🐺🌕 nexum lunaris (spencer reid x leah clearwater AU)
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summary: Spencer invites you to a dance with the team. You spend a delightful night full of revelations.
tags: professor reid!, professor! reader, writer! reader, post prison! reid, comfort, fluff, slow burn, coming of age, no use of y/n, not proofread
w/c: 1.8k
You couldn't stop thinking about that article, even though you'd objectively decided it wasn't any of your business. But arrested? In Mexico? That's a whole different story. Nothing about Spencer makes you think he could have been arrested. The night after you found out, you were tempted to open and read the article, but you didn't.
Speaking on the matter, something else you could not stop thinking about was the dance. You told yourself this was just a dance. It didn’t feel like it anymore. You couldn't stop thinking about it since Tuesday, when Spencer asked you.
You'd said yes without even thinking about it, oh but Spencer looked adorable trying to ask you out. Wait, this is not a date, it's just a way for knowing more research sources. More profilers. It was merely professional.
At seven o'clock on Saturday, a knock on your door. Standing in front of the mirror, you smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your dress. Then you walk over to the door and peek through the peephole before opening it.
There he is, Spencer Reid standing in front of your door, rebel curls combed back, he’s wearing a gray frac that fits him very well. You open the door and smile at him, his eyes are fixed on your figure, draped in a flowing lilac dress that somehow matches his bow tie and socks; you almost laugh when you notice it, but you suppress the laughter behind a polite smile.
“How are you tonight?” He inquiries.
“I’m all good,” you answer. He waits patiently until you realize you’ve stood in front of the door without asking him to enter. “Please, come in,” you say as you let him pass to your apartment. “I just need to fix my hair real quick.”
He sits on the couch when you disappear through the hall toward your room. When you’re finally ready, Spencer extended his arm slightly, a quiet invitation rather than a gesture. After a brief hesitation, you placed your hand around his arm, trying to ignore how natural it felt.
Once you’re out of the building, you notice an old gray blue Volvo parked beside the sidewalk, outstanding among other newest cars.
No way that is his car. But it is.
You could tell when he opened the passenger door for you. Was this man perhaps taken from a historical romantic novel?
“What's the matter?” He asks when he notices you are still standing on the sidewalk. You blink and start walking towards the car. “It might be old but it works well,” he clarifies, defending his car. How adorable.
“It’s not that,” you say.
“Then?”
“I was a little surprised and not at all that this is your car,” you say, grinning.
“Is that a bad thing?” He frowns.
“Not at all,” you answer. He raises one eyebrow but says nothing else. He just closes the door and walks to the other side.
—
The place really does look like something out of a fairy tale. The chairs are decorated with branches and flowers, giving it a magical feel. There are some garlands and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It has a unique charm, blending the fantasy of a ball with the modernity of a contemporary bar. Someone at one of the tables waves at you. Spencer glances your way, and the two of you walk toward the place.
The men stand up as soon as you reach the table; Rossi is the first to approach you and greet you with a gentle kiss on the cheek—very Italian of him. Just then, a blonde woman, possibly Penelope Garcia, stands up, spreads her arms like a bird, and says:
“So you're the writer! So nice to finally meet you,” and everyone lets out a little laugh. You laugh nervously too—so Spencer has told them about you?
Spencer gets everyone’s attention to introduce you to each of them: Rossi’s fiancée, Kristal; Luke; Penelope; Tara; Emily Prentiss, the unit chief; and her boyfriend, Andrew; JJ and her husband, Will. You greet them all with a wave and receive smiles and “nice to meet you’s” in return.
You realize that the team is actually very fun; they quickly make you feel like part of the group, which puts you at ease. So you don't just spend your time talking specifically to Spencer, but also to Penelope, who has practically decided that you're already best friends forever.
“So you're writing a book?” Asks Tara.
“Yes, I'm in the process,” you answer, sipping on your mojito.
“That is not the only book she has written…” mentions Spencer. Your eyes wide. “I did my research,” he says, sipping on his peach soda.
You did not miss JJ's raised eyebrow, nor the amused glance she exchanged with Emily.
“For real? Tell us, what is that about?” Tara asks with curiosity in her voice.
So, the moment you fear has come. Talking about your first book was something that had inadvertently become a topic of debate and controversy.
“The name is… Look Who's Through the Window,” you answer.
“That sounds really interesting,” says Tara.
“It is,” mentions Spencer, implying he's read it. You felt something warm inside your chest. Not only it didn't become a moment, but now you know Spencer cared about your work.
—
As the night goes by, and after three mojitos, one martini, and one piña colada, you’re starting to really get into the swing of things. Suddenly, JJ says:
“So, Spencer, when are you going to ask your friend to dance?”
Spencer looks at her as if they don’t speak the same language.
“I… uh, I don’t dance,” he says simply.
You look at him with a raised eyebrow.
“What do you mean, you don’t? Come on!” you say, standing up and taking the last sip from your glass. “To the dance floor, Dr. Reid.”
Everyone laughs and cheers, rooting for you.
Spencer stares at you with an amused smile that makes him look even more attractive. You stagger slightly—and it’s not because of the drink—but you manage to steady yourself.
After that, you watch Penelope drag Luke along; JJ gets up with her husband, and even Emily joins in with Andrew. A salsa song starts playing, and you laugh when Spencer trips over his own feet.
“I don't know how to dance,” he says close to your ear so you can hear him over the music.
“Me neither,” you confess with a laugh. You guide him by the arm toward the emptiest spot on the dance floor so you don’t bump into anyone.
Your hands rest on his shoulders, and his hands don’t know where to go, so they rest gently, almost shyly, on your sides as you begin to move your legs to the beat of the music. He tries to follow you, and suddenly the two of you find a rhythm that, while not the best dance, at least has you both moving on the dance floor.
“Have you ever been dancing?” you ask, raising your voice so you can hear yourself over the music.
“No,” he says with an awkward smile. “You?”
“Occasionally.”
You keep dancing for a while, then, suddenly, you're no longer dancing with Spencer, but with Penelope, while Tara pulls Spencer away from you to dance with him. After a while the team comes over to dance with you; the music is upbeat and modern. You laugh at Spencer's reactions as he listens to the music.
Later, when you get tired of dancing, the two of you leave the dance floor amid protests from the others. Spencer says that’s enough for now, and you apologize, saying you need a drink. You sit down at the table where Rossi and Krystal were sitting earlier. You turn your head curiously to look over and see them on the terrace; he’s holding her hand, and you look away, embarrassed.
Suddenly, someone stands next to you—it’s Spencer. He’s holding a drink, which looks like lemonade, and offers it to you with a smile.
“You said you needed a drink, but I think this will hydrate you better.”
You take the drink from his hands.
“Thank you,” you mumble. A little dazed by Spencer's kindness. Not that it surprises you at all.
“Are you having fun?” He asks as he sits next to you.
“Very,” you answer, sipping on the drink. It is sour yet a little salty and sweet. “What is this?”
“It's a home made oral rehydration solution,” he says with confidence. “I asked the bartender to prepare it for you.”
Oh god, why does he have to be so sweet?
“Thank you,” you say.
You look at him through your lashes. He's so handsome. You've noticed before, of course. You're not blind. But right now, with his hair previously combed back, now free in messed curls, sitting so nonchalantly next to you, under the colourful lights of the place, he looked unreal.
“Have you had the opportunity to talk to any of the profilers here?” He asks you. Reminding you that this was the objective of this dance.
“Uh… not really,” you laugh.
“What?”
“It's just that I'm happy,” the word happy sounds a little too long.
Spencer smiles.
“You're drunk,” he says in that voice that makes it clear he’s joking. Little wrinkles form around his eyes when he smiles, and that makes him a thousand times more interesting. His smile dazzles you.
“I’m not drunk,” you reply with a half-pout.
Spencer laughs—a soft, slightly hoarse laugh. Oh my god.
Suddenly, there's a change of music, and all the team come back from the dance floor.
“The music turned so cheesy suddenly,” comments Tara. You laugh.
“Anyways, I'm gonna dance with my husband,” says JJ as she drags Will back to the dance floor. Penelope follows her, taking Luke with her. Then Emily and Andrew and even Rossi and Krystal, that came back and you didn't even notice it.
“You want to dance?” Spencer inquires sheepishly.
You look at him, all amused.
“Let's go,” you say before standing up, leaving your drink on the table.
The two of you head to the dance floor under the watchful gaze of Tara and the others who are already there. When you reach a spot away from the crowd, Spencer hesitantly places his hands on your waist, and you rest yours on his shoulders. He’s much taller than you—of course you’d noticed that before, but now, with his body so close to yours, it’s much more obvious.
The two of you begin to move gently to the rhythm of the slow song; suddenly you feel a little shy, you feel the gaze of his hazel eyes on your face, and you can feel the heat rising through your body. His smile makes your heart flutter. There, slowly swinging between Spencer's arms, feeling the smell of his perfume lingering around you, you realize that maybe you like him more than you want to admit.
summary: you're a new writer who had enormous success with your first novel, and now you're stuck with your second one. You move to Washington DC due to a job opportunity, there you meet Spencer Reid, who can become much more than a writing help.
tags: slow burn, legal age gap (Spencer's 37, reader's 28), writer!reader, post prison! Spencer, professor! Spencer, professor! reader, female reader, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, coming of age
୨୧ timeline begins mid season 13
☁︎ = fluff | ☽ = hurt/comfort | ♡ = smut |
✞ = angst | ✿ = comfort
brand new city | ✿
⤷ you move to Washington DC to teach at the Georgetown university. You are struggling with the manuscript of your new book and your manager keeps pressuring you. During your first day at university you meet dr. Spencer Reid.
odd eye | ✿☁︎
⤷ you meet Rossi who shows up to help you, he opens your perspective, but then he tells you he cannot help you anymore. So, you ask Spencer to teach you about criminal behavior, and then, have the first reunion at your apartment.
rollercoaster | ☁︎✞
⤷ you and Spencer keep seeing each other to talk about your book. You found out something about him that startled you. Then, he surprises you with an unexpected invitation.
two young hearts | ☁︎✿
⤷Spencer invites you to a dance with the team. You spend a delightful night full of revelations. coming soon
summary : conversations are happening over breakfast, and then dinner.
wc : 9k
tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot (but no porn yet next chapter i promise lol), coworkers, fast burn?, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, male masturbation, coming in pantssss, pervy!spencer, spit 🤤, lots and lots and lots of talking about sex, lowkey a moment of sweetness between them
a/n : this fic is shooting itself out of my brain at break neck speeds, i have no control over spencers actions at this point he has become his own person doing whatever he pleases
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Sleep was impossible for him after your interaction at the bar.
How was he supposed to sleep with your threat looming over him? For all he knew, you had already called Hotch and convinced him that he was some sick pervert who couldn’t be trusted around the women of the office.
Instead of sleeping he did the next best thing.
He returned to his bed and thought about you in that shirt.
One hand wrapped around his dick with the other wrapped tightly around his throat.
Thinking about how you sneered at him and called him a creep.
Pushing his head back against the pillow, squirming like it’s you holding his neck. Squeezing hard. You would squeeze too hard, you would want it to hurt. You would call him a creep, disgusting, a freak.
His groan comes out as a strangled whine as he runs his thumb across his leaking tip.
He recalls how the black fabric clung to your waist, cinched just above your belly button. Revealing that thin strip of flesh around your midsection, your skin looked so soft and smooth, what he wouldn’t give to run his fingers across your waist.
He’s snapped out of his self-gratification by the sound of his phone. Whining at the interruption.
He had your contact saved under your full name, first, middle, and last, just like everyone else's in his phone. As if you knew what he was doing, there you were.
He answers without a second thought, he couldn’t possibly dig himself into a deeper hole. Maybe you want to give him a chance to explain himself, maybe you want to blackmail him, maybe you got too drunk and you need someone to drive you home, who cares, anything is better than nothing.
“Hello?” He has enough courtesy to stop stroking himself as he brings the phone to his ear. Glancing at the alarm clock beside him, when did it get so late?
“Whatcha doing?” He can tell immediately based on your slurred speech that you’re drunk, and based on the obnoxious slurping you’re still actively drinking.
“What?” It’s all he can say as his cock twitches at the sound of your voice, like a dog hearing its favorite word.
“You sound… sweaty.” Your voice trails off into a fit of giggles, he doesn’t hear anything in the background so you must have left the bar but he’s desperate to avoid addressing his sweating.
“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” He isn’t sure why you called him, you’re drunk enough that you probably just did it by accident.
“No- no, I’m home.” You’re still giggling, the sound makes his cheeks burn. Contrary to what everyone on the team thinks, he actually enjoys the sound of your laughter, he just likes it less when you’re laughing at him.
“Are you okay?” He softens his voice, he’s a little worried that you’re too drunk. Even if you’re safe at home, what if you brought someone home with you and they’re over there taking advantage of you? Or what if you invited someone over for drinks and they slipped you something?
“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You drag out his name, he can picture the way you flick your tongue when you use his title. It makes him sit up straight.
“Do you need help?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay…?” Then why did you call him?
“Okay.” Your voice pitches up in that overly sweet way as you mock him.
“You’re drunk.” He’s stating the obvious but he feels like one of you should address it.
“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”
“Are you alone?” He can’t imagine you left the bar empty handed looking the way you did. You could have taken any of those losers home.
Any of those losers but him.
“All alone.” He can’t help the sigh of relief that he lets out. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”
“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” It’s true, there’s no reason to make up an active weekend full of plans. He’ll watch the chess tournament and spend the rest of the weekend with his dick in his hand scrolling through your Instagram. It’s the only time he actively indulges in social media usage.
“That’s it?”
“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night." He can’t help himself as he snaps back at you, you started it with your tone anyway.
“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You stutter through your sentence, he can imagine the way your lips curl back as you say it.
“Why exactly did you call me?” He finally asks the question he’s dying to know the answer to.
You’re quiet for a moment before you clear your throat.
“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?”
“Why?” This has to be a trap.
“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.” Definitely a trap.
“Really?” He makes his skepticism clear.
“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” This phone call is harmless but he absolutely should not subject himself to one on one time with you. What’s your angle here?
“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?”
“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Goodnight.” He needs this conversation to end while you’re still on mostly good terms.
Before one of you ruins it with something too mean.
“Spencer.” The world around him stops when you whine. His hand involuntarily squeezes around the base of his cock, he’s going to spend the next several hours repeating that whine over and over again in his head.
“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.” He swallows, fighting the urge to start fucking his hand again. At the very least he should wait until you hang up.
“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.” He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it trapped in his lungs as he flashes through the mental images he’s branded into his brain of the shirt. Involuntarily flexing his hand around his cock again.
“What time are we meeting?” His resolve is thrown out the window immediately at the thought of getting to see you wearing it again. He doesn’t even care if this is a trap at this point.
“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.”
“What? Why do I have to-” He starts but you interrupt him.
“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” And just like that the phone clicks.
With his free hand he types out a place that he likes that isn’t too far from you, all the while his other hand has already started stroking his aching cock again.
White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.
He tosses his phone towards his nightstand as he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow as he arches his hips, fucking down and into his hand as he recalls the exact way you whined out his name.
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You should have texted him and cancelled.
It would have been so easy to blame everything on your intoxication but for some reason you couldn’t. It’s eating you up inside, Emily’s words are driving you fucking crazy.
There’s no reason to be nervous, yet you still gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles were white on the drive here. You have the upper hand here, you have all the power and he’s still just Spencer.
He’s still annoying, bratty, creepy, Spencer.
And until you prove anything Emily claimed, you shouldn’t act otherwise.
Scratch that.
You shouldn’t act at all, you should just get the information you want and learn to live with it. You just want to know, there’s nothing wrong with knowing.
You’re in a rut. You don’t know what you want anymore and Emily threw a firecracker into your already confused brain. Now you’re scrambled, maybe having an adult conversation about adult topics with an adult will fix you. You don’t actually want to fuck him. You just want to know that someone wants you, it’ll help you get your mojo back, that’s all this is.
True to your word you’re wearing the same shirt you wore last night, paired with a baggy pair of sweatpants this time. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to impress him, quite the opposite actually. You want to prove Emily wrong, if he’s obsessed he’ll be obsessed even if you look like this.
You hold the strap of your purse tightly as you approach the entrance, a coping mechanism to try and soothe your nerves as you scan the inside of the empty restaurant. Only one booth is occupied.
Of course he’s already here.
You’re ten minutes early and he’s already on his second cup of coffee.
When you start towards him he looks up, to no one's surprise his eyes linger too long on your chest before he meets your eyes. Neither one of you smiles or waves.
There are no words exchanged between the two of you as you take a seat on the opposite side of the booth.
He really is doing his best to look at your face. It looks as though it physically pains him to not look down but he gives it his best effort as he chews his lip. You want to keep him on the edge of his seat for a little while longer, so you take this as an opportunity to look him over.
He’s dressed like he would be for a day in the office, of course. At this point you’re certain he doesn’t own casual clothes, his closet must just be a never ending supply of dress shirts and sweater vests.
And he looks tired, even more so than he normally does.
Good.
You’re glad he didn’t sleep well after whatever the fuck yesterday was. You hope he had a long night spent fretting over this whole situation. You spent your night and morning coming up with a game plan.
You’re gonna feel things out, do a few “experiments” to test Emily’s theory, and that’s it. At the end of the day he’s still him and you’re still you.
You just need to know.
That’s all.
You just need to remind yourself that you have all the control here, he isn’t going to run and tell Hotch anything you say because he doesn’t want you to do the same thing.
“When was the last time you had sex?” No reason to beat around the bush, you know this conversation is going to be uncomfortable for him.
He chokes on his coffee, grabbing a napkin he dabs at his chin.
“What kind of question is that? Why does every conversation with you have to be about sex? It’s ten in the morning, what is wrong with you?” It’s ten in the morning and his voice is already high pitched in a way that normally takes hours of teasing for you to achieve.
“We’re here because I want to talk about sex.”
“Well I don’t want to, and if that’s all you want to do then I’ll just leave.” He starts to slide out of the booth but you reach across the table, grabbing his arm.
“If you stay I’ll forget everything that happened yesterday.”
He shakes you off as he sits back down.
“I told you, I’m not scared of you and I didn’t do anything wrong. Going to a bar isn’t a crime.” Based on the way he crosses his arms defensively while his jaw ticks you know that he is in fact scared.
“That’s fine and you’re welcome to go if that’s the case.”
He should know you’re telling the truth, your whole job is knowing.
“You swear you won’t tell anyone if I stay?“ He speaks softer now, less defensively.
“If you have breakfast with me and answer my questions I promise I’ll forget everything, I won’t coyly tease you about it, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”
He buries his face in both of his hands for a moment before dragging his fingers through his hair as he sighs. He always does that when he’s stressed, it’s why his hair is always a mess.
“Okay, sure, fine. But I need collateral.” You knew he’d agree/
“Collateral?”
“Yeah, you have to give me something, or- or tell me something in exchange. I’m not just gonna tell you my embarrassing secrets without something in return, otherwise you could just go and tell everyone everything I’ve told you and that I was at the bar.”
“Fine, we can go back and forth, any questions at all, and you have to tell the truth, I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“And I’ll know the same.” He says it like he says most things, smugly, despite the way his leg bounces nervously under the table.
“And obviously all of this never leaves this table. If you even tell anyone we had breakfast I will deny it.”
“Obviously. A mutual agreement of trust.”
“Agreed.” You hold your hand out, out of habit, and much to your surprise he shakes it. “I thought you didn't shake hands?”
“Is that your first question?”
“No, when was the last time you had sex?” You’re itching for the answer, if it’s been a while he’s more likely to cooperate. The more desperate he is the easier it’ll be to get him to talk. You know how to play this game, if you want him to cooperate all you have to do is just your chest out and pout.
“With Lila Archer, two years ago.” His eyes dart away from you down towards his coffee, his pinky twitches around his mug.
Fucker.
“Are you seriously already lying to me?” You throw a sugar packet at him, he doesn’t so much as flinch as it hits him in the chest. You both watch as it falls under the table.
“We already established that I don’t need to be doing this at all, why does it matter if I lie? This is just a stupid game, I gave you an answer. Let's just be happy about that.” He mumbles, always with the mumbling.
You’re about to stick the end of his tie in his coffee when a pretty older woman in an apron smiles as she approaches the table.
“How are the two of you doin’? You look like you’re havin’ the sweetest mornin’.” She has an adorable tooth gap and a voice like honey but he doesn’t even look up at her, with you distracted he doesn’t tear his eyes off your tits.
“We’re doing so great! We were just talking about the funniest thing that happened last night over at Betty’s, have you ever been?” You flash her a grin as you kick Spencer under the table, finally he looks up at her, just for a second before he looks back at you.
“I haven’t but I’ve heard good things from a couple’a girlfriends of mine. How was it?” She pulls a pencil out of her apron pocket.
“Oh it was so great, we actually work together and ran into each other there completely by accident,” You point at Spencer as he glares at you. “do you wanna tell her what happened, Reid?” You turn your smile from her to him as his lips settle into a sulk.
“You know what, it’s a long story and we don’t want to bother you but I think my friend and I are ready to order.” He speaks in a controlled and calm tone, despite his expression. He closes the menu in front of him, handing it to her. “I’ll have the un-birthday breakfast and she’ll have an order of chocolate chip pancakes with a seasonal fruit assortment.” You open your mouth to object but he just carries on speaking. “Could she also get a coffee and some water, and a cup of flavored creamer please, vanilla or mocha are fine, thank you.” He takes your menu before you can say anything, giving your server a tightlipped smile as he hands yours to her as well before she finishes scribbling in her notepad, turning on her heels and disappearing back into the kitchen. Once she’s out of sight he sighs. “Okay, fine, I won’t lie, let’s start over.” He’s pouting as he takes a sip of his water.
“How do you know my breakfast order?” You sit up a little straighter as you squint at him, studying his mannerisms.
“You like sweet things for breakfast, you usually opt for a donut or a pastry over a breakfast sandwich. When there are donuts in the bullpen you always take a chocolate one, and you circled your finger across the seasonal fruit option at least four times when you were looking over the menu.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe he does spend a lot of time staring at you specifically, you seriously doubt anyone else on the team would know your breakfast order.
“I- wow, I don’t even know what to say to-” You really don’t, you normally have a snarky quip to throw back in his face but this is uncharted territory.
“When was the last time you had sex?” You don’t have time to think of something to say, he beats you to it.
“What?”
“You asked your question, and I answered, now it’s your turn, that was the deal.”
“Two months ago.” You speak without another thought, if you tell the truth he’s more likely to as well. The second you say it he’s suspicious. He tilts his head like he does when he’s watching an unsub from behind the glass.
“How is that possible? You said just last week that you… hooked up-” He says it like it’s a phrase in another language, completely foreign to him. “-with some vet tech?”
“I was lying. I haven’t had sex in two months.” You shrug, you aren’t exhibiting any signs of lying and he knows it. You're telling the truth.
“Why even bother telling everyone-” You hold a finger up in front of his face.
“It’s not your turn. When was the last time you had sex? And don’t lie.” You put on the most serious face you can muster given how ridiculous this conversation is.
“It’s been…” He mumbles something, reaching for another sugar packet, emptying the contents into his coffee.
“If you keep mumbling I’m going to pour your coffee into your lap.” As you reach for his mug he pulls it back.
“I suppose technically I haven’t.” The words tumble out of his mouth in quick succession as his eyebrows furrow.
“Haven’t what?” You draw your hand back.
“That was your turn, you already set a precedent that there are no follow up questions.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, refusing to look at you as you stare at him.
Oh.
He hasn’t.
“Why are you lying to everyone about having sex?” He sets his mug down a little too hard, the table shakes as your server reappears, offering a smile as she silently sets down your coffee, a small silver pitcher of creamer, and a glass of water before disappearing again.
You have to clear your throat as you try to collect yourself.
He’s twenty five, and despite how annoying he is you can’t deny that he is sort of attractive. If you’re into librarians, or guys who don’t know how to style their hair. You’re certain he could pick someone up at a bar if he tried.
“I umm- I guess I just didn’t want to make a big deal about it when I stopped having sex.” Your brows are drawn together in a sharp motion as you continue to try and make sense of this. “Is this a voluntary celibacy?”
“Absolutely not.” His jaw ticks, just a little bit, his hands are in his lap but if you had to guess you’d say his nails are digging into his palms.
Something must be wrong with him, aside from the obvious.
You might not like him but you aren’t blind. Underneath his terrible haircut he has an objectively nice looking face. Sharp jaw, strong chin, pretty round lips…
It just doesn’t make sense.
“Why are we here?” He doesn’t mumble but he does whisper.
“I told you, I wanted to talk.” You pour your creamer into your coffee, trying to keep your tone light.
“I get that part but why? We’ve never hung out before, you ignore me at after work functions, and you obviously don’t like me. You make a conscious effort to let everyone know you don’t like me. I just don’t understand why you’d want to spend one of your rare days off bickering with me.” The look of concentration on his face tells you he’s genuinely struggling to understand your motive.
You’re struggling with that yourself right now.
You don’t want to lie. But you also don’t want to outright say, “because I want to see if you’re hot for me.” Because you aren’t really sure why it’s so important for you to know that in the first place.
“I- I don’t know.” Is finally the answer you settle on.
“Are we allowed to give super vague responses that don’t actually answer anything?” He almost smiles as he says it, it helps you relax again.
“How about we each get a pass?”
“Well that’s not fair, I would have used mine if I knew that was an option.” You love that tone of voice, argumentative and louder, more confident but without the seriousness that was starting to settle onto your conversation.
“Well now it is, and I pass, you get one too.”
“Fine, why did you stop having sex? At one point I assume you really were taking men home while you were out with Emily, otherwise you wouldn’t have earned your nickname. So, you stopped two months ago, why?”
Now you wish you hadn't used your pass.
“I just… needed a change. I wasn’t satisfied by the-” You struggle to find the words to accurately explain the feeling. Once again, you don’t want to lie but you aren’t entirely sure of the answer. “I… stopped having fun. So there really wasn’t a reason to keep doing it if I wasn’t having a good time.”
It’s objectively true.
You don’t mention that you stopped feeling the spark you used to get. You don’t feel that pang of arousal in your stomach when you’re with a partner anymore.
You stopped getting butterflies.
He nods, both of you taking long sips of your water and sitting in silence as you hear the kitchen door swing open, both of your breakfasts are brought out. You’re thrilled to have a reason to sit and think, even if it’s just for a moment as you cut up your pancakes.
“Why haven’t you just gotten it over with? You’ve had options, I’ve been on cases with you where women are giving you the time of day.” You wave your fork in his direction before sticking it into a strawberry.
“I have standards, you know. Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I want to stick it into the first person that offers.” There’s a harsh snap to his voice that is reserved just for you, familiar and engaging as he takes a bite of his eggs.
“I’m not saying you should fuck anything with a pulse, I’m saying that there have been plenty of pretty, nice women, who I’ve seen hit on you.”
“I’m fully aware of that, but I wasn’t interested in them.”
“Why not? You clearly don’t want to be a virgin, so why not just get it over with?” You reach across the table for the syrup, coating your pancakes.
“Like I said, I have standards. I might be a virgin-” He whispers it, looking over his shoulder as if the diner isn’t still empty. “But I know what I like and what I want.”
“Hmm.” You hum around a bite of your pancakes. Fuck this place has good food, you’re gonna have to come back here.
“You asked two questions so now I get two. What is fun to you?” He tilts his head to the side, with an air of confidence you don’t normally see from him when sex is the subject matter.
“Hmm?” You hum around your fork.
“You said you stopped having fun, what’s fun? Shouldn’t all sex be fun?”
Oh you sweet summer child.
“What’s the second question?”
“Depends on your answer.” One good thing about Spencer is how engaged he is in every conversation he has.
“I like to try new things.” You tilt your head a bit to the side.
“Like what?”
“You’ll need to be more specific if you want a specific answer.” You love the way he hangs off your every word.
“What was something fun you wanted to do, that one of your partners turned down?” The smile you get from him as he says it is unlike anything you’re used to from him. You like this side of Spencer, you much prefer this Spencer.
This is like chess with him but better because you actually stand a chance of beating him.
This conversation just got fun. Any dread you felt when you first arrived is gone.
“I wanted him to beg for it.” When you see your server step out of the kitchen you smile and wave at her as she heads in your direction to refill your coffees. “I wanted him to ask nicely, and use his manners. He didn’t want to, he puffed out his chest like the big strong man he thought he was and told me that he doesn’t do that, because he expects it. So I kindly asked him to leave.” You continue to speak as she fills both your mugs. “Thank you.” You give her another big smile as she leaves.
“And what do you expect? What requirements do your partners have to meet?” He doesn’t seem to even notice that she came and went, he’s too focused on you now.
“My standards are high these days, begging is obviously the bare minimum, which is probably why it’s been two months.” You pick up your mug, feeling the warmth beneath your fingertips. “It’s important to me that my partners feel grateful when they’re with me.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’re asking for too much.” It’s your turn to almost spit your coffee out as he says it so casually.
Clearing your throat you set the mug back down.
“I expect devotion.”
“And what do these men get in return?” He’s like an interviewer. His questions come quickly, as if he has them written down.
“That would be your third question, Doctor.”
“I’m trading in my pass for an extra question, since we’re allowed to make up rules whenever we want.”
You pause for a moment, trying to meet his gaze as he avoids yours.
“They get me.” You smile as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes are still down on the swirling of his coffee.
Oh, you could absolutely pull the trigger on this if you want to.
That’s the question you need to ask yourself. Do you want to? If you look at this as an abstract concept where he’s just a guy in this diner and not Spencer, he’s the perfect choice.
And Emily’s right, he doesn’t even know it. You’ve never properly looked at his body language but he leans into every word that falls from your lips. He isn’t so brazenly staring at your chest today but he certainly steals glances. Even if parts of him hate you, that’s fine, parts of you hate him. But there’s an undeniable fascination for you that you’d never noticed before today.
What’s the worst that could happen?
“My turn. Do I live up to the high standards of Dr. Spencer Reid? Would you have sex with me?”
“Now you’re just being mean.” His confident tone falters a bit as he continues to stare down, tucking his hair behind his ears.
You can’t exactly blame him for that reaction, You’ve spent the last year teasing him relentlessly. You’ve taken every opportunity handed to you to embarrass him, after the first month you stopped with the pleasantries. What reason would he have to assume this was anything but a cruel joke.
You grab his mug, pulling it across the table so it’s in front of you. You take a handful of sugar packets as well, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“Remind me, how many sugars do you take in your coffee?”
“Six, I can do it myself.” Jesus, he likes his sugar. He starts to reach towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You just click your tongue in response.
“No, no I’ve got it.” One by one you rip open each packet, when you empty the sixth one you look up to find he’s watching you closely. You lean over the mug, your tongue poking out from between your teeth as you spit into his coffee before you slide it back over to him.
“Come on, seriously-”
You shake your head as he starts, effectively shutting him up.
“It’s still my turn, would you have sex with me if you could? Since you’ve played so nicely I won’t even make you say it out loud if it’s too embarrassing. You can just enjoy your coffee and I’ll know the answer.” Your tone is still teasing but you look at him with a fondness that is unfamiliar to him.
He stares down into his coffee, his cheeks are red, and that squiggly little vein on his temple looks like it’s about to pop.
Okay maybe this was a step too far.
But you seriously doubt you misread this situation, your entire job is to read situations.
You watch with bated breath as he hesitantly lifts his mug. And just like that, the biggest germaphobe you know takes a long sip of his coffee. You can’t help the smile that plays on your lips.
“What about you?” He mumbles, staring down like he doesn’t want to see your reaction.
Hook, line, and sinker.
You take your mug, holding it out towards him, his eyes look like they might pop out of his head.
“Go ahead.” Your smile only grows as he chews his lip.
Tentatively, he leans forward, his every move is unsure but he spits into your cup, finally looking you in the eye. You don’t break eye contact as you take a sip of your coffee.
He looks enamoured by you.
“You know… I’ve been thinking, I think that our work is being affected by our antagonistic relationship. Hotch is always telling me that I should be nicer to you. And I don’t know about you but I know that my current lack of… sexual fulfillment has made me irritable and distracted. Has it made you feel that way?” You brush the tip of your shoe against his ankle, immediately he jolts up, his knees hitting the table.
“Why are you doing this to me?” You can feel his leg bouncing under the table again as he groans, taking another sip of his coffee, as if more caffeine is going to soothe his nerves.
“It isn’t your turn.” You click your tongue.
“Fine.” He grumbles. “I don’t let this kind of thing get in the way of my work.” His fingers flex around his mug. “Can we just be done with this game?”
“I want one more question.”
“Better make it a good one.”
You intend to.
“Do you beg when you want something?” You figure you’ll floor him with that one.
He catches you off guard with an immediate whispered response.
“Only if I want it badly enough.” This conversation has been full of surprises.
“Your turn.”
“If I were to beg, would I get what I want?” There’s no confidence behind his voice anymore, he doesn’t even try to sound sure of himself.
Emily was absolutely right in every regard. He’s perfect. You don’t bother concealing the wild grin that you know is creeping across your face.
“If you want it badly enough.”
He takes in a shuddering breath, his lips parting slightly as he stares at you. He looks like he’s still waiting for you to pull the rug out from under him.
“You said you don’t have any plans for the rest of the weekend right? Other than your chess thing?”
“My schedule is empty.” He says it just like the eager puppy Emily claimed he was, his tail might as well be wagging for a treat.
And it’s only Thursday.
This might be the best long weekend Hotch has ever forced you to take.
“You know, I get a little nervous with the maintenance people coming over when I’m home alone. Would you want to come over tonight and maybe stay for the weekend? I could order us a pizza.”
“You hate red sauce.” He says it like he’s found the missing piece of a puzzle, like this is a break in the case that proves this is all some big plot against him.
“Why do you know that?” He shrugs as you roll your eyes. “I don’t like certain red sauce pastas, I like it a specific way. I still like pizza.”
“Okay.” He nods, and a part of you knows he’s cataloging that information away somewhere in a mental folder with your name on it.
“And you understand why you’re coming over?” You say it slowly, nodding as you do.
“I assume when I get there you’ll have a bunch of your friends over so they can point and laugh at me for thinking this was actually happening.” His tone is only half joking.
“This is gonna be a lot of fun if that’s the mindset you’re in.”
“I’m not sure what other mindset I could be in right now, this has all been very… confusing.” And no one hates to be confused as much as Spencer does.
“What do you think the chances are that this is real? You have a statistic for everything.”
“I’d say about five percent.”
“That’s higher than I expected.” You bump his leg with your shoe again, he flinches but he stays in his seat.
“As unlikely as all of this is, I don’t think you lied to me at all. I think that you’re lonely, and unsatisfied. And that might just be enough for you to settle on a sure thing.”
Lonely and unsatisfied.
No reason to deny that, you wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case.
“You’re a sure thing? Even with five percent odds?” Your smile only grows. A sure thing.
“I’m a sure thing with one percent odds.”
“So you’ll come over?”
He chews on his lip as he nods.
You eat the rest of your breakfast in silence, he seems to be lost in thought and you don’t want to say anything that’ll make him change his mind.
When your server returns you reach for your wallet but before you can he hands her some cash, telling her to keep the change. You don’t object, you just stare at him.
“Thank you.” Your smile never falters as you finish your coffee.
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you ready to go?”
“Mhmm.” He hums and as he stands you join him, following him out to the parking lot. He walks you to your car, watching you lean against the driver side door. You take a moment to look him up and down.
You immediately find yourself staring at the tent in his pants. Good lord he’s like a teenager. You can’t remember the last time you were able to get a guy this worked up just with a conversation.
“Jesus, are you okay to drive like that?” You flick your eyes downwards.
“Shut up.” He gets so red so easily, you can’t wait to find out how low that red goes.
“Seriously, are you sure that isn’t like, distracted driving?”
“It’s human nature, if you spend an hour throwing yourself at me I’m going to have a physical reaction.”
“And throwing myself at you? That seems like a bit of an exaggeration.”
“If you say so.” He fidgets with his car keys.
“Does six thirty work for you?”
“Six thirty is perfect.” Something tells you any time you offered would have been perfect.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
He feels like he might pass out.
What the fuck just happened?
Once your car is pulled out of the parking lot he palms himself through his slacks, hissing as he finally relieves a bit of the pressure that’s been building for the last hour.
Is it possible that you killed him at the bar last night and this is all some fantasy he’s having as he bleeds out on the floor?
He still isn’t convinced that this isn’t just some kind of joke.
You can have your pick of any guy.
You’ve had your pick, and he’s heard the descriptions of these men, they aren’t like him. They aren’t lanky, greasy, guys who can’t last more than thirty seconds.
He doesn’t really care if it is a joke at this point, if it’s a joke he might as well get what he can out of it, maybe he’ll get to see you with your shirt off before you laugh in his face and send him packing.
The parking lot is empty, it’s a Thursday before noon in the middle of nowhere.
He should wait until he’s home.
But you were true to your word, and you wore that shirt again.
He has to stop at the drugstore before he heads home. He’s never done anything like this before but he’s pretty sure the guy is supposed to bring the condoms.
He can’t go to the store like this.
The smart thing to do would be to just handle it here.
He doesn’t bother unbuttoning his pants, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even get that far.
Pressing his palm against the bulge in his pants he imagines it’s you, in the diner, brushing your foot up against him. He would have told you every single embarrassing secret he had if you’d have slid your foot up the length of his pants and pressed down.
He’s practically drooling at the thought of being in your apartment. It’ll smell like you, he’ll be alone with you. And god willing, you’re going to touch him.
He feels like he won the lottery.
He got caught following you to leer and you and he’s being rewarded with the possibility of finally losing his virginity to the hottest person he’s ever met.
With a whimper he rests his head on the top of his steering wheel as he makes a mess out of the inside of his pants.
Hopefully you aren’t depending on him to last any longer than it takes for him to get inside of you.
He’s glad he wore dark colored slacks. With a turn of his key he starts his car.
For the first time in his life he’s going to buy condoms.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The knock on your door makes you jump.
Shooting a glance towards your clock tells you that it’s only five minutes after six.
Yet there he is when you open the door.
Thankfully you spent the day cleaning and picked up the pizza a few minutes ago.
“I thought we said six thirty?” You don’t bother greeting him, you’re already irritated enough by the fact that he’s in the same clothes and you’re in your PJs.
“On time is late, early is on time.” He is quite possibly the lamest person you’ve ever met.
“Twenty five minutes early is early. Sounds to me like maybe you just couldn’t wait.” You grab his arm, pulling him into your apartment. He’s still in a brown blazer and a dress shirt with a fucking tie, who dresses like this for a hookup? “Are you seriously still dressed like that? “Go change, I can’t have a conversation with you like this.”
“How else would I be dressed?” Thank god he has a backpack with him.
“I hope to god you brought something other than business attire. Put on some pajamas or something.” You point him towards the bathroom as you split off towards the kitchen to grab plates.
You quickly sort yourself out in the reflection of your microwave. You kept it casual, you’d hoped he would too but that was clearly wishful thinking. Your favorite pajama pants with Snoopy on them and a tanktop. Simple, classic, easy enough to take off. Not so obviously revealing that you can’t sit and have a conversation with him before you do whatever it is that the two of you are about to do.
You straighten up at the sound of the bathroom door opening.
Returning to the living room you watch as he sets his sneakers down by the door. He stands straight, holding his arms tightly to his body like he’s worried about taking up any space.
You can work with this.
Especially with him dressed like that.
He’s got a black caltech shirt on with a pair of grey sweats, and of course, his mismatched socks. He’s always got so many layers on at work, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him in just a t-shirt and you’re liking what you see.
He almost looks like a normal person now.
Okay.
Time to rip off the band-aid. This shouldn’t be so hard, you both know why you’re here, you’ve already had one awkward conversation, what’s one more?
You sit on the couch, patting the spot next to you as you open the pizza box on your coffee table. As he sits beside you, you set a slice on a plate before handing it to him. Doing the same for yourself.
“I think we need to lay down some ground rules before anything happens here.” Your voice cracks a little as you clear your throat. Jesus, pull it together.
“I completely agree.” Thank god he sounds nervous too.
You shouldn’t be nervous, you do this all the time.
“Let’s start with the obvious, you can’t tell anyone about this. If you did I would vehemently deny it and of course whatever was happening between us would stop.” This can’t ever get out. Emily and Derek would never let you live it down.
“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes as he takes a bite.
“No offense intended, it’s not a personal thing, it’s a professional thing, for the sake of my career and yours.”
“Sure.”
“Did you bring condoms?”
He nods, unzipping his backpack he hands you a Trojan value pack, there’s four different options.
“Forty condoms?” You stifle a laugh as you pass the box back to him. His cheeks burn red, making him blush might be your new favorite thing to do.
“I wasn’t sure what your preference was or how many was normal. And I didn’t want to run out.”
“Run out!” You set your plate down as you laugh, you're too nervous to eat.
“I don’t know how many is normal!” You can’t blame him, he really doesn’t know any better.
“That’s fine, you know what, forty is fine. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to anyway. I’m on birth control and I got tested a month ago. And I know you obviously don’t have anything.” The second you say it the condoms go back in the bag.
“Anything else?” He cocks an eyebrow at you.
“As far as commitment goes there is none. If either of us decides we’re done then we’re done.”
“Sounds about right for you.” He scoffs.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re scared of commitment, everyone knows it.”
“Not wanting commitment in a fuck buddy scenario is not the same as being scared of commitment.” This isn’t an argument you want to have right now because he is technically right.
“Anything else?”
“No, your turn.” You grumble.
“I don’t want you seeing other guys while we’re doing this.” Of course mr. commitment doesn’t want you seeing anyone else.
“I will not engage in sexual activities with others but I’ll still have to flirt with guys when I go out with Emily.”
He frowns.
“We can work out the logistics of that later.”
“Whatever, sure.” Another argument you don’t want to have right now.
“I’d like for us to be honest with each other, even if it’s uncomfortable.”
“Give me an example.”
“Like if I asked you about how many people you’ve slept with.”
“Does that matter?” You lean away from him as you cross your arms over your chest.
“Not at all, I’m just curious. And you don’t have to answer, I just ask that if you do that you don’t lie.” You drop your guard a bit at that, he seems genuine.
“Around twenty, maybe twenty five.” You don’t know the exact amount but that sounds right.
“That’s it?” The ever distrustful Spencer Reid.
“Tales of my sexual exploits have been greatly exaggerated.” You lean back against the couch, sighing.
“I’ll also obviously answer any questions you might have with complete honesty as well.”
You're eager to test the extent of that honesty.
“Do you ever think about me when you jerk off?” You sit back up, smirking at him.
“Usually.” He shrugs, reaching into his backpack he grabs a glasses case, he must have taken out his contacts in the bathroom. You watch as he puts on a pair of horn rimmed glasses.
That changes things.
This must be how he feels when you wear a low cut shirt.
He blinks, adjusting to them. You tilt your head, holding your breath as you stare at him. They sit so nicely, high on his nose. Something about the round frames accentuate the sharp features of his face. The thick tops of them stand out against his pale skin. You’re slowly getting the sexy librarian appeal.
Oh my god, pull it together.
“How often?” You cough the words out, trying to regain the air of confidence you had when you asked the question.
“Twice a day.” He answers much more comfortably than he did in the diner. He doesn’t twitch, he’s found a sense of calm here.
“You jerk off twice a day?” You squeak out.
“I jerk off while thinking about you twice a day.”
“Wow.” You wanted someone obsessed, you aren’t going to find anything better than this.
“Oh I know. You’ve become a real problem for me.”
“How do you want to do this? It’s your first time, it should be special.” As much as you’d love to tear into him right now and find out what makes him tick, that isn’t what tonight's about. You’ll have plenty of time for that later.
“I could care less so long as it happens, I feel like I’ve dug myself into a pretty embarrassing hole if I’ve come all this way and said all these things just to not have sex.” He scratches the back of his neck as he gives you a sheepish smile.
“I know a part of you still thinks this is some evil plot on my end of things but I promise I’m not joking.”
“I’ll believe it when you actually start touching me.”
You’re suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you’re sitting rather far away. You’ve both retreated to the furthest edges of the couch.
You set your plate down, taking his and doing the same before you scoot over. You pull him closer as you throw your legs over his lap.
“Believe it yet?” You speak softer now that you’re right next to each other.
“I’m starting to. What are your limits? What do you want to avoid?” He keeps his tone sarcastic but this close to him you can see the way his blush creeps down his neck and under the collar of his shirt.
“I don’t think there’s anything.” You’re practically whispering now, you’re so close to him.
“That seems a little extreme.” His brows furrow.
“If you do something I don’t like you’ll know. We can settle on a safeword but I’m also very comfortable simply telling you to stop if I don’t like something.”
“So… anything’s on the table.”
That’s the goal.
“Anything you can think up in that big, perverted brain of yours. We can do whatever you want.”
He swallows loudly. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides, usually in this position the guy would touch you but not him. He doesn’t even know that’s an option.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” You’re trying to think of ways to make him more comfortable but you’re coming up empty. Should you offer him a book to consume? He isn’t like your usual partners, normally you’d put on a movie or a show to pretend to watch before you get started.
“I’d rather not.” He stammers, his fingers tap against your ankle rhythmically.
“What do you want to do then?”
“You can’t seriously be asking me that right now.”
“Well I don’t know, I don’t want to overwhelm you or anything, I figured you’d want to be eased into this.”
“We can do whatever I want, that’s what you just said, right? Because if that’s the case then I’m certainly not going to start by watching a movie.”
“It helps to set the mood.” You roll your eyes.
“My mood doesn’t really need any further setting. Does yours?”
Nope.
“Do you want me to take the lead?” You give him a genuine smile, not your usual predatory grin.
“I will do literally anything you ask me to do right now.”
Perfect, perfect Spencer. He is exactly what you needed to end your dry spell.
“Why don’t we start by going to my room.” You stand, holding your hand out to him. It’s quite possibly the first kind gesture you’ve ever made towards him.
He nods as he takes your hand, letting you guide him down the hall and into your room. You take a seat on the bed but he doesn’t follow. Instead he stands in the doorway, robotic in the way he examines every detail.
“You have more stuffed animals than I thought you would.” It’s the first thing he says once he steps into the room.
“How many did you think I’d have?”
“None.”
You’ve got a lot more than that, a mess of them are strewn about your bed, you’ve got a few on your nightstand as well as a net mounted to the wall that holds a pile. It crosses your mind to be embarrassed about it but you’ve never let it bother you before, why would you start now. You kick most of them off the bed as you lay back against the pile of pillows against your headboard.
You don’t want to rush him, tonight isn’t about you, even if you have big plans for him in the future. Right now you want him to be comfortable and happy.
He takes a hesitant step forward, not towards you, just further into the room. He faces away from you as he stares at your walls and shelves. You have photos with friends, and a few little paintings you found at thrift stores. His eyes linger on a picture of you, Emily, and Derek, out at the bar.
Eventually he turns to your bookshelf.
Whenever he’s reading he gets that look in his eyes, like he’s devouring the words rather than reading them.
“Have you read all of these?” He murmurs.
“Most of them, everything on the bottom shelf is stuff I still need to get to.”
“I haven’t heard of most of these.” His fingers linger over Ice Planet Barbarians.
“I would be concerned if you had.”
He nods, turning to you at last as he steps forward, running his fingers across your comforter.
“I always imagined your room being… scarier.” The fact that he imagined it at all only serves to sustain your smile.
“Scarier?”
“Black and red, chains and whips.” Your room is a lot of things, but it isn’t dark and scary. Your sheets are a patchwork mix of colors, your walls are painted a soft green.
“You imagined my room like a dungeon?” You cock an eyebrow at him.
“Something like that.” He sits, facing you, the bed gently sinking against his weight.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this? You seem a little on edge. We can do something else for a few minutes if that’ll help.” You’re a little worried he’s about to turn tail and run based on the way he’s eyeing your door.
“I’m ready, I just…” He stares at his hands, a look of concern that you’re all too familiar with after a year spent working together flashes across his face. “I’m a little worried this is all some kind of prank. That Emily and Derek are gonna jump out and laugh at me for thinking that this was ever really happening.”
“Emily and Derek aren’t even in the state, Reid.” You reach out, touching his arm, a zap of static electricity makes you flinch before you rest your hand on his forearm.
“I thought of that too, and then I thought about you going in on Monday and telling everyone everything. I can see it now, Derek will ask you how your weekend was and you’ll give everyone a theatrical retelling of how you tricked poor Spencer into coming over to your house. You got him to spill his guts and then you got him to strip down to his underwear before you kicked him out.” His voice sounds so small when he says it.
“You really think I would do that to you?” You didn’t know it was possible for you to feel bad for the boy genius but right now you do. You’ve seen him as Hotch’s spoiled prodigy for a long time but right now he’s… vulnerable.
He scoffs.
“You know, when I was in high school, there was a girl I liked. She asked me to meet her at the football field, she wasn’t like the other kids, she was nice to me, and I liked her, and she was the prettiest girl in school, how could I turn that down?” You’ve heard lots of Spencer’s stories, directly from him, in passing, or from the rest of the team, but you’ve never heard this one. “I couldn’t believe she was actually there when I got there. I was even more surprised that the entire football team was there.” He doesn’t look at you, instead he looks straight past your head to the wall behind you. “They stripped me down and tied me to the goal post. I begged them to stop and not one of them listened to me, no one helped me. Even after everyone left, no one ever felt bad and came back for me, I had to get out myself.”
His gaze is unfocused as you give him a look that could only be described as pity.
“I thought you graduated high school when you were twelve?” You whisper, it’s the first time you’ve ever wanted him to correct you, instead he gives you a sad smile.
“Youngest in my class.”
You feel a fondness for him that you haven’t previously. Here, in the dim light of your room, dressed in normal clothes, picking at his nails, he becomes someone different from the man you see in the office everyday. That man quite literally knows everything, the man in your bed right now knows nothing.
“Come here.” You lean forward, pulling him close so he’s kneeling on top of you.
“Are you gonna make me beg for it?” You know without a shadow of a doubt that he would if you wanted him to.
“Not this time.” You tangle your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Let me know if you want to stop.” You murmur as you pull him closer.
“If I ask you to stop, something has gone seriously wrong.”
Much to your surprise he’s the one to close the distance between you, there isn’t any indecisiveness in his actions now as his lips press into yours. Warm and soft, and tasting like coffee with too much sugar.
And for the first time in months you get butterflies, low in your stomach, in a place that you thought might be broken inside you. You feel a fluttering as his hands hold your hips with a tightness that tells you he’s worried you might disappear.
You’d convinced yourself you might not ever feel like that again.
Thank god Spencer Reid loves to prove you wrong.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
a/n : i plan on doing things to spencer reid in the next chapter that he has never even heard of. anyways, sorry for teasing y'all for one more chapter before they doink lol
i don't have a tag list but you can follow @holymolynotifications for fic updates!!
if you wish to further support me i have a kofi! ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
spencer reid x pre-school teacher!reader
description: the fbi visits your classroom for the day and your students are very interested
wc: 1.2k
Preschool mornings have chaotic energy. It's a hustle of finger paint, missing shoes, and fifteen 4 year olds trying to talk at the same time.
You get used to mess, being a preschool teacher. But today, the energy in the room shifts completely when the heavy wooden door swings open, and a tall man in a slightly rumpled suit steps inside.
He looks entirely out of place among the mini plastic chairs and colored alphabet rugs. He's clutching a leather satchel and his hazel eyes wide as he takes in the vibrant noisy room. Behind him stands Penelope Garcia, beaming in a bright green blazer, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Hi, everyone!" Garcia sings out, waving out her hands enthusiastically. "We're from the FBI!" A collective "ooooh" from the kids makes you smile.
You stand up, brushing a stray speck of yellow glitter off your dress, and smile. "Welcome! Class, this is Miss Garcia and Special Agent Reid. They're here for Career Day to tell us how they help keep people safe."
Spencer clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks down at a stack of flashcards in his hand. "Uh, actually, Miss Garcia is a Technical Analyst, not a field agent. And my title is Supervisory Special Agent, though-"
"He's a super-brain spy, kids," Garcia cuts in smoothly, throwing an affectionate arm around Spencer's shoulders. "And he's very excited to be here."
Spencer flushes, his eyes darting to you. "Uh.. yes. I brought visual aids."
You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Well, Agent Reid, the floor is yours. Why don't you sit right here?" You gesture to the only available seat near the font - a bright yellow plastic chair.
Spencer stares at the tiny chair for a long second. You can practically see his brain calculating how his six foot one frame is going to fit. With extreme care, he folds his long legs and you bring a fist against your mouth to prevent from spilling out a laugh.
A little boy named Clyde scoots closer to him. "Mister policeman," You're quick to gently remind your students to call adults using their appropriate title names.
"Clyde, his name is Agent Reid, I think he would rather be called that." You bend down to meet his height. Spencer's hand touches your shoulder and it startles you a bit.
"I'm so sorry for scaring you, but it's totally fine," he says your name, keeping his stare on you for a bit before Penelope clears her throat. You stand up and move to the side to let him guide the class.
"Go ahead, Clyde." Spencer smiles at him, his hands clasped together as he leaned towards him. You were certain he was going to fall off the tiny chair if he moved even a little bit closer.
"What does FBI mean?" His little hands going up to his face, squishing his cheeks upwards that made it more chubby than it actually is. "FBI means the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was actually founded in 1908 by Attorney General Charles Bonaparte. What's more interesting is he was the grandnephew of Napoleon. Bonaparte."
You intervene gently, hoping you weren't being rude to interrupt his question and answering moment. You offer Spencer a sympathetic smile before talking to him. "They might want to hear a little bit about what you do everyday, Spencer. In kids terms, just to make it easier for them to understand."
Spencer blinks, his eyes locking onto yours. The look of panic from his furrowed eyebrows melts into something softer at your comforting tone. He swallows hard and nods.
He puts his flashcards away in his satchel. "Well, my job is like solving a big puzzle. Imagine you come into the classroom and someone took the goldfish crackers. I look at the clues left behind, it could be crumbs on the table or a footprint in the sandbox. To figure out who took it, I use my brain to help people who are lost or scared."
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Mister policeman, do you have a badge?"
"I do." Spencer carefully pulls his FBI credentials from his jacket pocket, holding it out. A dozen tiny hands instantly reach out to poke the gold seal. He doesn't pull away, instead a smile forms on his face as he watches their eyes light up with wonder and excitement.
"Do you a carry a juice box in your bag?" another child asks, pointing to his satchel. "No, mostly books and case files," Spencer replies, his voice drops to a gentle tone he gets when he's comfortable. "But did you know that reading books actually changes the way your brain works? It creates new pathways, which makes you better at solving puzzles."
For the next twenty minutes, Spencer completely captivates the room. He manages to explain behavioral analysis through the lens of sharing toys and understanding feelings. Garcia watches from the back, leaning against the cubbies with a soft, knowing smirk on her face as she looks between you and Spencer.
When it's time for them to go, the children groan in unison. "Alright, friends, let's give a big thanks to Agent Reid and Miss Garcia," you lead, and the classroom erupts into a chorus of high-pitched thank yous.
"Thank you Mister Policeman and Miss Garcia!" Even though you said 'Agent Reid', they still called him that.
Spencer awkwardly but carefully lifts himself out of the tiny chair, smoothing down his tie. Garcia gives you a quick, warm hug. "You are an angel for handling this many tiny humans daily. I'm leaving Spencer's card on your desk. For.. legal verification of our visit. Obviously." She winks, entirely unsubtle, and heads for the door.
He stands still behind you, his satchel slung over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you've quickly learned to recognize.
"You were amazing with them," you say, stepping closer to him. "Not many people can switch from serial killer statistics to a goldfish cracker concept that quickly."
Spencer's cheeks turn red again, a soft smile turns up at his lips. "Thank you. I was significantly more intimidated by them. They're unpredictable, but you're incredible at what you do. The patience and emotional intelligence required to manage a classroom of this development stage is amazing."
'Well, it helps when I have FBI agents dropping by to assist," you tease softly. Spencer's breath catches slightly, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. "I, uh.. Garcia wasn't lying about the card. It has my personal cell phone number on the back. In case you have any follow up questions about federal law enforcement or... anything else."
"I might just have a few questions." you give him a warm smile. He gives you a small smile, his dimples showing. "I look forward to answering them."
With one last look, he turns and walks out the door, tripping slightly over a plastic building block on his way out. He recovers with a quick embarrassed wave. You watch him go, walking back to your desk to put away the card in your purse and heading towards the front of the classroom to see your kids giving you cheeky smiles.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: spencer gets drunk and confesses his feelings to you. in detail. a lot of detail.
content warnings: spencer is very drunk, mention of nausea and headaches, talks of petnames, spencer is so so in love with reader, one very tiny mention of spencer's mom and dad,
a/n: sacrified my studying to post this on time. if i fail, i'm blaming spencer. anyways!! happy birthday to spencer reid !!! ily !!!
One moment, Spencer had been beside you, and the next, he had simply vanished into the crowded bar.
“Looking after Spencer when he’s drunk is like being responsible for a five-year-old,” you muttered to yourself, weaving through the groups of people. You’d checked the restrooms, the hallway near the jukebox, and even the fire escape. Nothing.
Your frantic search brought you past the main bar, where Hotch was settling the tab. His eyes met yours, and with a subtle tilt of his head, he nodded toward a corner booth. You mouthed a relieved 'thank you' as you made your way towards said booth.
There he was. Spencer was seated at a table with a group of people you were certain he’d never met before tonight, a deck of cards in his hand. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been passionately explaining the material behind the rhinestones on Garcia’s favorite hair clip.
You stepped behind him, placing a gentle hand on the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. “Hi, Spencer,” you said, your voice soft.
He turned to look up at you, and the transformation was instant. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy from the alcohol, but they crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile spread across his face. “Hi,” he breathed, his gaze fixed on you for a precious second before darting back to his cards.
You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.
Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.
A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.
You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”
He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.
“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”
Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.
“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”
A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”
You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”
One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”
You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”
As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”
You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.
You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.
“Spencer!” you called out.
He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”
“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.
“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”
You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.
“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.
You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.
“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.
The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.
The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.
The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.
“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”
“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.
“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”
“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.
By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.
Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.
The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.
"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.
Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."
"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."
"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.
"Would I like what?"
"You said that you love my ties," he stated.
"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.
His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.
"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.
His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."
"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"
"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."
The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush on you to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.
Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.
You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.
In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"
Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."
His response was soft. "I do."
A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.
"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."
"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.
"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.
"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."
Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.
"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.
He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.
“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.
Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.
“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.
“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.
“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.
You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”
“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”
His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.
Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”
“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”
You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”
He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.
You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”
Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.
You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.
He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.
Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.
"I just… like you. A lot."
You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.
"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.
"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.
You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.
"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."
Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.
"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.
"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.
You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.
Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.
He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.
"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."
He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.
You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.
Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.
Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.
"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.
"Okay?" you prompted gently.
Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.
There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.
"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."
"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.
You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.
"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.
The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.
He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”
You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.
“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.
You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.
“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”
His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.
“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.
He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.
You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.
“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.
You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.
"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.
"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."
"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.
"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.
You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.
"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.
"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."
"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.
He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.
You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.
He nodded, his expression earnest.
"Do you like it?" you asked softly.
"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.
"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.
Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.
You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."
Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"
"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.
Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"
"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.
He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.
"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.
You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."
Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.
Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.
You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.
He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.
You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.
"Okay," he whispered.
Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.
In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.
Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.
His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"
"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.
"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.
You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"
"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.
You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."
To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.
"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."
Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.
As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."
Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.
When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.
He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.
The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.
His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.
It was empty.
A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.
He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.
And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.
He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.
"Spencer?"
"Hm?"
"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."
He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.
He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.
He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.
He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.
Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.
Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.
Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.
“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.
“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.
“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”
You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”
As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday
“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.
Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.
You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.
“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.
“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.
“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.
“Spencer,” you said again.
He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”
“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.
His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.
“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.
Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”
He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”
You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”
Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.
“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.
“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”
A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.
Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”
Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”
“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”
A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”
His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.
It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.
"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.
You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."
A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.
You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."
The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.
"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."
The smile that stayed || Spencer Reid x curvy!reader
Summary -> Thirteen years after the tragic death of Maeve, Spencer Reid has learned how to survive, but not truly how to move on. Though he has built a successful career and continued living his life, the grief of losing the woman he loved has never fully left him.
Side note -> MY LOVES! I just finished watching the ep with Maeve and my heart BROKE😭. My poor baby Spencer cannot catch a break, can he? So I thought what’s a better way to get my juices flowing once more👀? It’s been months since my last post and this episode gave me some motivation. So I hope you cuties enjoy🩷!
Warnings -> Mentions of Maeve’s Death, read with caution. Just cuteness and fluff this time! And that’s it✨.
Word count -> 1,815
Main master list
TGM master list
Sebastian Stan master list
Oscar Isaac master list
GVF master list
Dividers by: @saradika-graphics ♥️
The rain tapped softly against the windows of the small bookstore café.
It was late. The evening crowd had long since disappeared, leaving only a few scattered customers hiding between shelves and sipping coffee.
You sat behind the counter, flipping through a worn novel when the bell above the door chimed.
A man stepped inside. Tall. Thin. Dark curls dusted with silver at the temples.
A messenger bag slung across one shoulder.
He looked exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally.
Like someone who had been carrying something heavy for a very long time.
You offered him a polite smile “Kitchen closes in twenty minutes, but coffee is still available.”
The stranger glanced up. Brown eyes.
Kind eyes. Sad eyes.
“Coffee sounds perfect.” Something about him felt familiar.
Not in the way that suggested you knew him.
More like he’d spent years being known by everyone else.
He ordered a black coffee before settling into a corner table with a stack of books.
You returned to your reading. Thirty minutes later, you realized he hadn’t touched the coffee.
Instead, he was staring out the rain-covered window. Lost somewhere far away.
You approached carefully. “Everything okay?” The man blinked.
Almost like he’d forgotten where he was.
“Oh.” His voice was soft. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“You’d be surprised how often I do.” You sat across from him. Normally, you wouldn’t.
But something about his loneliness practically filled the room.
“I’m Y/N.”
He hesitated, before telling you his name. “Spencer.”
You shook his hand. His grip was gentle. Careful. As though he was afraid of breaking things.
For the next hour, conversation flowed naturally. You learned he taught criminal psychology now.
He had spent years with the FBI. He loved books. Loved chess. Could quote obscure facts at alarming speeds.
And despite his intelligence, there was a quiet awkwardness about him that was oddly charming.
Eventually the topic shifted. “You never been married?” you asked.
The question slipped out before you could stop it. Spencer froze. Not dramatically.
Just enough for you to notice. His gaze dropped to his coffee.
“No.” The silence stretched.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to answer.”
“It’s okay.” But it wasn’t.
You could see that. Spencer looked toward the rain.
“I was engaged once.” Your heart tightened. The way he said it.
Like every word weighed a thousand pounds. “What happened?” He didn’t answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “She died.”
The café suddenly felt very quiet. “Oh.”
Thirteen years. Thirteen years and the pain was still there. Not fresh. Not sharp.
Just woven into him.
Part of him now.
“What was her name?” His expression softened. The first genuine smile you’d seen all night. “Maeve.”
The name sounded sacred. You smiled gently. “Tell me about her.”
Most people would have changed the subject. Most people would have offered sympathy.
Most people would’ve treated the memory like a wound. Instead, you asked about her.
And Spencer’s eyes filled with something he hadn’t felt in years.
Relief. He told you everything. How brilliant she was. How stubborn. How kind. How beautiful. How she laughed. How she loved books. How she’d changed his life.
You listened. Really listened. Never interrupting. Never rushing him.
By the time he finished, tears glistened in his eyes.
“Thirteen years.” He laughed quietly. “That’s a long time to miss someone.”
“No.” You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. “Not when you love them.”
Spencer stared at your hand. Then at you. His eyes shimmered. Because for thirteen years, everyone had told him to move on. To let go. To heal.
But nobody had ever simply acknowledged that grief and love could coexist.
That he didn’t have to stop loving Maeve to keep living.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For not acting like she’s a burden. You squeezed his hand. “She isn’t.”
Something shifted in that moment. Not romance. Not yet. Just understanding. Two lonely people sitting in a quiet bookstore while rain fell outside.
Months passed. Then a year. Then two. Spencer became a regular. Then a friend. Then your favorite part of every day.
You learned the difference between his genuine smile and his fake one.
You learned he still visited Maeve’s grave every year.
You learned he still carried guilt.
And on the nights when grief hit unexpectedly, you sat beside him and simply existed with him.
No fixing. No forcing. Just being there.
One spring afternoon, thirteen years and eight months after Maeve’s death, Spencer sat beside you on a park bench.
The sun warmed your skin. Children laughed nearby.
Life moved around you. Spencer looked at you. Really looked at you.
The way someone does when they’re finally ready to admit something.
“I was afraid.” You turned toward him.
“Of what?”
“Moving forward.” His fingers intertwined with yours.
“I thought it meant leaving her behind.” Your chest tightened. “And now?” A soft smile appeared. Now there was peace in his eyes.
Not complete. Not perfect. But real.
“Now I know loving you doesn’t mean loving her less.”
Tears immediately filled your eyes. Spencer chuckled. “You cry too easily.”
“You literally just confessed your feelings.”
“Statistically speaking, emotional responses—”
“Spencer.” He laughed. A genuine laugh. The kind that reached his eyes. The kind you wished Maeve could have seen.
Because if she had, you thought she’d be happy.
Happy that after all those years, Spencer Reid had finally found a reason to smile again.
And this time— The smile stayed.
A few months later, Spencer found himself standing outside your apartment building at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning. He stared at the bouquet in his hands.
Then at the building. Then back at the bouquet. Then the building again.
A woman walking her dog gave him a concerned look. Spencer didn’t notice. He was too busy having what the BAU used to call a Reid Spiral™.
Technically, flowers were considered a traditional romantic gesture.
Traditional romantic gestures carried expectations.
Expectations created pressure.
Pressure—
The apartment door suddenly opened. You stepped outside, coffee in one hand. House keys in the other.
And immediately stopped. “There you are.” Spencer blinked. “You knew I was coming?”
You pointed toward the large front window. “You’ve been standing there for twelve minutes.” His face reddened.
“Twelve?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s unfortunate.” A laugh escaped you. His shoulders relaxed instantly. That was another thing you’d learned.
Spencer loved your laugh, not because it was pretty. Though it was. But because every time you laughed, he looked less afraid.
You walked down the steps toward him.“What’s with the flowers?” His gaze dropped to the bouquet.
“Oh.” He held them out awkwardly.
“They reminded me of you.” You accepted them carefully. “They’re beautiful.”
“They’re peonies.” You smiled. “Thank you, Spencer.”
He nodded. Then immediately started rambling. “Historically they’ve symbolized prosperity and compassion and are frequently associated with happy marriages in several cultures and I wasn’t implying—”
You leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Spencer froze.
Completely. Utterly.
The great Dr. Spencer Reid, Former FBI profiler, Genius. Speechless.
You grinned. “Thank you.” His brain appeared to reboot several seconds later.
“You’re welcome.”
The rest of the day was spent wandering through a street market.
Something Spencer normally would’ve hated.
Too many people. Too much noise. Too much unpredictability.
Yet somehow he enjoyed every second.
Mostly because you were there. Half the time you were dragging him toward booths he had no interest in.
The other half he was sharing obscure facts that somehow made everything more interesting.
By lunchtime, you found yourselves sitting beneath a large oak tree sharing sandwiches.
Spencer sat unusually quiet.
You nudged his shoulder. “What’s going on in that giant brain?”
His smile faded slightly. Not completely. Just enough.
“I had a dream about her.”
You instantly knew who he meant. Maeve.
The name no longer felt like a shadow between you.
She was simply part of Spencer’s story.
And because you loved Spencer, you cared about every chapter.
“What happened?”
Spencer looked down at his hands.
“Nothing dramatic.” His voice softened.
“We were talking.”
You listened. “About what?”
“I don’t remember.” A sad laugh escaped him. “That’s the frustrating part.”
You reached for his hand. “But?” His eyes lifted to yours.
“But when I woke up…” His throat tightened.
For a moment, he looked like the younger version of himself.
The man carrying unbearable grief.
“I wasn’t sad.”
You squeezed his hand gently and Spencer swallowed.
“I think that’s the first time that’s happened.” The confession hung between you.
Heavy. Important.
“I used to wake up feeling like I lost her all over again.” His voice cracked slightly.
“But this time…” A tear slipped down his cheek. “This time it felt like saying goodbye.”
Your own eyes burned. Not because he was forgetting her. Because he wasn’t.
He never would, but after thirteen years, something inside him was finally healing. You brushed the tear away gently.
“Maybe she knew you were okay. Spencer stared at you, then looked toward the sky.
Toward the clouds drifting lazily overhead.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.
Then he whispered: “I hope so.”
⸻
That night, Spencer couldn’t sleep.
Not because of nightmares.
Not because of grief.
Because he was thinking. Dangerous.
You’d often teased him about that.
Around midnight, he grabbed his keys and drove across town.
Twenty minutes later he stood outside your apartment door.
Again.
When you opened it wearing pajamas and a confused expression, he immediately began talking.
“Hi.”
You blinked. “Hi?”
“I know it’s late.”
“It’s midnight.”
“Technically twelve-oh-three.”
“Spencer.”
“Right.”
He inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled.
Then inhaled again.
You crossed your arms, trying—and failing—not to smile.
“Spencer Reid.”
His eyes met yours.
And suddenly every ounce of nervousness became visible.
“I love you.” The words rushed out. Fast.
Like he was afraid they’d disappear if he didn’t say them immediately.
Silence.
Spencer stared at you.
Waiting.
Terrified.
You stared back, then laughed softly.
Not because it was funny.Because it was so wonderfully, perfectly Spencer.
He immediately panicked. “That wasn’t the correct response.”
You grabbed his face, pulling him into a kiss.
His sentence ended in a surprised sound.
The moment lasted only seconds.
But when you pulled away, Spencer looked completely stunned.
You smiled. “I love you too.”
For once in his life, Spencer Reid had absolutely nothing to say.
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again. No words came out.
You laughed. “There he is.”
“What?”
“The man who knows eight languages and still gets speechless sometimes.”
A smile slowly spread across his face.
Warm.
Happy.
Real.
The kind that only appeared when he was with you. Then he wrapped his arms around you. Holding you tightly.
Like he finally believed he was allowed to be happy.
And for the first time in a very long time—He did.
I’m literally in love this😩♥️!! I missed writing for Spencer, I need to get back into it, but I’ve been taking a break because I’ve been burn out for a while..who knows maybe, I’ll post here and there, maybe I won’t I haven’t decided yet.
I hope you enjoyed this cute little one shot and let me know if you guys want more🩷!!
f!reader riding spencer reid and telling him that he can’t touch her — not for any specific reason, just to see if he can do it. he loves experiments, right? well, this is hers.
he’s clenching his hands by his sides, digging his nails into his palms, and gritting his teeth to stop himself from reaching up and grabbing her waist, tits, or face.
“baby, please, please let me touch you.”
“mm-mm honey, gotta keep ‘em to yourself.”
he’s already a whiny and whimpery mess during sex with her, but he’s never been this desperate and needy and honestly pretty pathetic.
when she tilts her hips to feel him deeper, his tip settling against her cervix, she throws her head back into a deep moan.
he starts crying.
she feels too good and he loves her so much and she’s so beautiful.
she places her hands on his shoulders for leverage, to ride him even faster and deeper, and he instinctively reaches up to hold her hands.
she knocks him away with a stern glare, “what did i say?”
he sniffles, “no touching…”
as a deep tightness forms in her belly, she reaches down to sloppily rub her clit. she’s panting and moaning his name like he’s the one doing anything. like he’s been anything more than a human dildo for her.
he watches her fingers slide through her slickness with envy. normally he does that for her. those should be his fingers.
when her warm, silky walls clench and pulse around him, and she collapses forward with her head in his neck, breathless, his hot cum spurts deep inside of her as he groans.
his hands hover over her back. is he allowed to touch her now?
summary : spencer makes a series of bad decisions that lead to an unfortunate confrontation out at a bar. you make a series of bad decisions that lead to a late night phone call with him.
wc : 8k
tags/warning : enemies to enemies with benefits, pornwithplot, coworkers, fast burn?, virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, male masturbation, alcohol consumption, pervy!spencer, lots of talking about sex, stalking if you squint, premature ejaculation if you squint even harder, EXTREMELY fast burn
a/n : this is lowkey the opposite of a slow burn, this is me moving the plot as quickly as humanly possible to get to the freaked out part
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, 50% of Americans lose their virginity.
By the age of twenty-two it’s 90% of Americans.
If you haven’t lost your virginity by thirty, the likelihood that you ever will falls off dramatically.
At twenty-five Spencer isn’t feeling too great about those odds. With every year that passes he can feel the agonizing tick of the proverbial clock.
He keeps waiting for it to stop. Eventually the clock has to stop ticking, right?
He’s a literal genius after all. (Of course there isn’t actually a medical definition or anything like that but at this point they might as well just put a photo of him under the word in every dictionary.) He should be able to solve this problem just like any other.
Yet he can’t.
God, and he was so close. Elle would have let him, he was sure of it.
She was way out of his league, but who wasn’t? He had been laying the groundwork, he was going to ask her on a date, she was always so serious and understanding, she was the perfect choice. They would go on a few dates, he would lose his virginity to someone who understood him and then they could go back to being friends.
And he would finally be free from this torment.
That wasn’t the case of course, thanks to you.
He loathed you for that. Even if it was his own damn fault for never asking her out, he’s sure if he’d had more time he would have gotten there… eventually.
Logically he understood why it happened, and that you had no control over it, but subconsciously he still blamed you. One day Elle was gone and instead you were there. Pretty and unattainable, a painful reminder of his still intact virginity. At least he felt like he stood a chance with Elle, she liked him as a person, whether she was attracted to him or not, she was kind to him. You were something else entirely. You were unapologetic and loud in every sense of the word. You were constant. And impatient, and unpredictable. It made him miss her.
You were nothing like Elle, you made yourself impossible to ignore.
You wore your hair up in a different way everyday, always something big and flowy that bounced with your every move. Your nails were always too long, the polish was always multicolored and catching his eye whenever he was trying to get his work done. And all of your outfits barely stayed within the office dress codes. You served as a bright, sparkling, constantly giggling reminder of what could have been.
Worst of all, no one else had a problem with you. No one else seemed to understand that you were a succubus sent undercover to the BAU, designed to make his life miserable.
When Gideon retired he was left completely alone. Emily Prentiss stepped in and of course you buddied right up to her. And because you seemingly couldn’t stand him, neither could she. In the blink of an eye the team he had come to know and love was gone, now he felt like he was back in high school, surrounded by mean girls. Except this was worse than high school, because here he had to be involved in every conversation. Whether it was the bullpen, or the conference table, or the jet, he was stuck sitting and listening to every word. And sure, maybe he’s extra sensitive at this point but seemingly, all anyone talks about anymore is sex.
The second Hotch dismisses the group or leaves the room Derek starts talking about his weekend with “a blonde goddess.” or “a redhead goddess.” or “a brunette goddess.”
Emily had a seemingly endless supply of girlfriends and boyfriends in her rotation, something that Spencer found to be extremely unfair.
J.J. and Penelope never shared explicit details but they made enough suggestive comments to make it clear that they were just as busy.
Even strict, stoic Hotch was rubbing it in his face every Thursday when he rushed out of the office early, he’d never admit it but the whole team knew Thursday was the day he scheduled his “date nights” with Haley.
But none of that held a candle to you.
They called you maneater.
And your stories were so… animated.
Morgan, Emily, Penelope, and J.J. would gather around your desk on Monday mornings, you rolled your eyes back, parting your lips as you would sigh dramatically before recounting your tales from the weekends.
You reveled in the laughter of your peers, it sustained your bright, bubbly demeanor. From what he observed you adored positive attention, and it didn’t matter what you had to do to get it. He had pointed that out once during a rather heated argument, it was one of the only times he was truly worried you might hit him.
Mondays were always torture.
You were explicit enough to get him worked up and vague enough to leave him wondering, he wouldn’t dare ask follow up questions like the rest of the team.
He wasn’t a part of the conversation. He was just the guy stuck in your desk clump.
You mentioned men who were tall, and strong, with pretty hair and striking eyes. You would lean back in your chair, making lewd comparisons to coke cans, garden hoses and beer bottles. Biting your lip and letting out ridiculous faux moans, your tongue poking out between your teeth whenever you laughed.
He hardly got anything done on Mondays.
At least not until he got home, with his pants pooled around his ankles the second he stepped into his living room. He could always think clearer after relieving himself. The problem was that you would still be there when he gets to work in the morning and he risks it happening all over again.
Sometimes he wished you’d just sink your claws into him. Devouring him like all your other prey, putting him out of his misery. But that wasn’t going to happen so instead he was stuck, all alone.
Marooned on a sexless island.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
“It’s basically a sex island. That’s like it’s only purpose.” Morgan’s voice is ringing in your ears as he continues to brag about his plans for the long weekend ahead.
Another one of Hotch’s mandatory vacations.
After Gideon retired he got so scared of the team burning out he made some changes to the schedule. Every three months you’re faced with what is essentially your only break from the relentless call of your chosen career. A long weekend, sometimes even a full week where you’re forced away from work.
“Are you absolutely sure I can’t convince you to come? My offer still stands.” His smile is as bright as the fucking sun. You can’t be trusted around that smile, especially on a sex island.
“As much as I would love to join you on your sexcapades I can’t. My landlord’s doing some stupid construction thing at my apartment and I have a thing about people being in my space when I’m not around.” You really would love to go, you’re going through a painfully long dry spell and if you don’t get laid soon you’re seriously worried your virginity might grow back.
“Your loss.” He gives you a theatrical wave goodbye before he turns off his monitor as he leaves.
It really is your loss, you helped Garcia pick out a few new swimsuits for this particular trip and you’d give anything to lay back on the beach and see Derek’s reaction to some of the tiny bikinis she bought.
“I’m surprised you aren’t going with him, that sort of thing seems right up your alley.” Spencer is mumbling from his desk, he’s always mumbling from his desk. He never speaks plainly, he wants to make snarky comments because he just can’t help himself, but he doesn’t want to deal with the conflict afterwards.
How does anyone here tolerate him?
“Are you saying that sexcapades are right up my alley?” You say it loud enough for him to immediately start looking around to make sure no one overheard. He might not like conflict, but you do.
“Are you worried they might find something in your apartment? Do you think they’d go through your stuff while you’re not home?” Typical of Spencer fucking Reid to not only change the subject immediately, but also pick at you anxieties to try and get the upperhand.
“It’s normal to be worried about that kind of thing. I know it might be hard for you to understand that since you’ve never been able to get someone to come over to your apartment.” He sets down whatever it was he was working on as he looks up at you as you speak, that stupid look of mock concern on his face.
“Would you even notice if someone went through your drawers? If I were you I’d try and memorize where everything is so you’ll know if something goes missing.” He looks so smug, he always does halfway into these conversations, then you deliver the killing blow and he shuts right up.
“Unfortunately I don’t have that big brain of yours, maybe you could come over and put that eidetic memory to good use. If you help make sure all my panties are in the right place I might just let you take a pair home.” He makes it too easy. Just like that, his mouth snaps shut and he puts his head down.
“You’re disgusting.” Right back to mumbling Spencer.
“I’m sure you’d be more than willing to accept that offer. Especially considering that you haven’t gotten any action since Lila Archer.”
“You weren’t even here for that, why are you always bringing that up?” He whines, he’s so fucking predictable.
“Because you always get red in the face when I do.”
He doesn’t bother responding, he never does when he gets all flustered like that. You have a theory that it short circuits his brain if he thinks about sex for too long, so you make a deliberate effort to talk about it as often as you can.
Even after a weekend spent alone in your bed you make sure to make up some rowdy story about how you raised hell.
You have to take out your frustrations somewhere and he makes himself such an easy target. He’s always there, wherever you are. You know it’s a part of the job, with you in forensics and him being… well a walking encyclopedia, you’re often left alone to work in whatever conference room you’re shoved into by the local police while the rest of the team’s out in the field.
Derek likes to say that the two of you are ornamental members of the team. Too pretty to be in the field, so you have to be tucked away somewhere safe.
You usually respond to that by punching him in the arm, hard enough to remind him that you went through the same training he did.
You tried to be nice to Spencer when you started, you really did. You offered to bring him coffee, you engaged in his interests, you played chess with him even though no one else would because he always won.
But he was still a brat.
It’s an odd word to use to describe a grown man but that’s exactly what Spencer is. He’s a brat, he pouts, he whines when he doesn’t get his way, and he runs to Hotch every time he has a problem with you.
So you don’t feel too bad about teasing him.
You spend the next two hours ignoring him as you transfer the last of your case notes over to the digital files. You aren’t in a rush to finish your work, your weekend plans can wait.
“Are you still going to Betty’s tonight?” Emily sidles up to your desk, her bag’s slung over her shoulder, she’s probably on her way to the airport, is it six thirty already?
“Unless a guy offers to take me home in the parking lot then I think so.”
“Have a drink for me, the wellness retreat my mother booked doesn’t serve any alcohol.”
“It’s a wellness retreat, did you think they were going to?” You can’t help but laugh as you spin your chair to face her.
“She told me it was a vacation, vacations have booze.”
“Yikes.”
“So, what’s the game plan tonight, maneater?” She leans in like you’re sharing a secret, as if there’s anyone left in the bull pen but the two of you and Spencer.
“I’m thinking heels, jeans, and the tightest shirt I can find.” That’s always been your go to and it hasn’t failed you yet.
“Now you’re making me want to stay.” She tilts her head to the side, brushing her bangs to the side.
“You know the black one that’s cut down to here?” You motion towards your chest, she was with you when she bought it so she knows just how low it is.
She throws her head back as she groans.
“I’m gonna miss the debut of the perfect tits top?” It’s a good thing everyone’s gone home because she is loud.
“Paired with the perfect tits red push up bra. I’m still trying to figure out if I want to do my makeup like-.”
Your sentence is abruptly cut off when he clears his throat.
You turn to glare at him but he isn’t looking at you.
“Well, you better get out of here before the fun police start reciting the HR policy. Tell your mom I said hi.” You stand up to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek and wishing her well as she disappears out the elevator, leaving you alone with your favorite coworker.
“I should start reciting the HR policy, it isn’t appropriate to talk like that in the bullpen.” You should install a microphone on his desk with the way that he mumbles everything.
“Oh no, I didn’t realize, should we ask everyone if they were offended by my comments?” You gesture around the empty bull pen.
“Extremely inappropriate.” He mumbles to himself, returning his focus to the report he’s been filling out for the last hour.
You spend more time with Spencer then anyone else on the team, at least during work hours. Thanks to your chosen field of expertise, you’ve begged Hotch to move your desk somewhere else but he says you’ll be a distraction if he puts you with Emily or Morgan. Like you’re a rowdy student in class who has to sit next to the teacher's pet so he can keep an eye on you.
“You know Hotch wants us out of here by seven at the latest.” He manages to speak clearly this time.
“I’m aware.”
“It’s six forty five, we should get going.” He turns his monitor off, closing the file in front of him.
“I’m almost done.” You need to look over everything you just filled out, it shouldn’t take more than five minutes.
“Hotch is really serious about these breaks, burn out effects over fifty percent of the American work force, it often results in-”
“Are you gonna tell on me if I don’t?”
“I won’t have to, Hotch will see your timecard on Monday.”
“If I’m being honest, I don’t really want to deal with an elevator ride with you. I’ve been waiting for you to leave so I can go home.” You give him a tight lipped irritated smile as he shoves his book into his satchel.
He turns on his heel, knuckles white as he clutches the strap of his bag.
“Have a good weekend.” You call over your shoulder in a sickly sweet tone.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
You’re the devil.
You must know what you do to him, otherwise why would you do it? You know how cruel it is, that’s the only explanation.
He tried to take care of it at home. Picturing your tits in a push up bra, wrapped in tight black fabric with your cleavage pouring out. He didn’t even get past unbuttoning his pants before he came, whining as he ruined another pair of boxers.
And it wasn’t enough.
He has an eidetic memory, he remembers every lowcut, flowy shirt you’ve ever worn. He’s carefully filed away every slip of your bra strap, every time you’ve ever worn a hoodie without a bra on the jet ride home. He has it all tucked away for later use in the seemingly infinite expanse of his mental library. But you’d never wear what you were describing to work, even if you don’t always act like it, you do have your limits. You maintain a very precarious sense of professionalism.
You put the thought of this mysterious black blouse into his mind and now he can’t think about anything else.
Opening his laptop he throws himself onto his bed, shoving his pants the rest of the way down and unbuttoning his shirt before kicking both onto the floor. He stares at the search bar, sifting through his brain in an attempt to recall the stores you mentioned going to with Emily.
He opens up the directory of the mall you typically frequent, scrolling through the store list, clicking open all the generic clothing stores.
Old Navy, Kohls, JCPenny.
He sorts through the filter bar, clicking the options available in your size in black.
If his dick wasn’t so painfully hard right now he’d probably feel like a creep right now, but he’s done worse.
He scrolls, imagining you in each top, how the fabric would cling to your body, how each neckline would hug your clavicle… With a groan he slams the laptop shut.
This isn’t working.
The models in the pictures don’t look like you, they don’t do anything for him. He needs to see it.
All he needs is one look, then he’ll remember it forever.
His mind wanders to the top you wore today.
A loose fitting maroon button up, it didn’t cling to you, instead it flowed seamlessly with your every move. Teasing him with the thought of what might be underneath. You always left too many buttons undone, today it was three. Three was enough for the fabric to slip down one of your shoulders a few times, showing off a thick dark green bra strap.
His cock is demanding his attention now.
With a sigh he reaches across his bed to his nightstand, using muscle memory to yank the drawer open, grabbing the bottle of lube without so much as a glance in that direction.
Popping the cap open he coats his palm before tossing the bottle back in the drawer, hissing as the cold liquid hits his skin as his fingers wrap around the base of his cock.
He pictures you in your maroon top and only that top, opening the door of your apartment to let him in. You’d give him that harsh, thin lipped, mean smile, you were always so mean to him.
“Ah-” He lets out a small whine, his hips rocking up and off the mattress.
You would call him gross, and disgusting, and he wouldn’t object like he usually does. He is, he’s abhorrent, you deserve to say all of that and more.
His grip tightens as he picks up the pace, he never lasts that long anyway so why bother trying to take it slow.
You would bring him into your room, he’s never seen the inside of your apartment but he has ideas of what it might look like. Based on your descriptions it’s some kind of cave of debauchery. But that’s not his focus right now.
You would bat your eyelashes at him like you do when you’re trying to get a reaction out of him..
“I might just let you take a pair home.”
Your voice rings out clear as day in his mind. Who cares if you were trying to be mean when you said it? In his mind, now, he can use his unyielding ability to recall things to use your words for whatever he wants.
He knows what pair he’d want if your offer was anything more than a sick joke. You’ve got a pair of pink panties that he’d kill to have.
They're your favorites, he’s sure of it. You wear them on Monday’s, your laundry day is Sunday so everything’s clean Sunday night, when you’ve got everything available you always choose the simple pink pair. Even if he doesn’t get much work done thanks to you on Monday’s he’s still got enough brain function to keep an eye out for them. They aren’t lace or anything fancy, as far as he can tell they’re just cotton. They sit higher than your others, if he’s lucky you’ll walk in on Monday morning in a shirt that doesn’t fully cover your waist line and he’ll get a little glimpse.
One time, while you were on a case in California you tried to reach for something on the top shelf in the file room. You never asked him for help, even when he could reach it easily.
You were wearing a tank top that rode up and he got a clear view of your navel and the sweetest surprise ever when he learned that your pink pair of panties have a little bow on the front, resting just below your belly button.
In his fantasy you lay back on your bed, pulling your shirt up so he can see the pink fabric and the little bow. Wrapped up like a pretty present. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he tries to stifle the groan that’s building in his throat.
Those manicured nails, every nail a different color, drag across the front of your blouse, pulling open another button, and another, and another.
His dick twitches in his hand, before he can get any further into his fantasy the muscles in his thighs spasm and his grip tightens as his hips jerk upwards one last time.
He slurs out a mess of whimpers and something that almost sounds like your name as he comes.
It’s the only time he gets a break from the insistent demands of his brain. For once he isn’t trying to keep up with his own train of thought as his mind goes blank.
Laying in his mess he takes a moment to catch his breath, using his clean hand to shove his hair out of his face. Trying not to feel as pathetic as he does after that.
He doesn’t even get to touch you in his fantasies.
He should see a therapist.
Instead he opens his laptop again, looking up Betty’s bar. It’s a good hour and ten minutes away, all he has to do is glance over the map before he knows exactly how to get there.
He shouldn’t have done that.
Because now he knows how to get there, and he can’t forget it if he tries.
He’s on auto pilot as he slides out of bed and into the bathroom, rinsing his hand off in the sink as he cleans his stomach with a washcloth.
Normally after fucking his hand he feels better. All the traces of you typically wash off of him, leaving him to have a brief moment of respite where you do not plague his thoughts.
Not this time though.
This time he feels even worse, knowing that somewhere out there, you’re wearing a top that reveals more of your chest then he’s seen. Unmapped territory waiting to be explored.
The though has his body crossing the room, he puts on a clean pair of boxers and slacks. Before he knows it he’s tightening a tie and he’s fully dressed.
And then he’s locking the door behind him.
And then he’s walking to his car.
And then he’s driving.
He just couldn’t help himself. How would he ever forgive himself if he didn’t at least try and get a look at the ‘perfect tits top.’ He can go home once he sees you and harmlessly enjoy the memory in the safety of his own room.
Easier said than done.
Especially now that he’s here, self-loathing creeping in as he scans the crowd for you. He checks his watch, worrying that it might be too early, it’s only ten, what time are people normally out at bars?
He felt sleazy, and out of place. He had expected a dive bar would be the chosen hunting grounds of the prolific maneater. Instead he finds himself standing in a pretty classy establishment.
Full of girls that are too pretty for him and guys that make him feel small.
He’s about to leave, no harm done, he can go home and pretend this never happened while he still has a shred of his pride. He gives the room one last scan as he takes a step towards the exit.
And there you are.
All alone, standing against the wall, doing your own search about the room.
“Perfect tits top” is an understatement. It should be called the “perfect hips, tits, shoulders, little bit of exposed midriff and he can almost see your nipples through that bra top.”
Great, he’s seen it, he loves it, he wants to marry that top, he wants to burn all the clothes you own so you have to wear that top every day. Now he can go because he’s gotten exactly what he wanted to get out of this.
But his legs don’t move.
Probably because all the blood has rushed out of his brain and into his penis.
He’s stuck in place, staring, and hoping that it’s dark enough in here for him to remain unnoticed.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The bar is full and somehow there isn’t a single guy worth your time here.
The curse of being a profiler is knowing immediately the type of people you’re dealing with. At one point you were approached by a rather handsome and well spoken blonde guy in his thirties. You were pretty sure you'd struck gold until an hour into your conversation when you saw the tan line on his ring finger and the small circular indent in his wallet as he paid for your drink.
You kindly excused yourself before trying to find some place far away from him. Eventually putting yourself against a wall so you can scan the crowd for your next mark.
The glint of someone's glasses catches your eye in a painfully familiar way. The same little flicker of light you see in your peripherals on a daily basis.
Surely not. There’s no reason for him to be here. You tell yourself not even entertain the possibility by looking but on instinct you seek out the source and of course, there he is.
Even in a place like this he manages to suck the fun out of the air around him. He looks like he would on any other day in the office and it makes him stick out like a sore thumb. He’s out on the town, you think he could unbutton just one button on his shirt. He went home and changed, and he still chose to wear a short sleeve button up with a tie.
You’re about to just get up and leave, there’s no reason to spend your day off dealing with his shitty attitude. There are plenty of other bars in town and it’ll be best to just get out of here before he sees you.
Except he has. It becomes extremely apparent that he’s staring at you, he doesn’t even try to hide it.
Scratch that, he isn’t staring at you. He’s staring at your chest.
If he just looked up ten inches he’d find himself making direct eye contact with you but you’re pretty sure a gun could go off in the bar right now and he still wouldn’t look away.
This can’t be happening.
He couldn’t be more obvious, standing twenty feet from you with his eyes wide, he literally gulps like a cartoon character, he might as well have hearts in his eyes with his tongue rolled out of his mouth.
When you start walking towards him he finally manages to look up at your face, where he’s currently receiving the most severe glare he’s ever been faced with. In return you’re met with an absolutely terrified Spencer.
“So you just… look like this all the time, huh.” You poke at the top button of his shirt.
“It’s a nice shirt.”
“Sure it is. Why are you here?” You arch an eyebrow at him, cocking your head to the side. Oftentimes when you’re trying to pick a fight with him you start off with the same opening move. A question with an obvious answer while you bat your eyelashes at him. Usually, in return you’re met with frustrated Reid, or exasperated Reid, or whiney-go-and-tell-Hotch Reid.
Never once have you been met with slackjawed, silent, bright-red-in-the-face Reid. Until now that is.
“Reid, did you follow me here?” His adams apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes are everywhere but your face right now. “Hello? Earth to Spencer?”
“Sorry, what?” He just can’t help himself, even now his eyes dart down to your chest before blinking back to your face.
Oh my god.
You grab him by the end of his tie. Yanking him down to your level so he has no choice but to look you in the eye, you wouldn’t dare pull this kind of move when you’re at work but this is a different playing field.
“I said, did you follow me here, you absolute creep?” You typically just ignore it when you catch him sneaking a glance down your shirt but this is unbelievable, there is absolutely no way you can ignore this.
“I- I am not- no. I did not- I’m just stopping in to see-“ Boy genius seems to have realized you're speaking to him but he has nothing of importance to say.
“Who? What? What are you stopping in to see? I know you didn’t come all this way just to stare at my chest, because that would be extremely inappropriate.” The second the words leave your mouth his eyes stop darting around the room and actually meet your gaze.
“I- I should go.” He manages to pull his tie free as he does his best to maneuver through the crowd; it immediately becomes apparent that he’s never been here before. He avoids the exit entirely and ends up tucked into the dark quiet alcove by the bathrooms.
You aren’t sure what’s motivating you, at this point in the night it might be your sexual frustration that fuels your angry stomping after him. When you catch up with him he’s turning around, realizing he’s ended up at a dead end.
You plant your hands on his shoulders and shove him back against the wall. You really shouldn’t but you aren’t on FBI property and what’s he gonna do about it? Tell Hotch you shoved him because he stalked you outside of work hours so he could gawk at you?
“I- I just-” He’s red in the face.
“Just what? Spit it out already.”
“I- I knew Emily was out of town, and I was worried about you drinking and being alone. You- you’re a federal agent it just doesn’t seem safe.” His voice falls off into a whisper as you squint at him.
“Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“I’m just a concerned coworker.”
“Reid, you wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire. I seriously doubt you had concerns about me.”
“It’s extremely irresponsible to drink when you’re all alone and dressed like… that.” For a second he starts to sound a little firm but he shrinks right back down by the end of his thought.
“Dressed like what, Reid? You seem to be rather fond of the way I’m dressed.”
“You’re clearly very drunk, I should just go-” He tries to sneak past you once more but you just shove him again.
“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, I’m not dumb enough to drink when I’m here alone.” It’s true, you’d never drink while out alone, you aren’t an idiot.
“I- I need to go.” He steps to the side but you do the same thing.
“Isn’t this place like an hour away from your apartment?” Tilting your head you gauge his reaction, the guilt that falls over his face is obvious.
“Yes, so I really should get going, I’ve got a long drive home.”
“You just got here, sit, let’s have a drink.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Aww, but who’s gonna protect me if I drink too much? Clearly I’m not capable of doing it myself.” You jut your bottom lip out at him as he finally manages to get past you, taking a step back towards the crowd.
“Can we just forget this ever happened?” He’s holding his hands up in front of him as if you’re holding him at gun point.
“Oh, definitely not, I will be calling Emily the second I get home. And then maybe I’ll call Hotch and let him know I ran into you.”
“I’m allowed to be out at a bar after work hours, I didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice does that thing where it flips from being in control of his emotions to that breathy whine that makes your spine straighten.
“I never said that you did, all I’ll be telling them is the truth of my experience.”
“I’m not scared of you.” He sure looks like he is.
“And I’m not trying to scare you. I’m simply letting my coworker know what my busy weekend plans are.”
“I’m sure you’re gonna be really busy, there are some real winners here tonight. Are you planning on taking home the guy over there with the Family Guy face tattoo or the very obviously married guy trying to cheat on his wife?” He points around the room, and it seems like he finally found his voice. “I think there are also a couple of guys who look drunk enough to take home the next thing that talks to them if you want to enjoy what I’m sure will be a thrilling thirty seconds of love making.”
You hate that he’s right.
“Love making? Are you twelve?” You lean forward to shove him again but he anticipates it this time, stepping backwards.
“Goodbye. I’ll see you on Monday.” He turns and before you can stop him he manages to disappear into the crowd effectively this time.
What the fuck just happened?
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
You pour yourself another generous glass of wine as you check your phone at the sound of an alert.
Debrief?
You open Emily’s contact, hitting the call button, you’re surprised she’s even still awake, it’s almost one in the morning.
When she picks up she’s already giggling, she doesn’t manage to get a word out as she laughs to herself for a good thirty seconds.
“How are you drunk? You told me just a few hours ago that they didn’t serve alcohol there.” You can’t help but laugh along with her, her joy is always infectious.
“I brought my own stuff.” She hiccups.
“Of course you did. Are you having fun so far?” You’re careful not to spill any of your wine as you slip under your blankets, situating yourself against your pillows.
“It’s been surprisingly enjoyable so far. Lots of spa music and I got a massage an hour after I landed.”
“God, that sounds incredible.” Anything sounds better than the night you had.
“My night was boring, I’m more interested in yours. How’d it go?”
Terrible. You left five minutes after Spencer did.
“Well I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if it went well.” You let out a small sigh.
“You’ve gotten too picky.” She’s quick to throw that out there, she must be a few drinks in to be this blunt.
“It’s not even that it’s just…”
“Just?” It sounds like she’s leaning closer to her phone.
You got distracted because he was there?
You’d be lying if you blamed tonight on him entirely. You’ve been going home alone for a while now.
“I’m gonna sound crazy.” There’s a reason you haven’t brought this up yet, it’s embarrassing.
“You always sound crazy.”
“I just- I’ve been having this problem for the last few weeks.”
“Oh I’ve noticed. You’re grumpy.” She lowers her voice an octave as she says it, forcing another fit of tipsy giggles out of you.
“It’s been a little while since I’ve had a successful night out.” You pick at your nails, thankful for the liquid courage that you’re finally getting this off your chest.
“How long?”
“A month and a half? Maybe two months.” She gasps the second you say it.
“Oh wow. That’s like two years in maneater time.”
“Shut up.” You groan.
“Well what’s the problem? I’ve been out with you, you’ve got plenty of options.” It’s true, she’s out with you every weekend and there’s no shortage of potential suitors for either of you.
“Promise you won’t laugh?” All you’ve done on this call is laugh, you’re asking her to promise the impossible.
“Scouts honor.” She’s already stifling a laugh but you don’t let that stop you.
You take a deep breath.
“None of them want me enough.”
There’s a pause and for a moment you’re worried you got disconnected until she bursts into laughter.
“I’m sorry, but I promise you, all of the guys that you talked to tonight wanted you.” She manages to get out between snickers.
“Sure whatever, the problem is that they don’t want it enough.”
“I don’t understand.” Her laughter fizzles out.
“Of course you don’t, you have consistent partners, people who understand you and your body and want you.” You set your phone down on the sheets, clicking on speaker phone. “I’m just a vessel to make them have an orgasm, they aren’t even grateful enough to go down on me. All I want is a guy who’s obsessed with me but isn’t clingy.”
“I think you’ve had too much to drink.” She giggles, on cue she takes a long sip of her own drink.
“Just- just let me explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re right, every guy who I talked to at the bar wanted to have sex, but you can take me out of the equation and they still just want to have sex. It doesn’t matter if it’s with me, all they care about is finishing as fast as possible. They don’t care about me, they care about having a hole to fuck. It’s- it’s too easy.” You swirl your whine around in gentle circles, you’re already nearly done with the glass.
“Okay…”
“One night stands don’t put any feeling behind it, they don’t… want to try new things, or have fun. They don’t even want to take the time to cuff me to the headboard. They're always in such a rush to get their rocks off, they forget that the act itself is supposed to be fun. They think the whole goal is just to shoot their load and leave before they have to make small talk.” Your head spins a little as you take a deep breath.
“It sounds to me like you want a boyfriend.”
“That’s the last thing I want. I want… a consistent partner who wants to do more than four minutes of missionary with the lights off. I want ropes and chains, and gags, and- and I want someone to be mean to me, like really mean, not some stranger who’s worried that I’m gonna break or cry if he spanks me too hard.” Your cheeks are getting hot. You really need to get a handle on yourself. “I want someone to make me cry and I want them to want me to cry, for the love of god I need someone to manhandle me. I need someone to manhandle.”
You’re a lot drunker than you realized.
“Wait, don’t kill me.” She hiccups, you can practically hear the smile on her face.
“Oh my god, what?”
“I think I know who would be perfect for you.” She drags the words out.
Perfect.
“Aww, Em, are you gonna offer me one of your boyfriends?”
“You wish, I’m just thinking, I know someone who’s obsessed with you, and I bet he would do anything you wanted if you just asked.”
Sounds too good to be true, if this man is out there you would have sniffed him out by now.
“Have you been holding out on me? Hiding some secret perfect man?”
She’s a mess of giggles as she takes a deep breath like she’s bracing herself.
“What about Spencer?”
You’re waiting for more laughter, something to indicate that she’s joking.
“That’s not funny.” Your voice is flat now.
“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m serious.”
“Gross, Em. He’s gross, oh my god.” You want to kill her for even putting the thought into your head.
“Exactly! All he does is stare at your tits, and your ass, and your mouth, just you in general. You won’t find someone more ready and willing.”
“He stares at everyone, he’s got a staring problem.”
“Yeah but he stares at you way more than the rest of us. We get passing glances but you get straight ogling.” She says it like that makes it okay.
“Ew. Exactly.”
“Give the kid a break, how's he supposed to get anything done with you walking around in your tiny skirts and your low cut shirts?”
“He’s- no- he is so gross, he’s literally a pervert Emily.”
“And you are…?”
Woof.
“Low blow.” You exhale harshly.
“Besides, you must not hate the attention. I’ve seen you yell at him for breathing too loudly but you’ve never commented on the staring.”
“Well that’s not- that has nothing to do with-”
“Look, all I’m saying is that he would do anything you wanted, happily. Like an eager little puppy. Whether he’d admit it or not, all he wants is your attention.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. He might like to stare but he hates me, he makes a conscious effort to irritate me on a daily basis.”
“That’s just because he makes a conscious effort to insert himself into every situation you’re in. Yes, he’s annoying, but you get the worst of it because he never leaves you alone. You want someone obsessed with you, right?”
This feels like a trap.
“…Right.”
“There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid. It’s insane to me that neither of you have realized this, I clocked it two days after I started working with you.”
“He hasn’t realized it either?”
“Of course not. Just like you, he thinks that he hates you. He just hates that he feels bad for leering at you.”
He must not hate that feeling too much because he drove forty miles from his apartment to leer.
“You’re wasted.” It’s all you can say because for some reason she’s making sense.
“Yeah, and barely keeping my eyes open.”
“Go to sleep.” You murmur, picking your phone back up.
“Mhmm.” She sounds like she might already be snoring.
“Love you, I’ll see you Monday.”
“Love you too.” She mumbles. “Good luck with the rest of your weekend, maneater.”
In the dark of your room all you can see now is the glow of your phone screen.
There is no one more obsessed with you than Dr. Spencer Reid.
What a joke.
You scroll back up through your contacts, clicking on the all caps name just below Aaron Hotchner, labeled ASSHOLE, you have no message history. Why would you? Texting is for joking around, making plans, and casual conversation, you don’t do any of that with Spencer.
His contact photo is a blurry photo you took of him as he tried to shove your phone out of his face. You took it after he begged you for your number. Claiming you needed to have everyone on the team’s contact information in case of an emergency.
You’ve shared maybe two phone calls in that time. Both while on a case, both when Hotch made you call him.
You shouldn’t call him, it’s late, nothing good can come of it.
He’s disgusting, you shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea.
She just made it sound so appealing. And for the first time in the year you’ve been working at the BAU, you consider for a moment that Spencer might actually be good for something other than pissing you off and reciting facts that you can find with a quick Google search.
Like an eager little puppy.
Huh.
Are you really this desperate?
You click the call button without thinking about it.
Fuck you’re so drunk.
You’re about to cancel the call but he picks up.
On the first ring.
“Hello?” Why is he out of breath? It’s the middle of the night.
“Whatcha doing?” You try to sound casual, taking another sip of your drink.
“What?” His voice is a mix of sleepy and guilty, it’s hard for you to place.
“You sound… sweaty.” You giggle, high pitched and bubbly. Yikes, you’re a lot more out of it than you realized, you definitely shouldn’t have called him.
“Are you still at Betty’s? Do you need me to come get you?” It catches you off guard how normal he sounds, like he might really be worried about you.
“No- no, I’m home.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, Doctor Reid. I’m not.” You over enunciate his name.
“Do you need help?” Is he actually worried about you? You didn’t know he was capable of that, considering all you’ve seen from him before is disdain and poorly concealed lewdness.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay…?”
“Okay.” You repeat it back to him in the same tone.
“You’re drunk.” Boy genius solves another case.
“Don’t worry Doctor, I waited until I was safe at home to indulge.”
There’s a long silence, similar to when you spoke with Emily you wonder if he hung up until he finally speaks again
“Are you alone?”
Code for: did you bring someone home from the bar?
“All alone.” You swear he sighs in relief when you say it. It makes you laugh even harder, this entire situation is unbelievable. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend? We’ve got four more days to get through.”
“There’s a chess tournament livestreaming Friday night that I was hoping to catch.” You’re waiting for him to list anything else but he’s seemingly done.
“That’s it?”
“Not all of us are on the prowl at bars every night."
“You’re so judgemental, and- and rude.” You sneer, as if he can see your expression.
“Why exactly did you call me?”
Because you want to know if he’s really obsessed with you.
Because you’re so horny right now you hardly know what to do with yourself and you’ve run out of options.
Because for the first time in weeks you actually feel something happening between your legs as you listen to him struggling to catch his breath over the phone.
That last one’s probably the wine talking.
“Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” You say it like you aren’t throwing a live grenade out into this conversation.
“Why?” He sounds suspicious, as if you’re luring him into a trap, and he’s right, you are.
“Maybe we can sit and talk for a few minutes, and really get to the root of our problems.”
“Really?” He sounds unconvinced.
“No, not really. But I’ll make it worth your while.” You really do mean that part. If you can prove that he really is obsessed with you then you might be able to make this work.
“Why would I want to spend my day off being berated by you?”
“I told you, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Goodnight.”
“Spencer.” You whine, his breath hitches loud enough for you to hear it over the phone.
“Fine, how will you make it worth my while? Contrary to what you believe, I don't enjoy your constant verbal abuse.”
“I’ll wear the shirt again, the one I wore tonight.”
You’re left in a full sixty seconds of silence again before you hear him let out a breath.
“What time are we meeting?” He sounds defeated. Good, you need to have the upperhand if you’re going to do this.
“You choose, text me a place and a time and I’ll see you there.” You have to stop yourself from smiling.
“What? Why do I have to-”
“Goodnight Doctor Reid.” You click the little red button, effectively ending your call.
Your palms are sweating. God this is so stupid, you shouldn’t have done that.
You receive a message immediately.
White Rabbit Diner, 10:30 a.m.
It’s twenty minutes from your place, perfect. You set an alarm before you toss your phone onto your nightstand.
You’re already regretting your decision now that you’re alone in the silent darkness. It’s Spencer.
Whatever.
You don’t have to do anything, if you wake up sober and regret your decision you can just have breakfast with him, it’s fine. You just need to know if Emily’s right. You don’t have to do anything with the information, it’s just nice to have options.
Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.
Reblog if you're okay with people coming into your DMs with the "you seem really odd and your blog intrigues me, do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters"
winnie's whimsical bakery @winniethewitch11 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
