you off his trail. “You look too young to be a Doctor contracted by the brass.”
You scribbled something again in your notebook before answering in a monotone voice as if your reply has been well rehearsed. “24, about to turn 25 and yes, I do look young. I graduated early due to my intelligence which I believe is the same case for you, Doctor—” you clasped your hands in front of you, leaning slightly forward. “—which brings us back to the topic, the anger inside of you, who is it directed to?”
His eyes shifted to the clock—5pm.
A small smile graced his face. The time was up.
“Well, I believe we’re done here, Doctor—” he proceeded to stand up, picking on an imaginary lint as he did so. “—I would say it’s been nice meeting you but that would be a lie you’d no doubt catch and analyze.”
Your lips pressed thinly together, imitating a smile but Spencer knew that move quite well—you were reining in any unsolicited and possibly inappropriate comment regarding his snappy behavior.
A small chuckle escaped his lips. If he, a profiler, considered you, a psychiatrist, his number one nemesis, there was no doubt you consider him the same.
As he was about to step out of the office, your slender fingers brandished a calling card.
“Here’s my number—” he gingerly took it as if it contained some unknown pathogen. “—and my door is always open when you’re ready to talk, Doctor Reid.”
He nodded once, a goodbye. “Doctor House.”
There was little doubt in Spencer’s mind that he’d never willingly stop by your office again but if he had been paying attention to your subtle patronizing words of farewell, he would have picked up that this encounter was far from over.
Especially when he found out on a busy Tuesday morning from Hotch that you had deemed him unfit to return back to the field—effectively barring him from the jet on its way to Idaho.
The second meeting
There was a series of rapid knocks on your office door.
As a psychiatrist with your own practice, it was highly unusual for clients to suddenly show up with no prior appointments or even a customary phone call.
It was a Tuesday morning and like clockwork, you’ve allotted the first half of the day in catching up with paperwork dealing with your office and evaluations for the FBI.
That gave you a pause, remembering a snipping agent who you deemed unfit for duty. Dr. Spencer Reid. The genius profiler who joined the ranks at the tender age of 22. A prodigy in his old field, just like you.
He was closed off, simmering with rage almost, and there was little doubt in your mind that he was the one behind the door, ceaselessly knocking. After all, when you sent in your evaluation directly to his unit chief, the stoic man’s face twitched with concern and maybe a little bit of annoyance in the paperwork it would entail.
“Come in,” you called out, hands clasping together on top of your desk. A perfect picture of professionalism.
The door swung open, revealing a tightly wounded Dr. Spencer Reid.
With a thick cardigan adorning on his body and a leather satchel draped over his shoulders to his front, he looked normal. But you knew better, his choice of outerwear represented a security blanket in the middle of September and his placement of satchel acted as a shield and its’ straps a stress ball. With just that one look you knew he wasn’t ready to back with his team.
“Dr. Reid, what can I do for you?” You asked, hand unclasping and indicating to the seat in front of you. “Please sit.”
Closing the door behind him, he shuffled closer to your desk but made no indication to sit down. “I’d rather stand, Dr. House, and I think you know why I’m here.”
A show of dominance. Right away, he wanted control the outcome of this conversation to his favor. It was textbook psychology, a taunt you wanted no part of.
A slight smile appeared on your face, one that could be translated as friendly for those open and condescending for those closed off. “I believe I don’t follow.”
“My evaluation, you made a mistake,” the left corner of his mouth lifting for a smirk. There was a vein visible on his temple, his anger and will to bottle it up manifesting physically.
You tilted your head to the side, unwavering in your gaze, hands clasped and index fingers tapping together. The pause and silence was a standard tactic to get a patient to break, similar to what law enforcement uses with suspects but results may vary especially when used on a seasoned profiler.
Right away, Spencer understood your tactic. “That won’t work. We use that in every case, I know the standard—” he looked around the room. “—should I lower the temperature too?”
You answered with silence. The agent in front of you now was no longer thinking clearly. His objective mind that would deem him fit to return for duty clouded with emotion, anger and something else.
His right hand touched above his left wrist. A subconscious move provoked by your unrelenting gaze. A move that gave away an important piece of information that his unit chief no doubt omitted in the reports.
Ah.
Tobias Hankel was a drug addict.
And in turn has subjected the agent in front of you to his vices.
You sighed. Suddenly the case no longer felt black and white, it was treading close to home as you remembered your father who’s abusing Vicodin in lieu of his leg pain. It was a sore spot for you—a clink in your armor.
“Sit, please,” you indicated to the chair in front of you again.
Spencer complied this time, having heard a change in your tone.
“Dr Reid,” you started. “I believe my evaluation of you is still correct—”
He opened his mouth to argue.
“—but, please let me finish, perhaps we can compromise. As a psychiatrist, it’s not in my practice to give in to my client’s demands but as you are not a regular client, I believe it would be beneficial for the both of us to reach an understanding.”
You walked towards the locked cabinet to your right. It was where you kept all medical equipments—including medicine for patients. Reaching back to the depths of the lower shelf, your hand brought out a non-descriptive black pouch from its hiding. You sat beside Spencer, effectively communicating that you are both on the same level.
“I will approve your return for duty as long as you come back for a couple of sessions, not FBI contracted, strictly confidential, and you—” handing him the zipped pouch before continuing on. “—get drug tested.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he knew that his unit chief and mentor kept the delicate nature of his case out of the bureau and wondered how you pieced everything together. He underestimated you, you realized. A mistake on his end.
“I’m a psychiatrist, I know the signs Dr. Reid, and besides, I’m a genius just like you,” you adjusted your posture, slightly leaning back.
Check.
He smiled, one that you could say no longer contained malice. It was instead filled with resignation and relief. “You’re right. I underestimated you, Dr. House.”
Standing up, you dusted imaginary lint from your black pencil skirt before extending your hand out for a handshake.
He hesitated before reaching over shaking it once. His hands were rough and calloused from frequent holding of his gun but felt oddly warm and soothing. It represented who he was in your eyes—prickly and rough around the edges but soft and good on the inside.
As he exited your office with a soft thud of the door behind him, you admitted to yourself that you took a huge gamble. Rather than a checkmate, all you did was check his king. You didn’t ask if he had built his own stash of drugs after the case was finished. It was a risk you were willing to take just to take a step closer in getting the agent to trust you. Baby steps were better than nothing. You could work with that.
There was still the drug test you could rely on. A black and white piece of paper that would tell the truth if done at the right time. After all, the most important teaching your father, the older Dr. House, has imparted on you was—
Everybody lies.
The third meeting
The bar at the corner Main Street on a Friday night was a rare place for you to be. The echoes of its pulsing music could be heard a couple of shops away, luring bodies than the space could ever handle like it were Pied Piper and the people—by extension, you, were the unsuspecting kids. The lights were colored orange, giving the area a tint of good times and bad decisions. The aged brick walls discolored in a multitude of shades and the decorative posters were aimlessly nailed to the wall. There was a section far from the bar that was filled with moving bodies—people letting loose and exhibiting what you’d call a mating dance for anyone interested and beside the bar were two dart boards, popular with the crowd, but had seen better days.
This wasn’t your usual scene as you excused your way to the bar tucked at the center space. It wasn’t due to snobbery, like what your friend Kyle once joked, it was preference.
The sticky floor beneath your sensible nude heels had you wishing that your feet were tucked in a soft blanket with mind numbing television playing in the background instead of navigating the throng of people holding their drink of choice and inhaling the musky scent of liquor and sweat.
“Haven’t seen you around here,” a tenor voice flirted from beside you.
Your eyebrow raised as you took in the source—a burly African-American with a buzzcut. There was something distinct about him that set him apart from the rest. It wasn’t his built or the way his grey shirt stretched to fit around his biceps. It also wasn’t the twinkle in his eye as he tried to entice you to flirt back. One of his hands drifted down to his waist and with his wide leg stance, you knew.
A cop. An off duty law enforcement officer.
You laughed. “Does that line usually work on women, especially from—” you paused for suspense. ”—a cop?”
“Okay,” the stranger chuckled. “Close, want to try again?”
A smile stretched your glossed pink lips. You were never one to back away from a challenge—it was one of the traits you inherited from the other Dr House.
“Well, if we’re basing it on where the bar is located nearby and my fifty percent guess from a while ago, I’d say you were a cop—maybe for a couple of years, before joining the FBI. Maybe counter terrorism—” the memory of Dr. Reid talking about his team found its way to the forefront of your mind. “—or by any chance, the BAU?”
He could no longer hide the surprise from his face. “Right, that’s right. What gave it away? Was it my ruggedly handsome looks or are you just a mind reader?”
You thanked the bartender before trying to find your way out of the surge of people behind you, clamoring to place their order. The stranger stretched out his muscular arms, guiding you away from the bar towards his booth.
“Just a mind reader,” you simplified—an action that came as second nature to you. In the past, when you would disclose your job as a psychiatrist, people would react in two ways. One, they’d get subconscious that you’d read into every body language they’d have, causing them to shy away or two, they’d become over-zealous and ask you to diagnose them all in good fun like it was some sort of magician’s trick.
A mop of light brown curly hair parked beside a long blonde hair caught your periphery. He had his back turned but it was a presence you’ve slowly started getting familiar with. It was Dr. Spencer Reid, out in the natural setting, a first.
Your eyes slowly widened as you realized where he was guiding you and who he might be.
“Huh,” you uttered under your breath before flashing a smile to the stranger beside you. “Are you by any chance, Derek Morgan?”
“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out. How’d you do that, Ms. Mind Reader?”
A different timber of voice answered. “It’s because I told her—” a pair of hazel eyes turned to you, filled with accusation. “—Dr. House. Are you keeping tabs on me?”
“Dr. Reid, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
He scoffed. “In a bar? Near my office? The statistics on seeing me here is actually surprisingly high.”
He was hostile, understandably so as here you were, a stranger, who knows his deepest, darkest secret mixing in with the otherwise innocent parties of his personal life. It was no harm, caused no click in your armor—he’d been cooperative as of the late within the confines of your office but seeing you beyond the four corners of your taupe walls threw him off the loop.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” the blonde woman beside Spencer, flashed you a smile, hand stretching out for a handshake. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.”
You shook her hand. “Ah, it’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau.”
“So, how do you know Spence?”
You smiled, unsure on how to disclose your psychiatrist-patient relationship with someone he works with. You didn’t know how much his team members knew about his scheduled Saturday meetings with you or if they even knew at all what Dr. Reid was going through.
From the past appointments, you’ve categorized the agent as an anxious avoidant type—something geniuses who grew up in a non-secure household tend to share. Yourself, included.
Your eyes glanced at Spencer before drifting towards the table behind him, subtly trying to figure out his choice of drink. You hoped it was non-alcoholic. He’d be suffering from withdrawals and if he clung to a substitute vice, you’d have to find a roundabout way to tackle the issue without pushing him to close off again. You didn’t need that, he was just starting to open up after all, plus if he stopped cooperating, you’d have no choice but to bring it up to his supervisors, jeopardizing his career.
A clear glass came into view as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.
Water. It was water.
You breathed a sigh of relief before slowly panning up, locking eyes with Dr. Reid. His gaze narrowed, having understood what you were checking on.
Checkmate.
“She’s FBI’s contracted psychiatrist,” he explained, jaw tight from anger.
You flashed him a little smile before averting your eyes in chagrin.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look a little to young to be a licensed doctor,” Agent Jareau observed.
“I graduated early.”
Morgan’s left hand pats your back while the other pats Dr. Reid’s. “Another genius, then. You’d get along great with our pretty boy over here. He’s always going on and on about facts and statistics—“
“No offense Morgan, but I don’t think we’d get along at all,” Spencer sneered. “I’d rather not get to know someone who has an ulterior motive.”
Your hand tightened around your glass. “It’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau and Agent Morgan but I think my friends would be looking for me,” you flashed the young agent a dejected smile. “Dr. Reid, hope to see you again soon.”
“I don’t,” he sardonically replied.
You nodded once before turning back to where you friends would be, settled in the four seater booth, unaware that you may have just burned the rocky bridge you’ve built with a patient in need.
The fourth meeting
A warbled hum roused you from slumber.
With one eye straining to stay open, the digital clock on your dresser displayed 12:21. Midnight—the time for humans to all be in stupor but based on the humming, subdued underneath your pillow, there was one exception.
You sat up, blindly reaching for the phone. There was no programmed name for the number and right away, an eerie feeling started swirling in your gut. This was no social call. A call this hour could only be one thing, an emergency.
“Hello. Who is this?” Your voice still rough from sleep.
No answer.
You pressed the phone closer to your ear, hard enough to possibly leave a mark. There were light rustles on the other end that indicated a presence, a person that wouldn’t or couldn’t answer your inquiry.
“Hello,” you tried again, voice raising at the end from tension. “Is anyone there?”
There was silence. The dread in your stomach further worsening as if group of bats decided to wreak havoc in its dark crevices. There was no indication that this was a prank call and there was also no indication that it wasn’t.
You bit your lip, torn between hanging up and waiting for an existence to make itself known. It could be nothing or it could be—your train of thought suddenly taking a sharp left turn to the corner that a certain FBI agent unknowingly occupies. You had given him your number, having scrawled it at the back of your calling card during the very first meeting, purely out of the goodness of trying to put back the broken genius that graced and intrigued your doors.
“Dr. Spencer Reid?” You hesitantly asked, hoping that your intuition was wrong. That this wasn’t the agent calling for help.
A deep groan answered.
“Oh gods,” you breathed out. “Okay, okay. Just—shit, just stay on the line. I’m coming, I swear. Just—fuck.” Your feet scrambled out of the apartment, never mind the lights or the chill that the midnight had cloaked the air with.
It was your worst nightmare. You knew what this call was, you knew his state on the other side of the phone by experience.
Hands trembling as you started the ignition of your car and speedily backing up the parking lot and out the streets in little time.
“Spencer,” formality be damned at this point as you turned a sharp right, your GPS indicating 8 minutes away from destination. “Spencer, are you still there?”
A light rustle replied.
“I’m almost there, hang on for me, okay,” your hand letting go of the steering wheel to push the tousled hair away from your face.
Each second felt like an eternity, each time passed threatened to push your mind into the fog of panic and memory of your very own father taking a whole bottle of Oxycodone and leaving a message for you and your grandmother. The panic, the fear, and the dread of that very moment had come back in two folds.
Your clammy fingers leaving pinch marks on the back of your palm. “Not now, not now,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t have an attack now, keep it together.”
“Dr. House,” Spencer gravely slurred.
You haphazardly parked the car at the nearest available sidewalk space, uncaring if by some miracle you get ticketed. “I’m here, Spencer. I’m here.”
There was a groan as you hurriedly ran up the apartment stairs, grateful that the security below was surprisingly lax.
Third floor, get to the third floor. I need to get to the third floor—you repeated under your breath. You could have called an ambulance or better yet his team member, SSA Derek Morgan, but you felt the urge to make sure he was alright. To make him see that someone else besides from his mother and team care about him. To make him see that life was worth living, no matter the good or the bad.
“Spencer, I’m outside your door,” you tried to catch your breath. “Do you think you could let me in?”
And for a few seconds, there was only the tense silence before a series of gasps and groans crescendo’ed louder and louder from the phone speaker and on the other side of the door.
Shit. You knew what those grunts of pain and pleas meant, he was seizing.
Slamming down on the ground, uncaring if your exposed knees get bruised, you sent a silent thank you to your past self for leaving a hair pin inside the pockets of your sleep shorts. Breaking and entering was yet another skill set you learned from the other Dr House and his team of skilled doctors, you just never imagined you’d be applying that knowledge in breaking and entering a federal agent’s home.
The door unlocked and you barreled your way to the living space where a frightful sight greeted you—Spencer on the floor, laying still as if he was peacefully sleeping.
“No, no, no,” you slid beside him, mind cataloguing every detail for the right action. An empty needle near his exposed right arm and an empty glass bottle of Dilaudid.
No rise and fall of the chest.
And no pulse. Medical training kicking in, you tilted his head up, clearing the pathway, and started chest compressions.
One. Two. Three—
“C’mon, Spencer, breathe,” you grunted in between pumps.
One. Two. Three. Four—
You leaned down to his chapped lips, blowing air to his mouth. “I need you to breathe for me, okay. Breathe, Spencer.”
One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
“Breathe, c’mon Spencer,” you knew there was a high probability for the agent to have his own stash of narcotics and in by agreeing to keep his secret, lest he loses his badge, to get him to open up was a gamble. A risk you were now regrettably paying for.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—
“Dammit Spencer, I could lose my license for this. Breathe, I need you to breathe.”
A sputtering of coughs escaped his lips.
“Oh thank you, thank you,” you breathed out, arms sagging from the pressure of performing CPR and the weight of fear that you might have been too late.
Spencer groaned. “Dr. House?”
You nodded, the salty tears blurring your vision. The image of him lying still was burned into your memory, the same way the mirage of your own father lying in a pool of his own vomit. He’s alive—they’re both alive.
Your hands angrily erased the rivulets the tears left behind on your cheeks. Now wasn’t the time to give in to relief and emotion. Although Spencer was out of the woods, there was still a huge uphill battle to tackle.
“I’ll carry you to bed, lean your weight on me,” you huffed as you helped him up the floor, making sure to take in most of his weight that you could.
The form of you, tears still streaming down your face and steps away from a breakdown, and his hunched form, weak and pliant, was a sight to behold. It was a sight after battle—after the white flag had been waved and the injured tying their best to find their way back to life.
It was sad. It was hopeful.
It was a brush on humanity’s eternal friend, death. Death that still loomed in the corners of the apartment, biding his time to take what was promised.
You laid him gently on the bed before running back to the spied kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. The smell of books permeated the air as if to try and bring your panicked mind back to the present. If it were any other day, you would have found yourself perusing his shelves of eclectic classic literature but this wasn’t the right time and place.
Your bare feet sliding across the floor to make its way back to the groaning figure on the bed, threatening to sit up.
“No,” you tapped his shoulder to get him back down. “I need you to rest.”
“But—”
“No buts Spencer. Rest, I’ll stay here.”
His drooping eyes reading yours, trying to find any type of lie that would break his being further than it already was. Spencer was a broken man and this was the first time you could see written in his eyes his plea for help and company. “You promise?”
“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
His hands blindly groping across the bed spread before it found the treasure it was searching for, your hand. He enveloped his with yours, calloused fingers intertwining with smooth. A contrast that brought him comfort—you were here. You were real. You felt safe. You saved him.
He was alive.
And with that, his eyes closed to fall into a peaceful slumber, one that he hadn’t had in months.
Y/N is a member of the BAU team who is secretly in love with Spencer. When a new intern begins helping around the office, Y/N gets jealous of the way she flirts with Spencer.
Special Thanks to @90spumkin for prompt inspo.
Warnings: angst(ish) with a happy ending, Spencer being clueless, written on mobile
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Y/N had been a member of the BAU for a little less than 2 years, and she had developed friendships with each member of the team. Rossi was like a second father, Derek was like the older brother she never had, and Emily, JJ, and Garcia were the best girlfriends she could ask for. Then there was Spencer. Y/N and Spencer had quickly become best friends. Not only were they the youngest members of the team, but they had a lot of mutual interests outside of work. If the team didn’t have a case during a weekend, the two of them could usually be found in Y/N’s apartment with lots of take-out and watching a marathon of one of their favorite shows.
After all this time, and spending so many of her waking hours with the man, Y/N had slowly fallen in love with Spencer. But she would never tell him that. Actually, she never told anyone. But, the entire team knew that Y/N was head over heels for the young doctor. The team also knew that Spencer felt the same way about her. It baffled the team that two members of the BAU could be so good at profiling criminals, but completely oblivious to each other’s feelings.
Things got a little messy when a new intern started helping around the BAU office. Sam was a criminology major at a local university with a minor in psychology. Section Chief Strauss had been contacted by the girl’s professor and arranged the internship. Sam would be helping around the office for one month to observe and learn about profiling outside of the classroom setting. The team easily welcomed Sam and insisted that she could always ask questions and that they were happy to have her there.
The first week was great. Sam helped with filing paperwork and asked great questions. She seemed genuinely engaged in conversations and everyone enjoyed talking to her. But during the second week, Y/N noticed that Spencer seemed to enjoy Sam’s company the most. Y/N quietly observed how Sam would also go out of her way to talk to him more than any other member of the team. During that second week, Y/N began to overhear Sam flirting with Spencer. And while he didn’t exactly flirt back, Spencer never seemed to mind the way Sam batted her eyes or giggled at him. Y/N would never say anything about it, but the team noticed as well. And they watched as Y/N slowly started to distance herself from Spencer.
During the third week, the team got a case in California. Even when they were out in the field, away from Sam and the office, the team noticed Y/N kept a slight distance between herself and Spencer. She sat in one of the seats at the table on the jet instead of next to Spencer on the sofa as usual. And she spent less time at the precinct they were working at and spent more time at crime scenes and questioning witnesses.
Spencer noticed the distance and wondered what he had done to cause it. He tried asking her about it, but every time they were alone together, Y/N would make an excuse to leave the room. Eventually, Spencer decided to ask Derek about it. The younger agent found him in the break room refilling his coffee.
“Morgan,” Spencer began, clearing his throat and wringing his hands. “Have you noticed Y/N acting weirdly lately? She won’t even stay in a room with me anymore.”
“It’s probably because of you and Sam,” Derek shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. Spencer looked confused, and Morgan chuckled into his cup. “You really have no idea do you? Sam has been flirting with you for a week and Y/N is probably a little jealous of all the attention you are giving her.”
Spencer still looked as if he had no idea what Derek was talking about. “What do you mean? Why would Y/N be jealous? Y/N is my best friend, I’m just trying to make sure Sam can learn as much as she can during her time with the team. She hasn’t been flirting with me.” Spencer paused for a moment thinking over their last few conversations and he faltered. “Has she?”
Derek smirked at him, “She has, Pretty Boy. And she was starting to lay it on thick. I am honestly surprised that even you didn’t notice.”
Spencer thought it over. “Even so, why would Y/N be jealous? She’s my best friend.” He still looked at Derek with confusion.
Derek chuckled again and shook his head. “You should talk to Y/N,” was his only reply before he turned and left the break room.
For the rest of the day, Spencer continued to try and find Y/N alone so they could talk. Finally, he found her alone in the same break room he had found Morgan in earlier. He stood in the doorway and cleared his throat softly to alert her of his presence. She quickly glanced up at the sound before lowering her eye back down to the mug of tea she was making.
“Can we talk?” He asked gently, running a hand through his hair and staring at the back of her head.
Y/N could feel his eyes on her, “Talk about what?” She replied shortly, slowly bobbing her teat bag in the hot water.
“Why are you avoiding me? Is it because of Sam? Because no matter what happens, Y/N, you will always be my best friend.” Spencer said in a bit of a rush. He extended a hand towards her as he spoke and noticed the ever so slight twitch of her shoulders.
“Right,” she said quietly. “Best friends. Good luck with Sam.” With that she tossed the used tea bag in the trashed and slipped past him out of the room. Spencer tried to call her back, but she had moved back to the conference room with the rest of the team.
~~~~~~~~~~
That evening Spencer found himself standing outside of Y/N’s hotel room. He took a deep breath before knocking. “Just a minute,” Y/N’s easy voice slipped out to him in the hallway. He heard a brief shuffling before a pause, and the door opened. Y/N was wearing one of Spencer’s t-shirts and a pair of her old sweatpants just like she usually did to sleep in, but her smile slipped when she saw him. “Yes?” She asked, folding her arms across her chest is a defensive posture.
“What is going on?” Spencer almost pleaded. “Did I do something? And what do you mean ‘Good luck with Sam?’” Y/N could see the hurt and confusion swirling in Spencer’s eyes. “I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you mad at me.”
Y/N sighed and walked towards the hotel bed leaving the door open behind her. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.” Spencer stepped into the room behind her and softly closed the door.
He waited to see if she would continue. When she remained silent, he asked quietly, “What do you mean? You are my very best friend, Y/N. Please talk to me.” Spencer saw that small flinch again and bit his lip trying to figure out what he had said wrong.
Y/N took a deep breath before turning around to face Spencer. “I’m mad at myself for being jealous. I’m mad at myself for comparing myself to Sam when there is obviously no competition. I get it. She is young, and smart, and beautiful. And you just see me as a friend. It makes sense that you would want to flirt with her and probably ask her out. I am mad at myself because instead of being happy for you, all I can think about is how much I wish you would pick me. I am mad at myself because I am in love with you.” As she was speaking, it was like the damn she built around herself had burst and she was gesturing wildly. But as she finished, Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth and she turned around again. She took another deep breath before hugging herself around her waist curling her shoulders as if protecting herself.
Spencer stood still and in shock for a moment before whispering, “You are in love with me?” Y/N nodded slightly. Spencer’s mind was usually running a mile a minute, but right now all he could think about was the fact that Y/N just confessed that she loved him. Finally after a few moments had passed in silence, Y/N turned to face him. Spencer’s eyes met hers and he did the first thing that came into his head.
Spencer crossed the room to Y/N in two long sides and crashed his lips to hers. Y/N tensed for a moment before slowly wrapping her arms around his neck and returning the kiss. Eventually, they had to pull apart to breathe but Spencer resisted his forehead against Y/N’s. “I love you, too,” he breathed softly and held her against his chest a little tighter.
Y/N sighed softly and thought to herself, ‘maybe a little jealousy isn’t such a bad thing after all.’
warnings: awkward spencer, club setting, mentions of alcohol, confident reader (gasp), no spoilers
reblogs are appreciated <3
masterlist
Never listen to your highly attractive male friend, especially one who has extreme game with the ladies.
Spencer had come to this conclusion very early in the night. Derek had gotten six numbers, five of whom he never asked for. Emily had gotten three, and Penelope had been talking to the same man for almost two hours.
Spencer sat at the bar, alone, drinking the same glass of water he had gotten twenty minutes ago.
“Kid, why are you just sitting there?”
Morgan took a seat next to Spencer, eyeing his water as he placed his bottle of beer next to it. Morgan was the one who had suggested that the team go out to an actual club, instead of just a bar. Aaron, Dave, and JJ backed out. Two for family, and the other, for jazz and Cuban cigars.
“Well,” Spencer said. “I could stand in the corner, but then I’d look like the guys we hunt. Sitting here makes me look less pitiful.”
Derek took one look at Spencer’s unamused eyes and burst out laughing. Slapping his friend’s back, Derek leaned on his arms and his eyes scanned the bar. Just as he was about to say something, Spencer interrupted him. “Don’t even bother, Morgan.”
Derek let out a small laugh. “Come on, kid. There’s not one girl or guy here that caught your eye?”
Spencer raised his eyes and turned his chair, Derek following in suit. Spencer’s eyes didn’t need to scan the club, not when he already had laid eyes on someone beautiful the moment he walked in.
“Of course there is,” Spencer mumbled. “But, you know, I’m me. So, there’s no point in trying.”
Derek grabbed Spencer’s seat and spun him to face him. “Hey, now. None of that talk, kid. You’re a catch, pretty boy. Ya just gotta know how to talk smoothly.”
“Yeah, Morgan, I know. But I don’t know how to talk smoothly. I’m not a smooth talker.”
Derek rolled his eyes. “Now I know that ain’t true. Listen,” Derek leaned in, “Ya gotta let the lady take the lead, alright? You let her know you’re there, maybe buy her a drink, and then you see if she’s interested. And then, ya talk. Until she gives the go, ya don’t say nothin’ bout nothin’. Especially physics or killers.”
Spencer listened carefully, even though the music was loud. “I don’t get it. How do I get there? How do I not talk about physics?”
Derek let out a breath through his nose, his eyes holding amusement. “See that girl over there?” Derek pointed to a woman wearing a red dress. “She had her eyes on you a while back. There’s a free seat right next to her. Take it, and then work it.”
Derek got up and squeezed Spencer’s shoulder. “You got this, kid.” Derek then walked away, his beer in his hand.
“Wait, Derek!” Spencer turned his head, “I don’t know what ‘work it’ means!”
Turning back, Spencer sighed into his hands. After counting to ten and mumbling “you can do this” a few times, the doctor stood up and made his way to the other end of the bar.
Spencer paused before he reached the woman, but then he felt Derek's eyes on his back, and Spencer knew he had to sit down. If Derek could do it, so could he.
“Is this seat taken?”
Spencer’s voice was strong, even though his hands shook. He hoped the small amount of fake confidence he had would get him far enough into a good conversation.
The woman turned her head and looked Spencer up and down before smiling. “Nope. It’s yours.”
Letting out a small awkward smile, Spencer sat down. Cursing himself for making it this far. He honestly hoped she would have said yes, and he could go back to his comfortable seat at the other end of the bar.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
The woman’s eyes fell to the drink in her hand, as did Spencer’s. With a slight cough, he mumbled, “or not, since you have one.”
The woman’s smile grew smaller, and Spencer knew he was losing her. “Do you, uh, come here a lot?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I should answer that.”
Spencer’s eyes widened and he quickly jumped to explain himself. “Oh, no! I didn’t mean it like that! I’m not some weird stalker or anything,” when the woman’s smile completely dropped, he continued, “I’m actually an FBI agent.” Spencer pulled out his FBI identification.
Interest flickered in the woman’s eyes before she let out a brief laugh, one to cover the silence.
“Right, well, that’s good, I suppose. I’m glad you’re not a weirdo.”
Without much thought, Spencer crossed his ankles and brought his hands to his chest. “Actually,” Spencer gestured. “Statistics show: that on average, one person can—”
The woman stood up from the bar and sent Spencer a false smile. “My phones actually ringing, so I have to go.”
Spencer smiled tightly, trying not to dwell on the fact that the woman’s phone was not ringing, and still on the table.
The woman walked away, and Spencer dropped his head into his hands and let out a loud groan.
“Wow,” came a feminine voice from his right. “Now that was a train wreck.”
Spencer lifted his head and his eyes fell on the woman he first laid eyes on when he walked in. She leaned forward, her legs crossed and a glass of coke in her hand. Her eyebrows were raised and there was a teasing smile on her lips. She sat diagonal from Spencer, her eyes on him.
“That sucked.”
Spencer pursed his lips. “I wish I could say that I’m off my game, but that was my game.”
The woman laughed, tipping her head back. Spencer’s cheeks grew warm at the sound of her laughter. She was beautiful, and very out of his league.
“Well,” the woman smiled teasingly. “For next time, maybe don’t insinuate that you’re a weird stalker or anything. I know most women don’t dig that.”
Spencer smiled, a mix between a scoff and a laugh escaped his throat. “Smart. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The woman shrugged, then she leaned forward, her arms resting on the counter. “Are you really FBI?”
Spencer nodded. “I’m part of the BAU. The Behavioural Science Unit.”
“That’s the unit that studies the behaviour of serial killers and stuff, right? You make profiles and catch killers based on them?”
Spencer nodded once again, a small smile on his face. “You’re absolutely right. Are you interested?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it is interesting. I’m just wondering whether or not you went to charm class. The FBI has those, right?”
Spencer’s mind blanked, and all that came out was a small “huh?”
The woman’s eyes flickered behind Spencer before they met his warm brown ones. She grinned as she brought her glass to her lips. “FBI has to be charming, right? I mean, the rest of your friends all seem to have gone to that class.”
Spencer turned his head and found Derek, Emily, and Penelope staring at him with wide, encouraging eyes. He turned back, letting out a small sigh.
“Don’t be so worried,” the woman said. “If all FBI agents were charming, you would rule America. We need the adorable awkward ones. Balances things out.”
Spencer’s cheeks warmed at the comment. “Are you here alone?”
The woman shook her head. “No, I’m on babysitting duty. Two of my friends are here and completely wasted, so I’m here to make sure they get home safe.”
Spencer’s eyes flickered to the woman’s and he held her stare for a moment before breaking it.
“That’s nice of you.”
The woman shrugged. “So, you’ve been sitting at the other end of the bar for almost two hours. What made you come over here and talk to her?”
Spencer bit his lip, a feeling of pity in his stomach at the thought of the other woman. When he lifted his eyes, he found the other woman looking at him, a small comforting smile on her lips and her eyes holding no judgement.
“My friend actually told me to go over and talk to her. He said I should take a seat next to her and ‘work it.’”
“What does that mean?”
“That’s what I said!”
Both the woman and Spencer burst out laughing, a feeling of comfort washing over them.
“He said that the lady should take the lead. So I guess I was hoping she would.”
The woman scoffed and her smile dropped. “He said what?” She leaned forward, motioning for Spencer to do so as well. “Listen, bud, never listen to an attractive friend. Especially the ones who get handed all the numbers. They don’t know the struggle. They just flash a smile and suddenly everyone’s in love.”
Spencer’s eyes widened and he raised his hands. “That’s what I said! Or, was thinking! He doesn’t get it.”
The woman nodded. “Trust me. I get it.”
Spencer wanted to say something. How could someone as beautiful as her get what he was feeling. She spoke confidently, and she didn’t seem like someone who would need any help.
“Let me tell you the best way into a woman’s heart. Or pants.”
Spencer choked on his water and the woman snorted at him. Spencer wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned to face the woman completely. “I’m listening.”
The woman smiled and laced her fingers together. “First of all, be confident, but not cocky. If a woman is at a bar by herself or with her friends, chances are, she wants to meet a hot guy she can hook up with. Or, she’s not looking for a guy at all. You gotta learn the difference. Plus, take the lead. Unless it’s clear you shouldn’t. Most women want the guy to take the lead.”
Spencer listened carefully. Mainly because he found the woman’s voice to be mesmerizing, and because she seemed to know what she was talking about.
“And second, be yourself. You really shouldn’t have to downplay your personality, unless you suck. And then you should definitely not be yourself.”
“What if being myself is the problem?”
“Then you haven’t found anyone worth your time.”
The woman and Spencer held each other’s gaze until she looked down at her glass. “You’re cute, smart, I assume. Since you obviously know a lot of statistics. And you’re adorably awkward. She wasn’t worth your time.” The woman brought her glass to her lips and took a sip. “That, and she would’ve eaten you alive.”
Spencer laughed, nodding. “Probably.” He hoped the dimmer lights of the club hid his bright red cheeks. After a few quiet moments, Spencer spoke again. “I get really awkward when it comes to conversing with women about things that are not work-related.”
“You’re talking fine with me.”
Spencer paused, and he lifted his head and met the woman’s warm eyes. She smiled at him and a swarm of butterflies flew around in his stomach.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
The woman slid off her stool and stood straight, smoothing down her clothes. Spencer watched her, hoping she wasn’t going to just walk away.
The woman took a few steps closer to Spencer, leaning her back against the counter, right beside the doctor. Her eyes watched the crowd, and Spencer knew she was looking for her friends.
“There they are,” she mumbled.
The woman turned her head and Spencer’s breath hitched. She was close, and she was absolutely beautiful up close. The woman smiled at Spencer, a smile he hadn’t seen on her before.
She opened up her purse and grabbed a card, handing it to Spencer.
“If you ever need a woman you can converse with, call me. Or, call me for the sake of it.”
Spencer looked down on the card. There was no name, just a number. The woman took a few steps away from Spencer, but he gently took hold of her wrist, halting her.
“I thought you said the guy should lead?”
The woman grinned, her eyes bright. “I said most women want the guy to lead.” She tugged her wrist out of Spencer’s hold and slipped her hand into his.
“You can lead the date.”
Spencer’s mouth dropped and his eyes widened. Before she could walk away, he squeezed her hand once before letting it go. “Can I at least know your name?”
“Can I know yours?”
Spencer’s smile widened and his cheeks hurt.
“Spencer.”
“Y/n.”
taglist (ask to join): @h-grangerstudies @elektrosonix @corvid-of-wren-fell @redroomwidows @coffeandtswift @spencersrose
Everyone around them is trying to discover the true nature of Y/N and Spencer’s relationship. Little do they know Y/N is trying to figure out the exact same thing.
A/N: Sorry this took a lot longer than I wanted it to.... Mental health is hard but here it is!! I hope you guys love it :)) Additionally I added a lil garvez to this... but for it to work with the timeline we’re all just gonna pretend Lisa doesn’t exist... ok great!
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (with a little splash of implied Garvez content for my personal joy)
Requested?: Yes!! :)) “can you do a one shot based off call it what you want??”
Type: Fluffiest Fluff
Word Count: 3K
Content Warnings: None!
“My baby's fly like a jet stream
High above the whole scene
Loves me like I'm brand new
So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to”
The team was sure something was going on between Y/N and Spencer, they just weren’t sure how to prove it.
Every sign pointed to the two dating, but the pair hadn’t said anything about it. Maybe they were trying to keep it a secret, but at the same time they didn’t appear to be being very secretive about it.
So ever since Penelope saw Y/N giving Spencer a ride home a week ago, she has been determined to uncover the truth, and hopefully the truth was her two best friends were in the world’s cutest, most perfect relationship.
She was using her technical brilliance to gather data when she was caught by none other than Luke Alvez.
“What are you doing in here?”
“This is my job Luke, I have to be in here,” she rolled her eyes.
“Well, I know that! I mean what are you doing right now, we don’t have a case.” he smirked “Are you committing any cyber crimes? You know you could get in a lot of trouble for those, the FBI won’t help you. You should let me help.”
She smiled, “You do know I got my job here from committing cyber crimes right? I don’t think I would need your help. Besides, I’m working on a personal project.” After some thought she decided Luke might actually be helpful “I’m trying to find out if Spencer and Y/N are dating.”
“I swear I saw them leaving together yesterday, that seems like pretty good evidence! I could be very helpful to you.”
“I’m way ahead of you, but I guess you can help,” she pulled up a new tab, quickly constructing a timeline while Luke pulled a chair next to her. “So our favorite pair’s relationship would, based on my intense experimentation and surveying, begin here,” she traced a circle around the start of the timeline with her cursor, “on that night we went out after the case and then wouldn’t stop talking to each other.”
Luke and Penelope discussed all the things they saw that led them to believe that Y/N and Spencer were more than just friends, from how keen Y/N was to listen to anything that came out of Spencer’s mouth no matter how difficult to follow, to Spencer’s willingness to touch her. After about 15 minutes however they were interrupted by none other than Y/N herself. Penelope quickly switched tabs, so that it now appeared she was just showing Luke a funny kitten video.
“Hey guys! What are you doing in here?”
“Oh you know, just wasting time. . . What’s up?” said Luke.
“I was just checking to see if you wanted to go to lunch! If you have any opinions as to where that would be great too because no one out there can make a decision . . .”
“Of course I want lunch! I’ll be out there in just a sec,” Penelope smiled and started closing her work done as soon as Y/N left, almost forgetting Luke’s presence.
“Um, Penelope?”
“What is it Luke?”
“Do you think you’d ever do anything like what Y/N and Spencer are doing?” he asked.
“Like what? Keep a secret? You know I’m terrible at that stuff.”
“No, no I mean like . . .” he took a deep breath, “You know, like dating a coworker?”
“What does that have to do with anything? Now hurry up and come to lunch, we can keep working afterwards,” she replied.
Luke awkwardly smiled, and they both left.
Little did Luke and Penelope know that as they debated and pieced together aspects of Y/N and Spencer’s relationship, trying to uncover if they were dating, Y/N was doing the exact same thing.
Her and Spencer had been on three dates, each more boyfriend and girlfriend than the last. They got coffee one day, then went to a movie, then a nice restaurant for dinner. Tonight Spencer wanted to keep it a surprise, but that just made her even more confused.
Sometimes her and Spencer would sit next to each other at the round table, and now when they did that he would reach over, not to hold her hand, but just to link their pinkies together.
She didn’t know what that meant.
Sometimes Y/N would go on a tangent and realize she had been talking for almost an hour about nothing in particular, and when she realized Spencer was the only one still listening would apologize for wasting his time. To which he would reply, “Why would I be upset about spending time with you?”
She didn’t know what that meant.
And one time, on her and Spencer’s first “date” they were about to part their separate directions, and Y/N had no idea what to do with her body or her hands, Spencer wrapped her into a hug, and she swore she felt his lips brushing against the top of her head.
She really didn’t know what that meant.
Which is why she continued to let Penelope and Luke have their fun trying to decipher her and Spencer’s social cues. She knew as soon as she was about to enter to ask about lunch, Penelope was not exactly quiet and Luke wasn’t any better, but she let them believe they were being sneaky.
Besides, maybe if they found the answer they could let her know.
When the team returned from lunch she couldn’t help but continue to contemplate this issue further, Spencer hadn’t really said anything to her at lunch. Were they still just friends? Were they dating but not telling anyone? Were they going to tell anyone?
“Y/N! Are you excited to hang out tonight?” Spencer asked.
Hang out. So it definitely was not a date. . .
“Of course! Right after work right? Your place?”
“Yep! It’s a date,” he smiled and walked away, leaving Y/N in a state of confused panic. What was this? For someone so logical and scientific, Y/N wished that Spencer Reid would just tell her the kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, and genus of their relationship.
Maybe then she could stop dissecting it to try and figure it out.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
As Y/N stood outside Spencer’s apartment building, she struggled to muster up courage to go inside. It’s not that she was nervous to hang out with Spencer, it was just Y/N knew she needed to have the “what are we” talk with him for her own personal sanity. And she just wasn’t sure yet what his answer would be.
She had made her way into the building and gotten to Spencer’s floor when she ran into the man of the hour himself.
“Oh there you are! I was about to come down and get you,” he said.
Y/N glanced at her phone, “I’m sorry, am I late?”
“No, no, no. You’re perfect, I just got excited.”
That confused Y/N even more, she couldn’t decide if that leaned more towards friend or date territory. However all of her anxieties were forgotten for a moment as soon as she entered Spencer’s apartment.
Almost all the lights were off, except for several strings of lights shaped like stars, strung in different directions across the room. In the corner were several folded up blankets and sheets, and pillows were spread out across the room.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it, although if I’m being honest I don’t really know what it is . . .”
“13 months ago we were on a case, the one were the unsub was killing couples when they went out camping so that no one would look for them for days, and you said that you used to go camping all the time but you didn’t think you could go anymore. So I bought stuff so we could go camping together, right here.”
Y/N was left almost speechless, “I- I don’t even know what to say, Spencer this is incredible.”
He beamed, instantly satisfied with that answer. “I tried to find a tent, but all of the stores I went to said I should order one online . . . I figured it would be more fun to build a fort instead.”
Spencer brought over the supplies he had bought and gathered, various sheets and comforters, pillows, his leather couch cushions, sleeping bags, a large collection of clothes pins, and some more lights. Except Spencer left a single bag in the pile, the only one from a craft store.
“Do you want me to grab that one?” Y/N asked.
“Oh um, no don’t worry about that one. I saw something stupid on that site JJ and Garcia really like while I was passing JJ’s desk. . . Pinterest? Yes that’s it. And I tried to make it but even though I memorized the instructions I couldn’t get it to work. . . I kind of just gave up and threw everything in there.”
“Can I try it?”
He nodded, and Y/N got up and glanced into the bag, in it was a push light, warm toned tissue paper and a couple empty paper towel rolls, all stuck together, but also somehow falling apart. Y/N couldn’t help but smile, “Were you trying to build me a campfire Dr. Reid?”
“Well you said that your family used to have this big bonfire every year, and that it used to be one of your favorite traditions until you couldn’t handle going anymore, so I thought I could make one that would be a little safer for you. Turns out that you actually need four PHDs to be good at crafts though.”
“Spencer this whole date is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me . . . Thank you.”
“Of course, I really want you to enjoy yourself when you're around me Y/N.”
“Spencer, I’ve never not enjoyed myself when I’m around you, and you were with me when I got shot. You’re my favorite person, you do know that right?”
He blushed, “You’re my favorite person too Y/N.”
So the two lovers built a blanket fort, draping sheets over string lights and shoving the inside full of pillows and blankets, giggling the entire time. Y/N taught Spencer the simplicity of DIY projects, and how sometimes the directions needed to be adjusted slightly based on personal preferences and ability. Soon the pair were cuddled up together on the ground, no other space to be except for right next to each other, as the rest of the fort was covered by snacks, pillows, their homemade campfire, and Spencer’s vinyl record player.
“Did you do this on purpose? Making me be so close to you?”
“No, I would never, it’s not my fault this area is so small . . . “
“Mhm, although I’m sure a genius like you could figure out how to make an adult sized fort, I’m very glad you didn’t,” she said, giggling and squishing herself closer to him. They smiled and kissed each other, before Spencer spoke.
“You make me so, unbelievably, happy. I never thought I could feel like this until we met Y/N.”
Y/N smiled even bigger, “Spencer I really, really like you,” she paused, it was now or never, “but um, what do you want to call this, like what we’re doing.”
“Well what do you want this to be? Because I want you to be my girlfriend.”
She smiled, “I want you to be my boyfriend.”
“Well then that’s what we’ll be,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
“Well you do know the team, particularly Penelope and Luke have the exact same question.”
“Well I think more than Luke wondering if we’re dating, I think he’s just wondering if Penelope will date him. . . So I say let them have their fun for a little while, before we tell everyone.”
She smiled, “Perfect. They’re profilers, they’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Well, I think we should watch a movie. . . Although I mostly enjoy my cinema in Russian, tonight is about you and I don’t want to give you a headache. What’s your favorite?”
“You’re going to laugh at me.”
“I promise I will not laugh at you darling.”
“High School Musical 3.”
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
So Y/N spent the rest of that night explaining the plot of the first two High School Musical movies, then explaining why the third one was the clear winner, and then finally showing Spencer the third one off of her phone, where she had it saved to her cloud for emergencies.
And although singing and dancing adults pretending to be teenagers was not exactly Spencer’s favorite genre, he loved how happy the series as a whole made Y/N. So he latched onto it, and learned as much as he could about it.
One particular scene however, in one of the earlier films, seemed to make Y/N extra excited, as she spent the longest amount of time talking about it. So Spencer decided he knew exactly what to do to prove to her he was in this relationship for the long haul.
Spencer could tell she was anxious before their date, and it didn’t take him long to guess that it was because she didn’t know how serious everything was to him. Yet, he didn’t want to be too obvious that he wanted her to be his, because if he had assessed wrong he would make a complete fool out of himself.
But when she asked him, she seemed so nervous, so small, he knew he had made a mistake in waiting, and now he wanted to make it up to her.
So as she was walking in the next day he caught her. “Y/N!”
“Hi Spencer! What’s up?”
“I have a present for you. . .” he said, handing her a small box wrapped in shiny gold paper.
“For me? Why?”
“Oh you know, just because. . .”
As Y/N unwrapped the box, Spencer got more and more nervous… What if she hated it? What if she thought it was stupid or too soon or didn’t get it or-
“Oh my god Spencer I-”
“You know what it’s stupid, I don’t even know why I got it for you. I can return it and find you something you’ll actually like-”
“I love it Spencer, it’s perfect. Will you put it on me?”
Spencer hooked the chain around his new girlfriend’s neck, the small “S” pendant shining in the light.
“It’s like Gabriella’s. . . I love it. I can’t believe you would care to remember something like that…”
“Of course I would remember that. I have an eidetic memory. Did you know that although the original purpose and origin of initial jewelry was largely unknown, they date back to the 14th century?”
“No, I just mean… It’s very thoughtful Spencer.”
He smiled, “Well I’m sorry to kill the mood, but I really have to go to the bathroom. I drank 3 cups of coffee this morning and I was standing here waiting for you for 18 minutes and 4 seconds before you came in.”
She laughed, and then hugged him, “Well don’t just stand here! Go!”
Spencer ran off, leaving Y/N to walk into the bullpen alone. As Y/N was making her way to her desk, she was stopped by none other than Penelope Garcia and Luke Alvez, Penelope up front, Luke standing a foot or so behind her, ready to back her up.
“Y/N! We know your secret, you and Spencer are secretly dating. . . We figured it out this morning. You can’t hide from us anymore,” Penelope said, Luke nodding behind her.
“Well yeah we’re dating, but it’s not a secret.”
“What? Excuse me? You haven’t told anyone!”
“Yeah but we haven’t really made any effort to hide it? We told everyone about the time we went to the movies?”
“Yeah but- Um, we just thought we were being sneaky. . .” Penelope said.
“You might wanna get a little better at that guys, the Bat Cave is not soundproof.”
“Dang it, I really need to work on that…” Penelope said. “Well Luke Alvez, I suppose our quest has been conquered.”
“See! We were right, I told you I’m great help,” Luke said.
“Oh don’t get it too twisted, this was almost all me.”
After a moment of playful banter, Y/N stopped them “So when are you two going to start “secretly” dating huh?”
“Uh hmph, I don’t know what you talking about. I would never,” Penelope said.
At that moment, Spencer returned from the bathroom, and came up upon Y/N hugging her from behind and leaning to rest his head on her shoulder. “What are we talking about?”
Penelope threw her head back in defeat, “Nothing, 187, we were just talking. . .”
“Don’t you think Luke and Penelope would make the cutest couple Spencer?” Y/N smirked.
“You know what? Yeah I do!” Spencer played along, “Have you guys ever thought about that?
Luke was beaming behind Penelope, while she looked like she was trying to hide her enthusiasm. “No actually I haven’t,” she said.
“Well you definitely should,” Y/N said, giggling as her and Spencer walked to his desk.
“Hey, wait come back here! What does your necklace have on it?” Penelope asked, half running after them, Luke closely behind her.
“Whatever you want Penelope, whatever you want.”
“I want to wear his initial
On a chain round my neck, chain round my neck
Not because he owns me
But 'cause he really knows me”
Thank you so much for reading!! Please reblog and let me know what you think :)))
