dra!

who?: perv!spencer x maneater!reader

a/n: first smutty thing i’ve written i feel dirty will not happen again (i feel like i got possessed while writing this?)

w/c: 5.2k (again i went a little over board)

summary: “His jaw clenched. You were fucking your way to the top. — And you were winning. And worst of all—he liked it. He liked the power in it. The danger.”

You were walking down the corridor beside Spencer, your heels clacking against the tile in a rhythm too confident for the beige walls of the BAU. He was mid-ramble, something about a new paper he read—quantum decoherence, string theory, Schrödinger’s cat on acid, who knows. You weren’t really listening. You were more focused on the way his hands moved when he talked, long fingers twitching like he couldn’t quite hold still.

And he was focused on you. Always was.

Spencer’s mouth went dry when he noticed it again—just like every day now.

The stares. The greetings. The fucking grins.

Almost every guy in the hallway acknowledged you. A wave. A wink. One guy from Forensics had the audacity to nod and say “Hey, gorgeous.”

Spencer blinked. Stopped walking. The words in his mouth tangled themselves up like a bad dream.

“You uh... must know a lot of people here?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

You just giggled.

Spencer’s brow furrowed. His head tilted. “What’s so funny?”

You glanced at him, sly and soft. “Yeah, I know everyone. Very well.”

The implication hung in the air like perfume—thick, heavy, undeniable.

Spencer’s heart jumped behind his ribs. His fingers twitched again. His eyes dropped from your smirk to your mouth, then further—your throat, your blouse, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. He tore them back up. Swallowed.

He was a profiler. He knew the game. And he hated that you played it so much better than him.

“You’re not serious,” he said finally, voice low.

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I made it here because I aced my psych evals and color-coded my case files?”

“...I mean, those things would help.”

You laughed again, and it was almost cruel. “Spencer, baby. I’ve been on my knees more times than I’ve been behind a desk. To put it simply I got tested — and I'm best, yes”

His breath caught.

You leaned in, brushing past him as you walked again, your hand dragging lightly across his chest as you passed. “But don’t worry,” you murmured. “I’m still deciding if you’re worth the effort.”

His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

You didn’t look back.

Spencer was supposed to be filing reports. Instead, he was in the dim, quiet room of the archives, the light of the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The air smelled like old paper and the faintest trace of your perfume—Chanel No. 5 and something darker.

He’d checked. He’d profiled.

He didn’t like the way Morgan looked at you. Or how Hotch’s eyes lingered just a second too long. Or how you’d touched the new PA’s wrist and whispered something that made him blush.

Spencer was smart. Too smart. And it was driving him insane.

He sat with your personnel file open in front of him. There wasn’t anything official to prove it—but the puzzle pieces were there. Timing of promotions. Transfer requests. The field agent who left mysteriously a week after you arrived. The interdepartmental memos that didn’t quite add up.

His jaw clenched. You were fucking your way to the top. And you were winning.

And worst of all—he liked it. He liked the power in it. The danger.

He didn’t want to stop you. He wanted to be next.

He closed the file and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, breathing slow and shaky. He could still hear your voice.

“I’m still deciding if you’re worth the effort.”

A quiet creak behind him.

He turned.

You were there, silhouetted in the doorframe.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, walking in, shutting the door behind you with a click.

Spencer stared at you like you were a mirage—half dream, half threat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

You walked to him slowly, hips swaying like you knew the effect, like you counted on it.

“I know,” you said. “But I figured... why wait?”

You slid into his lap like you owned him. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck.

Spencer's breath hitched. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

“You’ve been watching me, Doctor Reid.”

“You—you’re not subtle.”

“You’re not either,” you purred, grinding down slightly, feeling him stiffen beneath you.

He swallowed hard. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You smiled like the devil herself. “And you’re about to lose.”

You kissed him. Slow. Possessive. Like you were taking something from him.

And he let you.

The kiss ended, but you didn’t move.

You hovered over him, fingers still tangled in his hair, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw like you were studying him. Like he was your next case. Your next conquest.

Spencer stared at you, wide-eyed and dazed, like he couldn’t tell if this was real or a hallucination born from too many sleepless nights and too much wanting. His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist, barely touching you—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held on too tightly.

“You kissed me,” he said, dumbly.

You smirked. “Took you long enough to notice.”

“I don’t understand…” he trailed off, but he did understand. He just didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to admit he liked being used. Liked being one of your pawns.

“You don’t have to understand, Doctor. You just have to behave.”

That shouldn’t have made his pulse spike, but it did.

“Is this part of your—your game?” he asked quietly.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “This is the game, Spencer. The question is—are you going to play along?”

He shuddered.

And then, finally, he snapped.

He grabbed your waist, hard. Not rough, but with purpose. Possession. Like he’d been holding back for too long.

“I’m not like the others,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it held something dangerous in it. Something simmering.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “No,” you said slowly. “You’re so much worse.”

He kissed you this time—messy, needy, clumsy with want. Like he’d been starving. Like he couldn’t help himself. His hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, like if he let go, he’d drown.

You moaned softly into his mouth, and it only spurred him on.

You reached down, hand ghosting over the bulge in his slacks, and he gasped, pulling back, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

“We—we shouldn’t—”

“We already did,” you whispered, licking your lips. “And you liked it.”

He didn’t deny it.

He just let his head fall back against the chair, breathing heavy, watching you through his lashes like he wanted to ruin you and worship you at the same time.

You stood slowly, straightening your skirt like nothing happened.

Something in his eyes snapped.

He kissed you then—messy, hungry, like he’d been denied oxygen and you were the only source left. It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperation, pure and raw. His tongue tangled with yours like he needed to prove something—prove that you were his. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you flush against him, like if there was even an inch between you, he’d lose control completely.

“Do you even know what you do to me?” he rasped, breaking the kiss, panting, forehead pressed against yours.

“I’ve been watching you for months. Do you know how many nights I’ve sat there pretending I was normal, pretending I wasn’t thinking about this? About you? About bending you over that desk in the briefing room, about hearing you cry for me behind a locked door?”

Your heart thundered, but you didn’t look away. You should’ve been scared. Maybe you were. But it didn’t stop the heat building low in your stomach.

He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear—tender, if not for the darkness in his gaze.

“I’ve read every paper you’ve ever written. Memorized the way your voice sounds when you're excited. I know how you take your coffee. I know you fake smiles when Morgan flirts with you, and that you bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh. I’ve imagined what else you bite your lip for…”

You swallowed hard.

His hand slid up under your shirt, fingers trailing fire along your ribs. “Say the word,” he said hoarsely, “and I’ll stop.”

You didn’t.

That was all he needed.

His mouth was on yours again, rougher this time, like he’d just barely been holding himself back before and now—now that he had permission—there was no reason to pretend. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he bit down, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp.

“That sound,” he breathed. “I’ve heard it in my head a thousand times.”

His hands moved like he already knew your body—like he’d mapped it out in some quiet, obsessive fantasy long before you ever let him touch you. You should’ve known. Maybe you did. Maybe that’s what drew you in. The way he looked at you like you were a secret he was desperate to crack open. Like you were a crime scene and he was going to find every hidden piece of you.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured into your neck as he kissed a line down your throat, his fingers slipping beneath your waistband. “I study you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ve imagined the exact pressure it would take to make you tremble. I’ve read so many books on human response, but none of them compare to watching you arch your back when you think no one’s looking.”

His fingers dipped lower, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch. Like he wasn’t just touching you—he was claiming data points, filing them away, building a thesis on your desire.

You moaned, head tilting back, and he grinned into your skin.

“Statistically speaking,” he whispered, “you should be fighting me off right now. You should be running. But you’re not. You want to know how far I’ll go.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “I won’t stop unless you make me.”

There was a flash of madness in his eyes. Controlled. Beautifully restrained. Like a knife polished to a shine.

And you weren’t going to stop him.

You didn’t stop him.

You should’ve. Maybe. But instead, you let your hips roll into his touch, greedy for it. You let his breath hitch in your ear, let his fingers slide lower, parting you like he’d been studying your body the same way he studied case files—methodical, meticulous, obsessive.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, and his voice was tight, like it cost him something to stay this controlled. “Fuck.”

He dragged his fingers through you, slow and deliberate, collecting everything, like he was analyzing it. “Do you know what this does to me?” he asked, slipping one long finger inside. “You—like this? You ruin me.”

You gasped, and his other hand caught your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you. “You always act like you don’t notice me watching. But you do. You like it. You like being the reason I have to jerk off in the FBI bathroom between briefings.”

He added another finger—long, thick, curling just right—and you cried out, but his hand clamped over your mouth.

“Shhh,” he hissed, eyes burning. “You don’t want anyone to hear how filthy you are for me, do you?”

You shook your head, biting his palm, and he groaned.

“God, that mouth. You have no idea what I’ve imagined doing with that mouth. I’ve read every psychological profile on oral fixation just trying to understand why the fuck I need to feel your lips wrapped around me like I need air.”

He pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his mouth, sucking them slowly, tasting you like a man starved.

“You taste like sin,” he said, voice wrecked. “Like the price of everything I’ve ever wanted.”

And then he was undoing his belt with shaking hands, eyes locked on you, and there was nothing clinical about him now. No trace of the good doctor, the genius, the golden boy.

There was just him. Obsessive. Starving. Unhinged.

And all of it—every fractured, brilliant, filthy part of him—was for you.

His belt hit the floor with a soft clink, but the sound felt deafening in the silence between you. His eyes devoured you—completely unblinking, like a predator studying prey it had already caught.

“You wanna know how long I’ve wanted this?” he asked, already moving over you, sliding you onto your back like you belonged there. “Every single time you walked past my desk in that tight little pencil skirt—I had to bite the inside of my cheek just to keep from grabbing you right there in the damn bullpen.”

You opened your mouth to answer, maybe tease him, but his hand was suddenly at your throat—not squeezing yet, just resting there. A warning. A promise.

Your breath caught.

“Oh,” he breathed. His eyes went half-lidded, pupils blown, and his voice dropped so low it felt like it rolled straight through your spine. “That look right there? When you realized how much you like this? That’s going in my permanent memory archive.”

He pressed down just slightly, enough to make you aware of how fragile it all was. His thumb brushed the side of your neck while the rest of his hand tightened, slowly, like he wanted to feel your pulse racing under his fingertips.

“I’ve read the studies on erotic asphyxiation,” he murmured, mouth hot against your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “I know exactly how long to squeeze, how deep to push. You’re safe with me. That’s the irony, isn’t it?”

He was inside you before you could respond—one long, smooth thrust that knocked the air right out of your lungs. The stretch, the fullness, the filth of it. And with his hand still around your throat?

You moaned—helpless, high-pitched, and ruined.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hips jerking. “You feel like you were made for me.”

He started moving, hard and hungry, and every thrust shoved you higher up the slick black couch that used to stay in Hotch’s office. His grip on your neck tightened—not enough to scare you, just enough to hold you there, under him, for him.

“You like being used, don’t you?” he growled. “You like that I can’t stop thinking about this. About fucking you raw while my hand’s around your throat and my brain is short-circuiting from how tight you are.”

You whimpered, and that only made him groan louder—dirtier, more desperate.

“I’m gonna come so deep inside you,” he whispered, lips brushing yours, “you’ll still feel me when you sit down for your next debrief.”

And the way he said it? Like it wasn’t just dirty talk. Like it was a fact.

Like it was already happening.

“Baby, stop.”

The few words sliced through the air like bullets.

Spencer froze—mid-thrust, hand still wrapped around your throat, eyes wide and desperate above you. His pupils were blown, lips swollen from kissing you like a man possessed, and sweat clung to his neck in delicate rivulets. He looked unhinged. Beautiful. Yours.

But he stopped.

Because you told him to.

You slid your hand over his, slowly, prying his fingers from your throat one by one. Then you pushed him back with a firm palm to his chest, watching the confusion flicker in his eyes, then the arousal that followed it like a shadow.

“You think you’re in control, Doctor?” you asked, voice low and venom-sweet. “That this was your fantasy?”

He let out a shaky breath as you pushed him to sit back on his heels. His cock was still inside you, twitching, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with the way you were looking at him now.

“You’ve been jerking off to the thought of this for months, haven’t you?” you whispered, grinding your hips down just enough to make him groan—wrecked and guttural. “Obsessing. Profiling me. Getting off on the idea of fucking the girl you weren’t supposed to touch.”

He nodded—pathetic, breathless.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Then sit still. Be good. Let me use you like the toy you’ve been pretending I was in your head.”

And just like that, Spencer broke.

His hands clutched the sheets behind him to keep from touching you, knuckles white, jaw clenched. His brain was short-circuiting—desperate to analyze, to stay in control—but his body betrayed him. He was panting, cock twitching helplessly inside you, eyes rolled up like just the act of being inside you while you called the shots was too much.

You started to move, slow and deep, rolling your hips with calculated precision. He whimpered—Spencer Reid fucking whimpered—head falling back as he tried to hold himself together.

“You’re not going to come until I say so,” you warned, one hand sliding up his chest, nails dragging over his skin. “You’ll sit there and take it like the pathetic, pervy little genius you are.”

“I—fuck—I can’t—” he gasped, shaking beneath you. “Please.”

That’s what you’d been waiting for.

That word. From him.

You smirked, grinding harder now, feeling him unravel beneath you.

“Oh, now you want to beg?”

His hips bucked, instinctive, and you clamped your hand around his throat—not hard, just enough to remind him.

“I said still.”

And he obeyed.

Because no matter how many degrees he had, no matter how many cases he solved, no matter how much control he thought he had—when it came to you?

He was just a toy.

You kept your hand at his throat—just enough pressure to keep him grounded, controlled. Your other hand slid down his chest, slow and teasing, nails dragging along his stomach, until your fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, still thick and twitching inside you.

Spencer was a mess beneath you—sweat-slick, trembling, mouth slack with need. His eyes kept fluttering shut, then snapping open again, like he couldn’t stand not looking at you.

“Please,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m—God, I’m so close. I need—fuck—please let me come.”

You tightened your grip slightly around his neck, leaned down until your mouth was right against his ear.

“You need to come?” you repeated, mock-sweet. “After all that talk about how obsessed you are? All those nights jerking off to the idea of owning me… and now look at you.”

You rolled your hips slow, deep, and cruel—just enough to keep him on the edge, but never enough to let him fall over it.

“You don’t own anything, Spencer. You’re just a toy I let inside me. A smart little perv who knows how to beg.”

He groaned—guttural, broken—and you felt his cock twitch, hips jerking involuntarily. His whole body tensed.

He was right there.

And then you pulled off him.

Completely.

His mouth dropped open, a strangled sound clawing out of his throat as his cock throbbed uselessly in the air, aching and flushed, leaking with how badly he needed release. You wrapped your hand around him again—tight, fast, filthy strokes—and his entire body shook.

“I’m gonna—I’m—” he gasped, teetering right at the edge.

And then, with a smirk, you squeezed hard at the base and stopped.

His orgasm died in his throat—cut off before it could crest, back-arching, eyes wide in disbelief as his body tried and failed to finish. A ruined mess of desperation and overstimulation.

He whimpered—actually whimpered—hips twitching, cock still straining in your grip, but there was no release. Just pressure. Just denial.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Good boys come when they’re told,” you whispered. “Not when they beg.”

Spencer collapsed back onto the bed, panting, absolutely wrecked. His cock still hard. Still leaking. Still yours.

And he looked up at you like you were holy.

“I’ll do anything,” he said, voice hoarse. “Please. Let me earn it.”

You grinned, dragging your fingers down his chest.

Spencer was still flat on his back, panting, cock flushed and twitching with the ache of a ruined orgasm he didn’t get to have. His eyes followed your every move—hungry, reverent, completely wrecked.

“You want to come?” you asked, straddling his chest, your knees framing his ribs. He nodded instantly, too fast, like the need had short-circuited his brain. “Then make yourself useful, Doctor.”

You shifted forward slowly, dragging your slick cunt across his stomach, up to his chest, until you were kneeling over his face. His eyes widened. You didn’t give him time to adjust—you just grabbed a fistful of his curls and lowered yourself onto his mouth.

He groaned into you—deep and eager, tongue lapping like a man who’d fantasized about this exact moment every night since the second he met you. He licked you like he had something to prove, like his entire self-worth hinged on how fast he could make you fall apart.

And you let him.

You rode his face, grinding down hard and slow, watching his eyes flutter shut as he moaned against your pussy, so fucking eager it was pathetic.

“God, look at you,” you said, breathless, curling your fingers tighter in his hair. “Smartest man in the room, and you’re happy just being my seat.”

He moaned again—needy and filthy—and his hands clutched your thighs, holding you down, urging you to move faster.

“Oh, now you want to be in control?” you laughed breathlessly. “Not happening, baby. You’re not even allowed to breathe unless I let you.”

You rocked your hips harder, chasing your own high against his mouth, feeling the sharp edge of his nose against your clit, his tongue fucking into you like he wanted to memorize your taste.

“Fuck, yes—just like that—don’t stop,” you gasped, hips grinding now, erratic, relentless. “You wanna come? Then earn it.”

Spencer whimpered beneath you, moaning into your cunt like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, his hips bucking up helplessly against air, denied again.

You kept going—riding his face like a throne, using him like a toy, moaning his name while you chased your own climax on his tongue.

And when it hit?

You screamed, thighs tightening around his head, grinding down hard as you came all over his mouth—and he just moaned louder, like it fed him.

You finally lifted off him, breathless and shaking, and looked down.

His face was soaked.

His eyes were wild.

And his cock? Still painfully hard. Still untouched. Still waiting for your permission.

“Did I do good?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Did I earn it?”

You just smirked, dragging a finger through your slick and pressing it to his lips.

“Not yet,” you said. “But you’re getting there.”

You pulled back, gasping for breath, your body still trembling from the way you’d used him. Spencer was still lying there, eyes wide and full of need, mouth slick and swollen, trying to catch his breath like he hadn’t just been a slave to your pleasure.

You slid off his body, slowly, letting him feel the absence of you—the aching emptiness where he had been just seconds ago. He watched you like a lost puppy, desperate for more, but you were done.

You were certainly satisfied.

You grabbed your clothes from the floor, pulling your panties back on first, letting the cool fabric slide over your damp skin. You didn’t spare him another glance as you slid your dress back on, slow and deliberate, like everything had just been another routine for you.

Spencer’s gaze never left you—his hands clutched at the cushions, still hard, still begging for some release, but you didn’t even acknowledge it. He had his answers now, his punishments. This was what he’d asked for.

The only word he could think up right now was, Feral.

“I can’t stop thinking about the way you moaned,” he said, almost dazed. “The exact pitch. I could graph the sound waves if I wanted to.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t amused—it was unhinged. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve come just thinking about you in that skirt you wore to the Gideon briefing?”

You raised an eyebrow, sliding your bra strap up your shoulder slowly. “You're such a perv, Doctor Reid.”

His eyes flashed.

“And you like that.”

You did.

He lunged forward, pulling you onto his lap like he was starving again. “You fucked your way up to the top?” he growled against your throat. “Fine. Then fuck your way through me. Let me be the price you pay to keep it.”

As you pulled your heels back on and sat up slowly, you finally glanced at him—his face wrecked, begging in that silent, desperate way. But there was no tenderness, no softness in your eyes. You were a different version of yourself now. The one who wasn’t affected by him, the one who wasn’t obsessed.

“You’re not going to come, Spencer,” you said, voice cold as ice. “You’re not even worth it.”

You turned toward the door, one last look over your shoulder. “Next time, maybe don’t get so obsessed with the idea of me. It’ll save you some embarrassment.”

And then you left.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Spencer lay there, panting, still twitching, completely fucked.

who?: spencer x unsub!reader

content warning!: mention of murder, normal cm stuff, crime scene photos, kinda mentions reader is petite but it really just a vibe! (also first post in awhile be nice)

w/c: 1.1k

summary: A brilliant girl with a spotless past is suspected of five brutal murders. But when Dr. Spencer Reid steps in, the interrogation turns into a deadly game of minds.

Interrogation Room B | Quantico, Virginia

It had been nearly four hours. The cold metal chair beneath you had long since lost any semblance of comfort, and the fluorescent light above hummed with an unrelenting flicker that could drive anyone to madness — if they weren’t already there.

Two officers had tried to break you. One slammed the table. The other tried to guilt you. Neither worked.

You played the part perfectly: wide-eyed, soft-spoken, demure. The girl who never got detention. The girl who brought cupcakes to school and volunteered at animal shelters. The girl who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But that girl? She didn’t exist.

The murders were messy. James Widec, Gary Bowe, Hardin Ross, Eric Mout, and Zachary Gubler. All fit, all former athletes, all with suspiciously sealed university records and bruised egos to match. The details were gruesome. Precise. Someone had wanted them to hurt — emotionally, psychologically, physically — and someone had made damn sure they did.

The BAU’s profile had been clean. Logical. A male unsub, probably mid-30s, with a violent record, no clear empathy, and definite antisocial tendencies.

That didn’t fit you. Not on paper.

No priors. No psychiatric red flags. GPA of 4.2. Varsity swim. Homecoming court. Perfect.

But all signs pointed here. To you. And now, finally, he walked in.

You knew who he was the second the door opened.

Doctor Spencer Reid.

The genius. The profiler. The prodigy with the mismatched cardigans and the thousand-yard stare. The one who solved impossible puzzles and recited obscure statistics like they were lullabies.

You watched him as he entered, slow and thoughtful, a man who noticed everything. His lips were pursed, brows drawn slightly in thought. His posture was stiff, but not unfriendly — like he wasn’t sure whether to approach you as a criminal, a puzzle, or maybe... something else entirely.

He sat across from you with a quiet sort of control. His eyes were steady. Observant. He didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t need to.

You smiled, tilted your head ever so slightly, and spoke first. “You can ask me anything you want,” you said sweetly. “Anything?”

Spencer studied you. Not your words — your cadence. Your breathing. Your lack of tension. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t lying badly. You weren’t lying at all.

You were performing.

“I’ll be taking over the questioning from now on,” he said simply, sliding a stack of crime scene photos onto the table like a dealer laying down cards. Your victims stared back at you in full color — mouths open, limbs bent in awkward, post-mortem shapes.

But you didn’t look. You looked at him.

Straight into those hazel eyes.

His voice was calm when he began. “You’re nineteen years old. No criminal record. You’re academically gifted, socially integrated, and by all accounts — emotionally stable. So why are you sitting in this chair?”

“Everybody knows I’m a good girl, officer,” you said softly, the corner of your mouth turning up just enough to spark suspicion. “No, I wouldn’t do a thing like that. That’s for sure...”

Spencer let out a quiet sigh, but you noticed the faintest flush in his cheeks.

Interesting.

After a few minutes of procedural questioning — Miranda rights, lawyer offers, yawn — he launched into something more cerebral, something verySpencer. About behavioral inconsistencies, a hypothesis regarding your relationship to the victims, a theory about displaced anger rooted in early trauma. You nodded along, wide-eyed, absorbing none of it.

Then, you leaned forward, your tone silkier now. “You got a girl?” You tilted your head, your lashes lowering like curtains over a scene.

“I don’t see a ring on your finger...”

The question caught him off guard. For a second — just one — his lips parted like he might answer.

He didn’t.

Instead, he blinked and looked down at the photos, clearly recalibrating. You didn’t miss the flicker of tension in his throat or the twitch of his fingers as they adjusted his sleeve.

“You know,” you continued, voice feather-light, “most guys would’ve jumped at that question. But you — you’re not like most guys, are you?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m here to ask you the questions.”

“But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Your tone wasn’t accusatory. It was gentle. Like seduction in reverse — a weapon masquerading as affection. “Wondering what kind of girl it takes to make five men bleed out in abandoned places. Wondering if maybe you’ve been wrong before…”

Spencer shifted in his seat. He looked uncomfortable, but not repulsed. Intrigued. Curious.

That was always the beginning of the unraveling.

“I’ve profiled killers half your age,” he said quietly. “And twice your size. The body doesn't commit the murder — the mind does.”

You smiled.

“Oh, doctor, if you wanted to get inside my mind,” you said, leaning in just a breath closer, “you could’ve just asked me out to dinner.”

There it was.

The faintest smirk tugged at his lips before he blinked it away. He hated that you got to him. You could see it — the subtle tension in his jaw, the way he looked through you now instead of at you.

“I think you enjoy this,” he said suddenly, voice low, as if the thought had just materialized. “The game. The attention. Not because you're proud of what you’ve done, but because you want to see how long you can play the part before someone catches on.”

You said nothing, just tilted your head, that same disarming smile plastered on your lips.

“You’re not here to prove you’re innocent,” he said. “You’re here to see if I’m smart enough to prove you’re guilty.”

And finally, something changed in your eyes.

Not panic. Not fear. Just… interest.

“Well?” you asked, your voice still soft but your smile sharper now, like a knife behind a ribbon. “Are you?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He just stared at you for a long, weighted moment.

summary: A shopping trip for the perfect dress turns unexpectedly intimate when Spencer helps with a stuck zipper, leaving both of you flustered.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader

w/c: 1.1k

content warning - none? 🌀

"Spencer! I brought you here for more than a ‘yeah, that’s nice’!"

You swatted the crossword puzzle from his hands, sending the folded newspaper fluttering onto the department store couch beside him.

Spencer Reid, FBI genius and reluctant shopping companion, sighed dramatically, running a hand through his disheveled curls. "I just don’t understand why this requires such an extensive process," he muttered, crossing his long legs. "Statistically, decision fatigue sets in after prolonged exposure to too many choices. It’s a psychological phenomenon—"

"Yeah, yeah, decision fatigue," you cut in, already too familiar with his endless encyclopedia of facts. "But unfortunately for me, I can't justify spending more than thirty bucks on a dress unless I have immensevalidation. Which is where you come in."

His mouth quirked in amusement. "I fail to see how my presence provides any meaningful validation."

"You’re an FBI profiler, Spencer. You analyze people for a living. Surely you can analyze my outfit choices."

He let out a long-suffering sigh and uncrossed his legs. "Fine. Continue your quest for the perfect dress."

You smirked in victory before disappearing back into the dressing room.

This wasn't just any shopping trip—it was a mission. A black-tie gala loomed in your near future, and your ex would be there. You hadn't planned on attending, but your position in the company made your presence non-negotiable. The problem? You couldn’t just roll in wearing the same overused bridesmaid dress you'd worn to every semi-formal event in recent memory. You needed something that said I’m thriving, look how good I look without you, and unfortunately, that wasn’t a department store clearance rack kind of confidence.

The rest of the BAU women had partners, kids, or both to attend to. And asking Rossi? Well, that would have just resulted in him spoiling you with an absurdly expensive designer gown, and you really didn’t need that kind of judgmental generosity today.

So, Spencer it was.

The poor man had stupidly agreed, assuming this errand would take an hour at most. That had been over two hours ago.

Now, he was slouched on the fitting room bench, his tie loosened, his cardigan unbuttoned, and his patience thinning.

"You look good in all of them," he said, dramatically rubbing his temple. "Just pick one so we can go get coffee and pastries. I’m starving."

You turned to him, hands on your hips. "Not gonna work on me, puppy dog eyes. You agreed. You stay."

Spencer sighed, jutting out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout before slumping further into his seat. "Fine."

You turned back to the mirror, eyeing the current dress. It was a deep emerald green, fitted in all the right places but somehow… off.

"This one’s pretty, but the color’s wrong," you mused aloud, turning slightly. "Don’t you think?"

Spencer studied you with the same intensity he usually reserved for crime scenes. "Well, studies show that color significantly impacts first impressions. In fact, between 62% and 90% of a person’s initial judgment is based on color alone. Additionally, 85% of purchase decisions are influenced by color psychology—"

"Spencer."

He blinked.

"Yay or nay?"

"Nay."

With a huff, you disappeared back into the dressing room, continuing your battle against a seemingly endless sea of dresses. Spencer, meanwhile, picked up his crossword again, filling in a few squares before hearing a sudden yelp from behind the dressing room door.

His head snapped up.

"Are you okay?" he called, already rising to his feet.

"Uh—yes and no," you admitted. "I need help. The zipper’s stuck. I think it caught my hair."

Spencer hesitated, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Are you… decent?"

"Yes, Spencer," you said, exasperated. "Just get in here!"

He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The dressing room was small, and suddenly, Spencer was acutely aware of just how little space separated the two of you. His eyes flickered to the mirror, where your reflection met his—your dress was stunning, deep navy blue with delicate beading along the bodice, the fabric hugging your figure in a way that made his throat dry.

He cleared his throat. "Right. The zipper."

You nodded, turning so your back was to him. "It’s stuck at the top. I think a strand of hair got caught."

Spencer stepped closer, his hands hovering near your back. Carefully, he placed one hand on your waist, his long fingers pressing lightly into the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

Spencer swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. The scent of your perfume—soft, warm, utterly you—drifted between you, mingling with the faint traces of his cologne. His fingers grazed the zipper, finding where it had snagged.

"I’ve got it," he murmured, his voice lower than usual.

You nodded, staying perfectly still as his fingers worked at the caught strand of hair. The heat of his hand against your waist was distracting—his touch was gentle but steady, careful not to tug too hard.

Spencer was not unaffected.

His brain, usually a whirlwind of statistics and case files, was suddenly blank. He was hyper-aware of your proximity, of the way your skin warmed under his fingers, of the way you smelled like vanilla and something floral. He tried to ignore the way his pulse quickened when you shifted slightly, pressing closer in an attempt to give him a better angle.

"Almost…" he murmured.

You felt his breath ghost over your bare shoulder, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"There." His fingers slid the zipper down just enough to free your hair, but instead of stepping back, he hesitated, his hand still resting lightly on your waist.

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

The air between you was electric, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Spencer’s fingers twitched against the fabric of your dress, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might—

But then, he cleared his throat and stepped back so abruptly that he nearly tripped over the dressing room bench.

"Uh. There. Fixed. You’re free."

You turned to face him fully, catching the unmistakable flush creeping up his neck, the way he suddenly seemed to have no idea what to do with his hands.

"Thanks," you said softly.

Spencer nodded quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Right. Well. I should—um—I’ll wait outside."

And with that, he practically fled the dressing room.

You stared after him, heart still pounding.

The zipper was fixed.

summary: A misplaced step, a well-timed rescue, and a conversation with Dr. Spencer Reid turn an ordinary library visit into the start of something unexpected.

who? spencer reid x reader content warning - talks of concussion + it’s insinuated that reader is shorter than spencer? a\n: i fear i ONLY write fluff..? 🍎

You had been wandering the aisles of the library, fingers ghosting over the spines of well-worn novels, inhaling the intoxicating mix of aged parchment and crisp new print. You loved this—the quiet hum of whispered pages turning, the comforting solitude of a world built from words.

Then, your eyes landed on it.

Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell.

It wasn’t just interest that gripped you; it was something deeper, something almost magnetic. You had to take it home.

One problem: it sat high—far too high—on the twelfth shelf. You, tragically, were not twelve shelves tall.

There was a step ladder nearby. Wobbly. Untrustworthy. Probably violating several safety regulations. But still, the lure of literature was stronger than reason.

The first step creaked. A warning.

The second step groaned. Another warning.

The third step wobbled. That should have been the final red flag, but just as you extended your fingers toward the book, someone brushed past you.

A tall, lanky man—sharp cheekbones, tousled brown hair, fingers just barely grazing a chess set wedged onto the shelf beside you. The brief distraction was all it took.

Your foot slipped. The ladder rocked.

For a moment, time seemed to stutter. You weren’t falling as well as realizing, with creeping inevitability, that gravity was about to make an example out of you.

You braced for impact—wooden chair, hard floor, possible head injury—until large, warm hands caught you, pulling you into a firm chest.

"Are you—uh, are you okay?"

The voice was soft yet rapid, uncertain yet oddly grounding. You blinked up at your rescuer.

He was still holding you.

And not in the casual I-just-saved-you-from-busting-your-head-open way, but in the hands-lingering-a-second-too-long, breath-hitched-in-his-throat kind of way.

You should have said something. Thank you. I’m fine. or Wow, you’re weirdly strong for someone built like a human bookmark.

But words failed you, because up close, his eyes—warm hazel flecked with gold—were as captivating as the novel you’d nearly died for.

“I’m—uh—Doctor Spencer Reid,” he finally stammered, shifting awkwardly but still not quite letting go. “I mean, I’m just Spencer. You don’t have to call me ‘Doctor.’ Unless you want to, of course, which would be completely understandable given that according to the National Institutes of Health, only about 0.3% of the U.S. population holds a medical degree, which is a relatively small percentage of people who—” He abruptly stopped, exhaled sharply. “I’m rambling.”

Your lips quirked. It felt a little like getting hit with an academic monsoon, but there was something endearing about it.

“I’m Y/N,” you offered, finally stepping back, though you already missed the warmth of his hands. “And no ‘Doctor’ for me—just Y/N. At least for now.”

Spencer nodded, visibly cataloging the information. “You should still consider pursuing an advanced degree if you’re interested. Higher education significantly increases lifetime earning potential and—” He cut himself off again. “Sorry. Rambling. Again.”

You laughed. “You’re a medical doctor?”

“Oh—no. I have three PhDs, but none of them are in medicine. I work for the FBI. I’m a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

The confidence in his voice was immediate. No stuttering, no hesitation. This was something he was proud of.

“FBI?” You raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “That must be a big deal. Do you get to have fancy dinners with the President?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Not exactly. I’m not that high up the chain. Sorry to disappoint.”

You took a small step closer, tilting your head. “Well, why don’t I buy you a coffee?”

He blinked. “Why?”

“As repayment for saving me from a concussion,” you said, smiling.

Spencer hesitated, as if running calculations in his head. “Technically, I think it’s customary for the rescuer to receive gratitude rather than a transactional repayment, but I suppose—” He stopped himself, swallowing. “Yes. Coffee. I’d like that.”

You grinned, tucking Gone with the Wind under your arm. “Perfect. But first, you’re tall—can you grab this book for me?”

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, reaching up with ease. “I feel like this is a scheme to take advantage of my height.”

“Maybe,” you admitted.

He handed you the book, his fingers grazing yours for just a second longer than necessary.

summary: Spencer Reid thrives on order, but your world is anything but. Amidst the chaos of coffee cups and lipstick-marked books, playful banter turns into quiet affection, reminding him that some messes are worth keeping.

who: spencer reid x messy!reader w/c: 612! (short story)

Your bathroom was a mess of half-empty makeup bottles, open palettes, and a precariously balanced cup of coffee resting dangerously close to the edge of the sink. You were standing on your tiptoes, forearms braced against the counter, carefully applying mascara in the small smudged mirror you’d thrifted months ago.

From the other room, you could hear Spencer rummaging through the remnants of what had once been a clean apartment floor. His voice carried through the space, laced with amused exasperation.

“It’s like you seek chaos.”

You rolled your eyes at your reflection. “It’s really not that bad!”

“You say that as if I haven’t just discovered an entire archaeological dig site of dried-out markers and nearly empty paint bottles.”

You grinned, dragging the mascara wand through your lashes one last time before stepping back to admire your work. “I call it artistic organization.”

“I call it a safety hazard,” Spencer retorted from the living room.

You ignored him, turning to dab a bit of highlighter onto your cheekbones. Just as you reached for your coffee, you heard Spencer let out a horrified gasp.

“I don’t even want to know how long this coffee mug has been here.”

Before you could defend yourself, he tapped it with his knuckle and sent it clattering into the sink. He stood there for a moment, as if contemplating his life choices, before sighing deeply.

“Seriously,” he continued, turning back to survey the mess, “do you know how many bacteria are transmitted when you wipe your nose on your sleeve? I told you—”

You emerged from the bathroom, arms crossed. “An estimated 40,000,” you recited, cutting him off. “You’ve told me a million times.”

Spencer gave you a pointed look. “And yet you still do it. It’s a wonder you’re not sick more often.”

“Maybe I have a superior immune system,” you quipped, smirking.

Spencer huffed but didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, his gaze drifted downward, and he frowned. “Is this the book I bought you? Why is it on the floor? I thought you liked it.”

“I do—that’s why it’s over there,” you said, plopping onto the couch beside him. “And look.” You lifted the book, flipping to the pages you’d marked. “I annotated my favorite quotes.”

Spencer reached for it, and his brow furrowed as he examined the markings. “Is this… lipstick?”

You beamed. “Yes! It was the closest thing I had.”

He let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing his temple. “We need another session on how we treat our literature, ma’am.”

Ignoring his exasperation, you leaned over and placed a kiss on his cheek. When you pulled away, a faint pink lipstick mark lingered on his skin, mirroring the smudges on the book’s cover.

Spencer blinked, momentarily stunned into silence.

Shaking his head, he pulled you down beside him onto the now semi-decluttered couch. “You are a menace.”

You grinned. “This quote reminded me of us.”

You cleared your throat and read aloud:

"What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?" — George Eliot, Adam Bede

Spencer let out a slow breath. His fingers lightly traced over the words on the page, and for a moment, he just stared at you—like you were something rare and important.

summary: When a case for spencer falls through he realizes you’re the true target.

w/c: 1.8

who? spencer reid x teacher!reader

content warning - mention of violence at school, shooting, stalking ect!

 It was only after you had set your students up with a color-by-number worksheet that you noticed the 17 missed messages from Spencer.

Your stomach twisted as you scrolled through them. The first was simple: “Are you safe?”

Then came, “How fast can you get a substitute for your class?”

More messages followed, each more frantic than the last. But the one that made your heart race was the last one, the words glowing on your screen like a warning siren:

“Don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know. Get you and the kids safe! Call me as soon as possible!”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed back from your desk, forcing yourself to move quickly but not panic. A headcount—everyone was here. You exhaled a shaky breath, forcing your trembling fingers to twist the lock on your classroom door. It took two tries, but you managed. Then, you ducked behind your desk, phone pressed to your ear, praying Spencer would pick up.

The call rang five times before he finally answered.

“What is this about, Spencer?” you demanded in a hushed but sharp whisper.

“Is everything locked? Are you alone?” His voice was strained, breathless.

“Yes, everything is locked! What’s happening? Are my students in danger? Do I need to alert the school?” Your knee bounced under your desk, colliding with the wood.

Spencer sucked in a breath. “Your students will be okay. But listen to me—do not open the door unless it’s for the person I’m sending. I’m about to send you a photo of Agent Derek Morgan. He’s the only person you trust.”

Your blood ran cold.

“We’re on a case right now, remember? The one outside of town?” Spencer rushed on. “It turns out, the murders were bait—designed to get us out of Quantico. We’ve confirmed the killer has been stalking us. He knows our routines, our addresses, our—” His voice caught. “Our significant others.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

Spencer’s voice lowered, as if saying the words too loud would make them real. “He sent us pictures, Y/N.”

Your grip on the phone tightened.

“Pictures?” you echoed, voice barely a whisper.

“Of you.” Spencer swallowed hard. “In your apartment. At the coffee shop. Out with friends. Us on dates—with my face scratched out. And…” He hesitated. “One of you… changing.”

A nauseous wave rolled through you.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “But until we catch him, we can’t risk you being his next target. Once Agent Morgan arrives, he’ll give you a prepaid phone. My number and the emergency line are already programmed into it. You’ll be moved to a safe house. I—” His voice cracked. “I cannot lose you.”

Your throat felt too tight to speak. You pressed a hand over your mouth, steadying your breath. “O-Okay… I love you, Spence,” you whispered, hoping it gave him some sense of calm.

“I love you too, angel,” he murmured.

The call ended, leaving you with only the suffocating weight of reality.

You forced yourself to stand, glancing at your class. They were safe—for now. But if this stalker knew where you lived, it wasn’t impossible that he knew where you worked.

Slowly, you made your way to the front of the room, voice steady despite the panic clawing at your chest. “Alright, class, let’s switch things up. Everyone grab a buddy and find a quiet spot in the reading corner. We’re going to have fifteen minutes of silent reading.”

A few kids groaned, but they obeyed. The shift dimmed the room’s energy, giving you an excuse to keep them away from the windows, away from the door.

Your fingers ghosted over the pocketknife in your back pocket. You never brought it to school, but today—by sheer coincidence—you had grabbed your going-out bag instead of your usual tote.

Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all.

You swallowed the thought. Your mind flickered to your friends. Had he been there last night? Watching you? Following you home? Were they safe?

A sharp knock on the door shattered your thoughts.

You tensed, clutching your phone in one hand, the photo Spencer had sent in the other. Heart hammering, you moved toward the blinds, peeking through.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood outside, his stance firm, eyes scanning the hallway like a hawk. His expression was grim, but his posture was relaxed—controlled. Just like the picture Spencer had sent.

It was him.

You exhaled shakily, unlocking the door and cracking it open just enough to see him. “You’re Spencer’s coworker?” you asked quietly.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Derek Morgan. And you must be Pretty Boy’s girl.” His eyes flicked over you. “Damn. You are not what I expected for Reid.”

You glared, unimpressed. “Spence said you’d have a substitute with you. I’m not leaving until my kids are safe and moved to a different classroom. If this guy knows where I live, it’s not a stretch to think he knows where I teach.”

Morgan’s smirk faded, replaced by something much more serious. “You’re smart,” he admitted. “Don’t worry. We’ve already arranged for the kids to be moved to the library until further notice. The school’s on alert. And now, our priority is getting you out of here.”

Reluctantly, you nodded. “Okay.”

Morgan handed you the prepaid phone. “Reid’s on standby. The second you’re safe, I’ll have him call you.”

You clutched it in your palm. “Let’s go.”

As you turned, you cast one last look at your students—innocent, unaware.

You had never felt fear like this before. But as Morgan led you down the hallway, every instinct inside you screamed the same thing.

You weren’t just running.

You were being hunted.

And the game had only just begun.

     Morgan led you through the dimly lit hallways of the school with quick, measured steps. Every muscle in his body seemed tense, his sharp eyes scanning every corridor, every shadow. His hand hovered near his holster, fingers twitching slightly—ready for anything.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. It wasn’t just fear. It was the unsettling awareness that something felt off.

The school was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“We’re taking the back exit,” Morgan muttered, low enough that only you could hear. “Less open space. Less risk.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, gripping the prepaid phone in one hand while your other hovered near your back pocket, where your knife sat tucked away.

The two of you moved swiftly through the halls, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the linoleum. Just as you turned the last corner toward the exit, Morgan suddenly stopped short, throwing an arm out to block your path.

You barely had time to react before he pushed you back against the wall, shielding you with his body.

“What—”

Morgan pressed a firm hand over your mouth, his other hand reaching for his gun. He didn’t say a word, but his expression told you everything you needed to know.

You weren’t alone.

Your stomach twisted. You tried to control your breathing as Morgan tilted his head, listening intently.

A sound.

Faint footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

Someone was inside the building.

Morgan motioned for you to stay put as he took a silent step forward, gun raised. You held your breath, your fingers curling into fists as you fought the urge to run.

Then, from somewhere near the front entrance, a metallic clang echoed through the hall.

Morgan stiffened. Then, his voice was low, steady. “Stay behind me.”

Your fingers tightened around the knife in your pocket, but you did as he said, following closely as he guided you toward the back exit.

Another sound—a door creaking open, somewhere behind you.

You didn’t dare turn around.

Morgan quickened his pace, his grip tightening on his gun. The exit was just a few more steps away.

Then—

A shadow moved at the edge of your vision.

A figure stepped into the hallway, partially obscured by the dim light.

You didn’t get a good look at him—just enough to see the dark clothing, the unsettling stillness of his stance.

Then, he moved.

Fast.

Morgan shoved you back just as the man lunged.

The next few seconds were a blur.

A sharp crack—a gunshot.

The sharp sting of adrenaline flooding your veins.

Morgan’s voice—sharp and commanding. “Run!”

You hesitated, heart hammering, before turning and sprinting toward the exit. Your fingers fumbled with the door handle, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Morgan fired another shot behind you. A grunt. A thud.

Then—

“Go, go, go!”

You burst through the exit into the cool night air, your legs burning as you kept running, only stopping when you reached the black SUV parked by the curb.

Morgan was right behind you, shoving you inside before slamming the door shut. He jumped into the driver’s seat, peeling out of the parking lot before you even had time to process what had just happened.

Your hands shook as you gripped the edge of the seat. “Was that him?”

Morgan didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

Your stomach churned.

It wasn’t just some faceless stalker anymore. It wasn’t just an idea.

It was real.

A real person. A real threat.

And he had been waiting for you.

Morgan’s phone rang, the shrill sound making you jump. He answered instantly.

“She’s safe,” he said, his voice still edged with adrenaline.

A pause. Then, softer, “Yeah, Pretty Boy, she’s okay.”

Spencer.

You could hear his muffled voice on the other end, rapid, frantic.

Morgan glanced at you through the rearview mirror. “You wanna talk to him?”

You exhaled shakily and nodded. He handed you the phone, and you pressed it to your ear with trembling fingers.

“Spence…”

A sharp breath of relief crackled through the line.

“Y/N.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I—I’m okay.”

Another shaky breath. “Jesus Christ… I thought—” He cut himself off. You could picture him running a hand through his hair, pacing, his mind spiraling in a hundred different directions. “Morgan said he was there.”

You swallowed hard. “He was.”

Silence.

Then, Spencer’s voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, we’re going to catch him.”

A chill ran down your spine.

Because Spencer Reid wasn’t just saying it as a promise.

summary: After a night of heavy drinking with the BAU team, you find yourself too intoxicated to make it home, leaving Spencer Reid to take care of you. As he struggles with his growing feelings while getting you settled for the night, an unexpected moment of closeness forces him to confront the possibility that his feelings might not be one-sided after all.

who? spencer reid x bau!reader w/c: 1.1k content warning - reader is drunk, mention of throw up (kinda) spencer changes you!

It was almost midnight when Rossi declared he’d buy drinks for anyone willing to join him at O’Keeffe’s for a night of reckless, piss-drunk fun. You were game, of course. The BAU had just closed a brutal case, and if anyone deserved to let loose, it was your team.

The turnout was smaller than expected—JJ and Hotch had gone home to their kids, leaving just you, Rossi, Emily, Morgan, Garcia, and… Spencer. But that was fine. A party girl didn’t need an entourage to get white-girl wasted, or at least, that’s what you mumbled while throwing back your first few shots of vodka.

Sixteen minutes and three shots later—plus half a glass of whiskey, courtesy of Rossi—you were already feeling it. The bar’s neon lights blurred as you took in the chaotic scene around you.

Morgan and Garcia were out on the dance floor, swaying to Wipe Me Down with an impressive lack of coordination, laughing as they mumbled lyrics that vaguely resembled the actual words. Emily stood a few feet away, sipping a martini and chatting with a group of women who all looked equally effortlessly cool. Meanwhile, Rossi sat with a woman no younger than sixty, buying her and her friend rounds of wine and bourbon, his deep chuckle echoing through the bar.

And then there was Spencer.

You found him alone at the bar, nursing a glass of wine he clearly didn’t want, a result of Rossi’s insistence. He was people-watching, his fingers lightly tapping the stem of his glass, but his eyes seemed distant, lost in thought.

You stumbled toward him, ordering another drink—big mistake—and used his knee to steady yourself as you climbed onto the barstool beside him.

“What’s on your mind, brainiac?” Your words came out in a messy, drunken slur.

Spencer’s eyes snapped to you, concern flickering across his features. “Nothing. Are you okay? Why don’t we get you a water?” He reached out, steadying you with a gentle hand.

“Why are you over here all by yourself?” you pressed, blinking up at him. “Normally, when we go out, guys come up to me like every five minutes.”

If you weren’t so intoxicated, you might have caught the unmistakable hint of jealousy in his voice when he replied, “Yeah, I noticed.”

You shrugged. “I was talking to a guy a while ago, but then he said I was ‘too pretty to possibly have a degree,’ so I walked away.”

Spencer stiffened. “Who said that?” His eyes scanned the bar, his protective instincts flaring.

“No clue. He and his friends were bar-hopping.” You leaned forward, resting your chin on your palm. “He’s probably gone.”

Spencer exhaled through his nose, clearly irritated. “You should’ve let me say something to him.”

Your response was a lazy, inebriated smile. “What, you gonna recite the statistical probability that he has a surprisingly low IQ?”

Spencer huffed a small laugh, but his concern remained. “Come on, you’ve had enough. Let’s get you home.”

You groaned, clinging to the bar like it was a life raft. “I don’t wanna go home.”

Spencer ignored your protest, already searching the area. “Where’s your purse?”

“I asked Garcia to watch it,” you mumbled.

Spencer turned to find Garcia, only to see her deeply engrossed in conversation, your bag nowhere in sight. He sighed. “We’ll get it in the morning. Looks like you’re bunking with me tonight.”

The walk to the car was a struggle. Your legs barely worked, and Spencer had to half-carry, half-drag you through the parking lot. By the time he got you into the passenger seat, you were already out, your head resting on the center console, lips parted in sleep.

The drive was peaceful, save for the occasional glance Spencer stole in your direction. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your smudged mascara only made you look more delicate, the way your top had shifted just enough to reveal the lacy edge of your bra—he was in trouble.

When he pulled into his apartment’s parking lot, he tried to wake you, but you were dead to the world. With a resigned sigh, he carefully lifted you out of the car, your body instinctively curling into him as he carried you up the stairs.

Your breath was warm against his neck, and when your lips brushed his pulse, he nearly stumbled.

Spencer had spent years pretending he didn’t feel this way about you. He wasn’t blind—he knew you were beautiful, charming, the kind of woman who lit up every room you entered. But you were also his best friend, and he refused to be just another guy pining for your attention.

But now, with you in his arms, drunk and vulnerable, it took everything in him to remember that.

Inside, he laid you on his bed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You awake, sleepy?”

You groaned, shifting against the mattress. “Mmm.”

“Let’s get you something more comfortable, huh?”

He grabbed an oversized Star Trek shirt the logo plastered across the top and an old pair of sweats from his drawer, setting them beside you. “Here, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, you reached for him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a jolt through him. You were warm, impossibly close, your breath fanning against his skin.

“Spence,” you murmured.

His throat went dry. “Yeah?”

You nuzzled into him, your lips ghosting over his collarbone. “You’re always taking care of me.”

Spencer swallowed hard. “Someone has to.”

Your fingers traced absent patterns on his back, your touch light but intoxicating. “You should let me take care of you sometime.”

He forced out a shaky exhale. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy but sincere. “Yes, I do.”

For a moment, the world stilled. The air between you crackled with something unspoken, something that had been lingering for years but never acknowledged.

Then, just as quickly, your head lolled forward, your body going slack against his.

You were asleep.

Spencer let out a quiet chuckle, relief and disappointment warring inside him. “Figures.”

Carefully, he dressed you in his clothes, doing his best to keep his gaze respectful. When he was done, he pulled the blanket over you, brushing one last strand of hair from your face before stepping back.

He settled onto the couch, forcing himself to ignore the way his heart pounded.

Tomorrow, you’d wake up with a raging hangover, probably no memory of what just happened. And he’d still be your best friend, just like always.