#thewitch11

summary: you're Spencer Reid's wife during the prison arc. He's been through difficult times, and when he comes back from prison, he's different…

tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, post prison! Spencer, wife! Reader

w/c: 458

song fic, inspired by my one and only love by mon laferte. listen to the song here

My dear love

I know you have some scars

They will heal with time

We’ve learned all our shades

Ah, ah, ah

I know they'll heal with time

Spencer Reid who's always been gentle and sweet, now is tough. Not the aggressive type, just not reachable…

You try to get close to him but he's not… receptive.

He doesn't come back emotionally to you immediately.

You're patient, endlessly so… but seeing him like that breaks your heart.

He stays away not because he doesn't love you but because he's buried down in his head…

You know he constantly blames himself for putting you and Diana in danger.

There's no reason not to love you like I love you

Reason

We will be all right

We won't cry

You keep trying everyday, you reassure him. You talk to him even when he's quit and out in his mind.

He's been far away from you… at work. He's been pushing himself aside. And you know it is because his job is the only thing he can control right now.

You know he feels anger. A lot. Nevertheless he's never been mean to you. At least not on purpose.

But he notices how much he hurts you and he feels worse. Though you never say a word. You just give him space.

He knows he's losing you, he can tell it when you let your arms fall down your body every time you fail to hug him.

You're getting used to his absence. You're getting used to not feeling warmth from your own husband.

That emotionally breaks you both.

He doesn't know how long you would handle this situation, so does he.

Dressed in white, I waited at the altar

You’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of

My love

My one and only love

“I’m sorry,” he says one night in a quiet voice.

“What?”

“I've left you alone this whole time…”

You don't answer, because you know exactly what he means. You look at him, and for the first time he doesn't look away.

“Spence…” you say with tenderness in your voice. “Remember you're my husband. In sickness and in health. For better or for worse, until death do us part.”

“Do you still love me?”

You reach for him. You put your arms around him, softly. Like if he was a kind of savage animal who's afraid of contact.

“Of course I do, you're my love. My one and only love.”

My dear love

We will be a safe space

Time shall pass

We have many possible futures

Getting back your husband as he was may not be easy, but you love him anyway. You'll work through it. Because he's everything you've ever asked for.

🍒𐙚⋆ cherry masterlist ⋆𐙚🍒

summary: 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.

tags: professor reid!, professor! reader, writer! reader, post prison! reid, comfort, new beginning, probably inaccurate facts, reader is a total nerd, so is spencer, slow burn, slight angst, no use of y/n, not proofread

w/c: 1.9k

You stop by your so far favorite cafe, Bloomsbury has been an important part in your adaptation process. You can't believe it's been almost one month since you moved to Georgetown. It's been nice. You've known plenty of amazing people… including that one doctor…

Your phone starts ringing in your pocket when you're taking your coffee from the bar, you wave your hand to say goodbye to the dependant who smiles and wishes you a good day. You press the answer button. 

“Hello, sweetheart!” You hear Gabby's voice on the other side of the line. 

“Hello! How are you doing?” you ask, it is always so good to hear your best friend's voice. You miss her so deeply.

“Not bad.” She says. “I miss you.”

“Miss you too… I hope you don't find another best friend.” You tease her. 

“I hope you don't,” she replies. 

Both of you giggle at the phone.

“What about that guy… what was his name again?” she asks, pretending not to care.

You sigh. You already know where this is going.

“Spencer. What about him?”

She hums softly. “He’s… interesting. And very interested in you. Or at least—” she shrugs, “in helping you.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, but there’s a smile in her voice. “It’s just… curious, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes. “Curious how?”

“I don’t know. The way you talk about him. The way he shows up exactly when you need him…” she pauses. “Have you looked into him?”

You let out a short laugh. “What? Why would I do that?”

She leans back, casual, like she didn’t just drop a bomb.

“Because it’s fun,” she says. “Come on. He sounds like a character.”

A beat.

“Aren’t you curious?”

-

Somehow that conversation ignited something in your brain, nevertheless you were very conscious about how bad it was wanting to know more about a mere colleague. He had told you already what you needed to know; he’s an FBI profiler, a professor and a good citizen.  

“I've reviewed everyone's reports,” you say to your students, they're looking at you expectantly. “There are several things to work on so that your assignments are exactly as I asked, okay?” You begin to call each student up to go over their report. You hear complaints, cheers, snorts, and so on. When you finish, you say goodbye and everyone gathers their things to leave. You turn off the projector and put all your things in your briefcase. You grab your coffee and head for the exit. 

You smile at a couple of students who greet you in the hallway. The conversation between you and Gabby still hovered your mind. Maybe you can look on the internet for more references… No, that wouldn’t be good.  

You felt a little disappointed when you entered the faculty lounge and didn't find him. He should be out for a case, you think, but that shouldn't be any of your business. 

Your fingers press the buttons of the keyboard furiously, you've seemed to find inspiration, finally. Your phone rang and your heart jumped a beat after noticing who was calling. 

“Spencer…” you greet him. 

“Are you busy?” He asks. 

“Not really… well I was writing,” you admit. 

“It will not take too long…” he says. 

You wanted to tell him that he shouldn't hurry but you shut down. 

“I was wondering if we can change our book session to the park,” he pauses. “I need some fresh air…”

“Is everything all right?” You question, “we can settle the session for a different day…”

He sighs at the other side of the line. 

“No, it's okay. It was just a tough case… I don't want to skip the session, just to change the escenario…” 

“All right” you say as you lay in your chair's back, “what about the Waterfront park?”

“Sure, I'll see you there. Same hour.”

“See you then.”

“Now go back to writing!” He says, you can clearly see his smile in your mind. 

When you hang up, you smile, biting your lip slightly and bringing the pen to your lips. You immediately shake your head. What’s wrong with you? You’re just going to talk to Spencer about your book—it’s not a date. 

The conversation you had with your best friend earlier comes back to you, stronger this time. Your hand moves the mouse, sliding the cursor to the search bar. Your fingers type in the name Doctor Spencer Reid. 

You pause for a moment, suddenly feeling like a teenager up to no good. But this is something else—you’re researching your colleague. Well, it’s not that bad; we’ve all stalked someone we’re getting to know, right?

Without thinking twice, you read the headlines of the pages that appear in the top search results. There’s nothing you didn’t know before: FBI profiling genius, IQ of 187, three doctorates… three doctorates! Wow, that man is something else.

There are also press photos of him at various conferences, a younger Spencer—you can’t help but smile. There’s a photo of him holding an award, another of him cradling a little dog in his arms… You giggle like a schoolgirl. He’s so adorable in every version of himself. Your eyes keep drifting across the screen. 

Suddenly, a headline catches your eye: “FBI profiling genius arrested in Mexico…”

You stop. Close the window, even the computer. 

That ain't real. No way. Spencer arrested in Mexico? Why?

You keep watching the ceiling for a long time, before a bzzz interrupts your train of thought. It was John, he liked the two chapters you sent and was asking for one more. You sign in relief, at least these two chapters were enough to calm John down for a little while. 

What a strange thing, you ask yourself if you should ask Spencer about it, but how would you tell him you have investigated him? That was not correct. Nevertheless, there should be an explanation for that, even if it is real, you’re no one to confront him. If he wants to open up and tell you about it, it is totally up to him.

-

It's five o'clock and you're sitting on a bench, scrolling on your phone while you wait, then Spencer shows up with a smile and two cups of coffee. 

“Iced latte, right?” he asks, you smile, amused by him remembering your typical order. 

“You're so kind, thank you so much,” you say as you stand up and take the coffee. 

He smiles back at you. 

“Would you mind taking a walk?” he asks. 

“Absolutely,” you answer. 

“We've met each other for weeks and I barely know you…” he mentions as you walk through the park. 

“What do you want to know?” You ask, mischievous. 

He makes a pause. “What's your favorite animal?”

You look at him. You did not expect such a question. 

“You're really asking me that?” 

“Sure. What's wrong?”

You just laugh. 

“My favorite animals are cats.”

“Cats? For real?”

“Yeah. What's wrong with cats?"

He giggles. That soft, open laugh that makes him look younger. 

“Nothing. It's just… I thought you were more of a dog person.”

“And what kind of person are you, Dr. Reid?” you asked with a hint of amusement in your voice, calling him “Dr.”—as you’d started doing whenever you wanted to tease him a little.

He gave you an adorable frown before answering.

“I’m not really into animals,” he told you with a smile. 

You raise an eyebrow. He looks at you amused. 

“What?” He inquiries. 

“What happens to animals?” you question. 

He pauses before answering.

“Pet hair, usually from dogs and cats, contains allergens that affect breathing or cause skin problems. Between 25% and 30% of the population suffers from these allergies. Fortunately, I’m not part of that percentage, but the amount of bacteria these animals accumulate bothers me a little.” His voice grows quieter as he finishes speaking.

You look at him with an amused expression—not to mock him, but because this man strikes you as the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“All right, doctor, so what do you like? Turtles?”

“Actually, turtles are carriers of salmonellosis…” 

“Well, I get it,” you say with a light laugh.

He laughs and then sips on his coffee. 

“So, about your book…” he starts, guiding the conversation back to the main topic. The book, right. 

“Did you read the two chapters I sent?” you inquire. 

“I did,” he answers with a smile, sipping on his coffee. 

“What do you think?”

“What are my thoughts about it?” He teases you. 

“Spencer!” You chirp. He laughs at your expression. 

“I think you're an absolutely captivating writer, you have a very clear voice. The construction of the characters is outstanding. I like that they are very human, you can connect with them. I wanted to read more.” He finishes with a smirk, winking an eye at you. 

He. Winked. At. You. What?

“You really liked them?”

“I totally did,” he says. 

“I have a question,” you mention trying to bring you back to the main topic and not to the fact he just told you you're an absolutely captivating writer and then, he blinked at you. 

“Tell me,” he says. 

“How do you know when you can trust someone?” You look at him a little longer than necessary, wondering—not about your book anymore, but about the answer itself.

“You don’t really know,” he says quietly. “You notice patterns. Consistency. Whether someone’s words match what they do over time.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s rarely immediate.”

You nod. 

“That makes sense,” you say. 

He looks at you. 

“I think it is time to go,” you say as you glance at your watch. It's almost 9 PM. 

“Yeah, it's getting a little late,” he mentions. “Let me walk you home.”

You don't answer, just start walking by his side. You don't talk for some time, until Spencer breaks the silence. 

“I was wondering…” he begins, you're very close to your apartment. “The guys, I mean my team. They are planning something…”

You arrive at your building, you enter and the two of you start going upstairs to your apartment. It's like Spencer just forgot he's walking with you. 

“Yes?” You tell him.

“Well, they think it would be fun, I'm not a big fan of it but they say it's good for health,” your frown because you don't know what he's talking about. 

“My friend Penelope, she's planning a dancing reunion. I know it sounds ridiculous, and you don't have to accept it if you don't want to, but… would you go dancing with my team and… me?” He inquires. He looks absolutely worn out. 

“Are you inviting me to go dancing?” You ask, your heart pounding inside your chest. 

“Yes… I mean, it would be good for you to meet other profilers than me, for new perspectives,” he mentions. “You don't have to acc…”

“I would love to go, Spencer,” you answer before he can continue talking. He looks at you, amused. 

He blinked before speaking. 

“All right, so… Saturday at 7 PM?” 

“Yeah, you already know where I live,” you tease. At that moment, Spencer realizes he's standing in front of your door's apartment. You giggle. 

“Oh… that's right,” he strands one hand through his hair. “Well, I'll see you on Saturday, then.”

“Right. Thank you for everything, Spencer.”

“Thanks to you. This meeting was… stimulating.”

“It was,” you coincide with a smile.

You stay there, shaking your hand until Spencer disappears downstairs. 

So… dancing with Spencer? What an interesting thing. 

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.

Extras

🍒𐙚⋆ cherry masterlist ⋆𐙚🍒

summary: 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.

tags: professor reid!, professor! reader, writer! reader, post prison! reid, comfort, new beginning, probably inaccurate facts, reader is a total nerd, so is spencer, slow burn, no use of y/n, not proofread

w/c: 2.9 K

The room smelled of dust and old lies. A single lamp flickered, throwing shadows that didn’t quite behave like shadows should. She couldn't believe this was a place she once belonged to…

Your eyes scan the screen as if by reading the same words over and over again, inspiration will strike once more. You sigh and tilt your head back, then look at the screen again, leaning forward and adjusting your glasses. You're about to type one more word, just one... Until your cell phone rings.

You snort and answer without looking at the screen.

“What's up?” you ask grumpily.

“How's the move going? Have you been able to sit down and write yet?” John's voice, your manager, comes through on the other end of the line. You bring your hand to your face, pressing the bridge of your nose.

“I was just about to do that when you called...”

“I hope you're at least finishing chapter one. The bosses are putting pressure on me.”

“John...” Your voice sounds strained.

“That's the way it is, little one. We need that manuscript by the end of the month if we don't want any problems with the publisher.” He tells you what you already know for the umpteenth time. You snort.

“I know. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a manuscript to write.” You say through gritted teeth. And of course John notices.

“Uh-uh. That doesn't sound promising. Take a few hours. But not too many. And take care of yourself, little one.” John says goodbye in that sing-song voice that sometimes irritates you so much.

You look back at the screen. The words aren't going to flow if you're this stressed, and you know it. You get up, grab your jacket, and decide to take a walk around the neighborhood.

It's almost six in the afternoon and the air is cool, enough to make you shiver a little. You walk aimlessly until you find a small café on a half-hidden street, Bloomsbury reads in the sign along with a black cat image on it. You look at the façade and find it very charming, so you decide to go in. The door makes a little jingle as you enter and the atmosphere feels warm. There are cat decorations everywhere; it's definitely a place that suits your personality. You look at the menu and decide to order an iced latte. You sit down in one of the chairs by the window.

These months have been like a rollercoaster. You did not expect such a success after writing Look Who's Through the Window, you wrote it because you wanted to show the world the reality about the government, but you portray it in a funny way. When you published your book, you could never have imagined the impact it would have. Social media was flooded with thousands of comments about your work, both positive and negative. Then there were comments about you personally. That's something you've learned to deal with.

Now, you have achieved your childhood dream of becoming a renowned writer but you had to leave New York—your hometown. The place where you grew up, because fame became overwhelming, and you took advantage of that opportunity to teach at Georgetown to escape.

While you're sitting there, sipping on your coffee, you cannot avoid noticing that someone at the table next to yours is looking at you.

You start to feel a little uncomfortable and anxious, most of the time you could manage this kind of situation, but right now after what happened in New York, you're not sure anymore. You’re about to take your coffee and go from there, but the girl next table decides to stand up as well. Before you could do any move, she approaches you and all of your alarms go off.

“Hello? I'm sorry to interrupt you…” she starts with a soft voice and a shy smile, “are you the author of Look Who’s Through the Window?”

There's a moment of silence before you answer.

“Yes, I am.” You prepare yourself for whatever that person is about to throw at you.

“I loved your book. It is one of my favorites” she chirps with a smile. “Have I known I'd find you here, I'd bring my copy for you to sign it.” She comments with a lot of enthusiasm. That makes your heart flutter.

“Oh, thank you so much,” you say, truly touched.

You share some other words with this lady, then she leaves, saying it would be great to greet you again and that she'll carry the copy of her book around just in case… that makes you smile.

—

The next day, you wake up early, very early. You're excited yet quite nervous. You've taught before, but this is the first time you'll do it at upper levels like university students.

You arrive at the university in twenty minutes, you decide to go by bike, to take a little fresh air, plus Georgetown university is super close to your place. The university atmosphere envelops you completely after you leave your bike in the bike rack. It's been so long since you've been to school so you feel slightly out of place. You pick up your terracotta-colored briefcase and set off through the university's green spaces. You follow the signs to the building you need to go to: the social sciences faculty.

—

During the first class, you introduce yourself, talk about the course rules and the way you'll work and evaluate them. Your students seemed enthusiastic about the agenda yet a little out of focus. You catch some of them murmuring about how young you look to be teaching but you didn't listen to them. Some others recognized you as the author of that famous book. You couldn't quite recognize their reactions.

Finally, the work day is almost ending, you only have one more class to give. You breathe out as you collect your things and walk toward the next scenario. You peek an eye through the little window hole in the door. There's some other teacher still at class. You lean over and you couldn't help but listen —his voice is soft, almost sweet.

He ends the class and his students start to exit through the adjoining door. You're way too distracted thinking about the delicious potato cake that's waiting for you at home that you don't notice when the door opens and you slip dangerously toward the floor. Fortunately, you manage to place one of your hands on the doorframe, stopping your fall. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, your breathing is slightly accelerated when you hear a voice behind you.

“Are you okay?”

You compose yourself as best you can under the watchful gaze of the man standing in the doorway, who looks at you with curiosity.

“Yes, yes... Nothing happened.”

He smiles, and you smile back.

“I'm doctor Spencer Reid.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, extending your hand. You immediately tell him your name, and he looks at your hand for a very long second before taking it with some caution.

“Are you new here?” He asks.

“Yes, this is my last class of the day,” you inform him with a smile.

“That's fantastic,” he says. “Well, see you around.”

“All right, thanks.”

He waves and walks out the classroom and then leaves. You sigh, he looks like a good guy. You composed yourself and entered to begin the class.

—

When your last class finishes you walk down the hallway, the sign for “faculty lounge” appears, accompanied by a soft, delicious smell of coffee. The smell becomes more intense as you enter. There are professors at their desks, busy with their laptops, preparing their lectures, or grading papers. There are a few others at the coffee station. You walk confidently to an unoccupied desk near the coffee station, you settle in, and review your notes to get organized for the next day.

The door opens again, you look up and see that it is the teacher who was in the classroom teaching the class before yours. You can't help but stare at him; he is very tall and walks confidently to the coffee station, muttering something you can't hear.

“Oh, hey!” he greets you when he sees you.

“Hello,” you mumble. Clearly out of your mind.

“You finished?” You nod, then he continues. “How was your first day?”

“It was… quite revealing,” you answer through your breath. He laughs.

“It's interesting, right?”

“Totally!” You chirp. “So… I was wondering if I can ask you some things about the university…”

“Well, I'm technically new here too, but…”

Suddenly, his phone rings. He furrows.

“I am so sorry, I have to leave right now.” He tells you as he keeps his phone back in his pocket. “We can continue this conversation later. By the way,” he stops himself in the way, you listen. “The coffee here is terrible.”

He leaves apparently in a rush, you say your goodbyes, then you go back to get some caffeine. You fill your cup with that stemming drink and lean on the counter. At least maybe you just made your first friend in this town. You sip on the coffee and wrinkle your nose, he's right, you think.

—

“So… in order to teach or to write in a language, it is important to understand it deeply.” You say as you point at the presentation projected on the curtain, the room is dark, the only light coming from the projector. Some of your students are distracted by looking at their phones, some others are really paying attention, and that's where your attention is. “As we've been talking…” You continue. “After Britannia was left by the Romans, it was invaded again by the Germanic tribes: the Anglos, the Saxons and the Jutos, founded what we know as The Heptarchy or the seven kingdoms…”

After your class is over, you collect your things, and you walk through the hallway straight to the cafeteria out of the campus, because you need real caffeine and you found a good place where they serve coffee as you like. When you get back with your drink, a delicious iced latte, and a ham panini, you sit at an empty desk to start preparing your next lecture or to write a little bit more of your book. After a while, you stretch a little on the chair. You accomplished writing one more chapter of the book, even though it wasn't completely what you liked. Your eyes scan the faculty room. There's no sign of Dr. Spencer Reid. Not that you care, it's just strange not to have seen him for a whole week. Not that you were paying much attention to him. You just noticed.

Your phone sounds with an email notification: hello, I'm expecting the rest of chapter two. ;)))). You roll your eyes but replay with the document anyways.

You decide to take a break, so you stand up and go to the restroom. While you're at the cubicle you listen to some students entering the restroom, you weren't planning to listen to their conversation but you did.

“Do you know Dr. Reid?” Asks one of the girls.

“I've heard about him, he is the new teacher of the seminar, isn't he?” Adds a second one.

“One of my friends takes his class. She says he's scary.” Replies to them a third one.

You listen to them carefully. So he's got some reputation. That's interesting.

“Scary? No way!” Says the first girl. “He's so gorgeous.”

“Yes, he is. But he's also so damn brilliant and demanding.”

“Maybe I can take some of his classes. Who knows? I can become a teacher's pet.” Says the first girl. The girls giggle and you can clearly listen to them muffling their laughs with their hands as they chirp Malory! at the same time. You roll your eyes and shake your head while a smirk appears on your face.

They go out of the restroom among little laughs, once they are gone, you get out of the cubicle, you walk toward the washbasin, you clean your hands and fix your hair, looking at yourself in the mirror. What an interesting thing is the Dr. Spencer Reid, huh? You think to yourself. Then you go back to the faculty room to prepare for the next class.

—

The following Monday passes without much news; the students begin to hand in their project progress reports, so you are carrying several folders in your hands. You enter the faculty room and leave your things on one of the available desks without paying much attention.

When you look up, you notice that Dr. Spencer Reid is sitting at a desk right in front of yours. He looks very focused on the two books he is reading at the same time, which is impressive.

You debate internally whether to say hello or not. You are about to sit down in front of your mountain of folders and simply pretend you didn't notice he was there, but then he looks up. He gives you a small smile and raises his hand to greet you. You do the same.

“Hey…” He greets across the desk.

“Hi,” you simply say before getting back to your folders.

After a while, you sigh tired and you stretch yourself a little. When you look up, you see Dr. Spencer Reid standing up, he smiled at you.

“Are you done?” He inquiries.

“Not really, but I'll take a break…”

“Do you want to go get a coffee?” He offers.

“Sure,” you accept as you stand up.

The two of you walk toward the exit, he opens the door and lets you go first. When you leave the building, you walk silently toward the campus cafeteria. The afternoon sky is lit up with shades of orange, pink, and red. The air smells fresh and of something you can't quite identify.

“You were right,” you say, just to start the conversation.

“About what?” he asks.

“The coffee in the faculty lounge really is terrible,” you say with an amused smile.

“It is,” he agrees, laughing too. “Have you settled in well?”

“Yes, little by little,” you reply lightly.

He slows his pace.

“I hadn't asked you... What classes are you teaching?” he asks. His eyes narrow with curiosity.

“I was offered two seminars: History of the English Language and Literature.”

“Wow... That sounds very interesting...” He says. “Did you know that many people think that runes are originally Celtic when in fact the Celts used a writing system...”

“Celtiberean...” You finish for him with a smile.

“Of course you knew...” He says.

“You know a lot about the History of English…” you mention.

“Yeah… well, I've done some research.”

You keep walking toward Bloomsbury. When you get there, he opens the door to let you in first, again. He's such a gentleman.

The warmth inside makes your cheeks feel less numb. The weather outside isn't that cold, but it's not warm either. So it's comforting.

You go in first; it's not too crowded. You head to the counter, and of course, Spencer lets you order first. You order an iced latte, because no matter what the weather is like outside, nothing makes you happier than your favorite drink. Spencer orders a hot Americano. While you wait for your order, you chat a little more about the history of English. When you both have your drinks in your hands, he asks you,

“Do you want to go back or stay here for a while?” His voice sounds soft, almost shy.

“Let's stay for a while. I'm sick of reviewing reports,” you joke. He smiles too.

“I understand...”

The two of you look for a place to sit and find a table for two by the window. Spencer pulls out the chair to help you sit down. Then he sits down across from you.

“Tell me, how long have you been teaching?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Not long... Six months and two weeks, to be exact,” he replies.

“Wow, that's… pretty exact,” you comment a little amused. He smiles back and you can't help but notice the little dimples that form in his cheeks. It's adorable.

“What about you?” He inquires as he sips on his coffee. “Are you only a teacher or do you have another job?”

“Well…” you start. “I am a writer. I am currently trying to write a book about a crime.” You inform him, nevertheless you didn't mention your previous book.

“That's impressive, would you mind telling me what it is about?” He leans on the table, paying attention to whatever you're going to say.

“Well…. That's the thing. I think I'm stuck. I already wrote two chapters because I'm kind of pressured by my editor…” you confess.

Spencer doesn't answer right away, instead, he listens. And you can see his forehead furrowing. He's clearly thinking about something.

“Maybe…” he sighs. “I have a friend and colleague, we both work as profilers at the FBI. He's a writer and he's an excellent author. His name is David Rossi. I don't know if you knew but I work with the FBI, and so does him. Maybe I can ask him if he can give you some tips for your book.”

Your eyes wide.

“David Rossi? The David Rossi? Really?” you ask, sounded a little too excited.

“Yes, I can ask him. If you want.” He offers.

“Sure! That'll be fantastic. Thank you so much, Dr. Reid.” You say with a smile, drinking from your coffee.

“Please just call me Spencer. We're colleagues.”

You smile.

“All right, thank you, Spencer.”

🔞Mature content, minors do not interact

"Don't believe in fairytales, but we got our fantasies"

summary: you've got a man —a lovely boyfriend you are so in love with. But there's certain coworker who drives you completely crazy.

w/c: 4.6k

tags: smut, slight hurt, moral doubts, guilt, infidelity, hook up a coworker, dirty talk, fem!reader, reader is called princess, soft dom! Spencer, slight change of character I guess, unprotected p in v, rough sex, needy sex, sex with feelings (kind of), boyfriend is a cutie patootie

w/ps: I want to ensure that I do not support infidelity in any kind. This is just a fic, so it's just all about fantasies. Do not be that kind of person.

Soooo, I've been writing this for months. I haven't written smut like this in my life sooo I am not sure what this is, tbh, maybe it is just p/wnotplot. But I wanted it to see the light anyways. It is based on You Right by Doja Cat. This is situated during the 13th season or something. I accept any kind of critique but please be nice 🥺 ok well, enjoyyyy

The morning was a little chilly. You arrived at the BAU a little earlier than usual, simply because you didn't get much sleep the night before. You shifted to your desk and put your stuff down, headed over to the coffee pot, and made yourself a rather strong black coffee. You needed it, you really did.

Friday night had been a bit of a... revealing.

Somebody walked in, you raised your eyes and gasped a little. It was Reid. He looked all wiped.

“Morning,” he said with a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal.

“Hey,” you replied.

You took your coffee and walked toward your desk again. You began reviewing the documents scattered all over your desk, but you weren’t really paying attention.

Flashbacks of that Friday night hit you again. You couldn't stop thinking about it during the whole weekend. You shook your head, shaking away those thoughts of you.

Your phone rang with a notification sound.

Have a nice day, sweetie.

See you soon.

You slightly smiled at the message and then, you felt guilty again. Your boyfriend was such a nice guy. You have been dating for three years now —he was not only your boyfriend but your best friend as well. You loved him very much. Your eyes gazed at his picture on your desk, and you felt a sting in your heart.

“Morning, guys!” greeted JJ.

“Hello!” you said, Spencer echoed your voice.

“We have a new case, see you at the conference room,” she said.

After Penelope gave you the information of the case, you got out to the streets to make interviews. Luckily you didn't have to go out of the city, but you were paired with Reid. You sighed, trying to stay professional.

Once you were in the car, you texted your boyfriend.

“Hey, we've got a new case. It is in the city, so I'll probably be late for our date. Sorry :(“

He replied almost instantly.

“Ok, babe. Please be safe. I love you.”

You smiled fondly, you did love him very much.

“Got any plans?” Asked Reid. You shivered at the sound of his voice.

“I… yes.”

You didn't say anything else and started driving. The way to the victim's house was full of tension. No one said a word all along the way. Spencer looked out of the window, lost in his own thoughts.

When you arrived, you parked at the entrance. Both of you got out of the car, made your way to the entrance door, and knocked. You didn't notice when both your hands slightly touched, you gazed at Spencer, he seemed as surprised as you. But, again, you said nothing.

You were received by the victim's mother, she wasn't unaware of the situation. It was always so difficult to be the one who gave the terrible news.

“Mrs McCain, we're from the FBI, may we come in?” You asked solemnly.

She looked at you, a mix of fear, worry, and confusion in her gaze.

“What happened?” She asked.

“Can we speak inside?”

She opened the door wider, and you entered.

—

“Babe, haven't you told them anything?”

“Told us what?” asked Emily Prentiss with a raised eyebrow.

You remained silent, not quite sure what to say. Your boyfriend smiled, sensing that you were nervous, so he decided to help you out.

“We're getting married, she said yes.”

Everyone burst into smiles and congratulations. There were hugs and well-wishes.

An intense, insistent gaze drew you in.

“Congratulations,” said Spencer.

His tone of voice did not reveal anything, but something was alarming about it. You looked at him, and he held your gaze until you looked away, unable to bear the disaster you felt any longer.

You felt hugs and people congratulating you. Your boyfriend's hand on your lower back, yet you could only think in those two deep brown eyes.

Later that night, your boyfriend drove you home. He was not staying the night because he had to attend a meeting the next day in San Francisco, you'll miss him deeply. But before you left the car, you faced him.

“Is everything okay, babe?” he asked you. He had noticed your mood change after the party and didn't want to bother you, but now, he needed to know.

“Why did you tell everyone about the wedding?”

Your question ended up sounding more aggressive than you thought. He looked at you with those lovely green eyes of his, clouded with confusion.

“I didn't think it was a problem,” he said, looking hurt. Your heart ached at the sigh. You felt guilty immediately.

“It's not a problem, honey,” you made a pause. “It's just… I wasn't prepared to share something so huge with my coworkers.”

“I'm sorry, babe. I just thought they were your friends.”

“Well… I get along with them but our wedding is something special. They already know much about me, I wanted to keep this for me. For us,” you said looking straight into his eyes.

“I'm sorry, babe,” his hands searched for yours in the dark cabin, when he found it, he tangled his finger with yours. “I promise I won't assume anything before talking to you.”

“It's okay. I'm happy you told them,” you said, placing your head on his shoulder, even though you knew it was not totally true. “I'll miss you these days.”

“They'll be only three days, babe. And when I come back, we'll go to check the wedding place I told you about earlier.”

You sighed and smiled. He pressed his lips on your temple. After a while, you finally left him go and entered your house.

You had experienced a rush of so many emotions that day that made you feel exhausted, so you sat in front of your vanity, brushing your hair. Suddenly, the brightest gem in the little box caught your attention. You took the ring carefully, almost reverently. You put it on your finger and admired it.

That was not only a ring but the sign of your love for your boyfriend. The proof that you were about to be his and him yours for eternity. You smiled at the thought, and suddenly a face appeared in the back of your mind, haunting like a ghost that didn't go away.

You trailed your steps to the bathroom to take a shower. You took your time to strip yourself off, when you were ready, you entered the humming bath. Your body relaxed almost instantly at the feeling of the warm water. You leaned your head on the edge of the bath. The water cleaned away the sweat of the day, also the scents of people hugging you today. Unexpectedly the memory of Spencer made your body shiver.

You shuddered at the memory of his deep, insistent gaze on you that afternoon. There was something in his eyes, something you couldn't quite figure out, that drew you in. An unexpected warmth washed over you like waves in the sea, shaking you, making you feel vulnerable and exposed, even though you were alone in this room. In this room you shared with your boyfriend more times than you could count. And now you were thinking about someone else in here.

Unable to help yourself, your hand slid gently toward your core, where you felt achy and anxious. Your thoughts focused on Spencer, on his gaze, his calm voice, his scent, and the way he always supported you physically and emotionally so you wouldn't break down in the middle of a case. Your head was spinning, you felt dizzy and full of guilt, yet so good. You thought about how his lips would feel against yours, how his hands would touch you where you needed him the most. That made you fall apart, you mumbled his name while you felt yourself shaky and desperate.

When you opened your eyes, and consciousness came back to you, you realized what you've done. You've crossed a line —touching yourself like this, all needy and anxious for a man that wasn't yours.

The next day, you spent the whole day doing household chores—anything to distract yourself from the memories of the night before. Your body was still anxious to remember.

Later, you couldn't stop thinking that this feeling might not go away just because you got married. Perhaps it would haunt you throughout your life, in your dreams and in reality, like a curse. Perhaps it was best to face the problem head-on. With that thought, you headed to your car, intending to take a drive to clear your mind. You found yourself parked in front of Spencer's house without realizing it.

—

Spencer opened the door and his eyes widened, he definitely wasn't expecting to see you there.

“What are you doing here?”

The question caught you off of guard. That was actually right, what were you doing there? Why did you go in the first place?

“I…” you didn't find the words. Suddenly an anger you didn't know about hit you like a train. “Can you stop doing this?” You asked, your voice tone sharpened through the air.

“I'm not doing anything. You're right there standing in front of my door.” He pointed, sarcastically.

“You know what I mean,” you said. Your breath started to feel heavier.

“I actually don't know.”

“I'm sick of this. Sick of this game between you and me,” you finally said, voice breathless from a pressure you weren't capable of stopping.

“I’m not playing any games. It is you who came to my house and talked nonsense in the middle of the night,” his voice sounded almost condescently, looking at you with those big bright brown eyes.

“Spencer… I'm so happy with my boyfriend. I love him very much.” You said it like a confession.

He stepped closer to you, you didn't move.

“I didn't say otherwise.”

“I just need to take this out of my brain.”

He stepped even closer, his perfume intoxicating you.

“Stop talking,” he said as he grabbed you by the arms, pulling you close to him. His mouth met yours with fiery passion, you sighed in relief. His arms completely embraced you, one of his hands tangled on your hair. He moved slightly to enter you both into the house, closing the door and pressing you against the wall.

The kiss grew deeper, desperate, and messy. Your hands couldn't stop grabbing, touching, stroking every part of Spencer you could reach. You moaned against his mouth before pulling away.

“I cannot hold it anymore,” you said, with a suffocating breath.

His eyes locked with yours as he said under his breath:

“Me neither.”

“Tell me to stop,” you said as you unbuttoned his shirt.

“I can't do that,” he replied, then stopped for a minute to grab your face with both hands, his eyes meeting yours. “Will you regret this?”

You blinked. Will you? You asked yourself. You knew this was wrong, so, so wrong. A sense of unease washed over you, gripping your stomach in a tightening sensation. You knew you were being such a bad person —but Spencer's gentle touch made you forget about it.

“No…” you finally said, under your breath.

He kissed you again, sweeter this time. No hints of previous desperation.

Spencer grabbed you around the waist again, now tighter. With his free hand, he gently slid down your neck and firmly grasped your scalp, pulling you closer. His lips were soft and insistent against yours.

Your back hit the cold wall, and you shivered for something stronger than the coldness. Spencer's kisses trailed down your jawline. You tilted your head apart to give him more space —eager for more of his touch. You felt dizzy, there was something in your mind trying to remind you this was a mistake, but your body felt so good under his touch —you could barely think about something else.

His hands ghosted mischievously down your body, his eyes looking into yours asking for permission. You nodded.

He, then, lost his hand inside your dress, reaching to your core. He gasped when he felt hints of your arousal damped in your underwear.

“Oh sweetheart…” he said as he caressed your core over your panties. You whined against his mouth, feeling the heat raising like foam. He gave open-mouthed kisses to you.

You closed your eyes, incapable of recognizing you were actually doing this, trying to shake away the guilt to let pleasure in. He kissed you deeper, while sliding your panties aside, so he could feel your bareness.

He gasped at the feeling of how wet you were. Then, he introduced a finger inside you, you gasped, twitching against his touch. Your pussy swallowed it deep inside so eagerly. His breath rushed. Then, he pressed one more.

“Open your eyes, princess.” He said with a soft voice, his thumb started to circle around your clit. “I want you to see who's pleasuring you.”

That comment made you clench around his fingers. He laughed softly.

“I know you're loving it. C’mon, princess, open your beautiful eyes.”

You did what he asked. His eyes locked with yours. He added another finger and you squirmed beneath his touch. His fingers pumped in and out —you whined, aware of the wet sounds.

“Oh princess, you're so eager.” He said, his fingers buried inside you, curled in the right spot. You moaned, eyes squinting, locking with his. “You really wanted this… you're close, aren't you?”

You shut your eyes down, pleasure intoxicating every cell in your body. You anchored by grabbing his shirt with your hands. Legs trembling, mind dizzy. You could not think of anything else than Spencer all around you.

Your orgasm hit you like sea waves. Spencer continued moving his fingers inside your fluttering cunt, helping you go down from your high.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was holding you close against the wall, the air around you crackling with need and forbidden desire. With an easy move, he lifted you up, you crossed your trembling legs around his waist.

You kept kissing him with a hunger you were even afraid of. His kisses tasted like a mix of mint, coffee and his own scent —it drove you crazy, you could get addicted to them.

You both panted against each other's mouths. You grabbed his back as if you needed to ground yourself. Then, guided your hands to his chest and took off his shirt. He helped you, carefully removing one arm at a time without pulling you out.

His hand traveled down to his waistband, unbuttoned his pants with an easy move, pulling them down just enough. You gasped at the saw of his already hard and thick cock.

“Spence…” you whined with a breathy voice, almost wrecked. You surprised yourself at your needy tone.

He stroked himself just a little, before aligned his cock with your entrance.

“I need to be inside you.” He said, in a hoarse voice, he bit his lower lip to keep a moan.

“Yes… please. Need you.”

That's all he needed to begin pressing against you.

You felt every inch getting inside your walls, and you knew you should felt guilt, regret or something. Nevertheless, pleasure sharpened through your body. It was so intense, you ended up biting on his shoulder. Once he was all the way in, he stood. Not moving. You were trying to catch your breath. A memory of your future life with your man outside these walls hit you like betrayal. You shut your eyes down to kick away those thoughts.

“Oh princess… you're so thigh.” He whispered to your ear, his hot breath driving you insane —his tone making you forget everything, even the regret that sting in your chest.

“Spence…” you whined. “Please fuck me.”

That made him finally moved, he pulled away almost completely just to thrust inside again. Your legs trembled. He gripped you steady by the waist with one arm. The other clinging to the rough wall.

You felt everything —every inch, every thrust, his lips brushing yours with every movement. He continued to thrust in and out, making you cry out.

Spencer took that sound as a signal to continue hitting that spot inside you. Every thrust dragged a gasp from your throat, sharper, deeper than anything you had ever known. He wasn’t slow, or hesitant, or gentle in the way your boyfriend always was —Spencer knew exactly how to pull sounds from you you’d never made before. His body pressed you harder into the wall, every movement claiming you in a way that felt terrifyingly addictive. You thought of the ring still on your finger, of the man who had slipped it there, but all you could feel was Spencer’s breath against your skin, his voice whispering “princess” like it belonged only to you.

His forehead pressed against yours. His eyes looked into yours, expecting to find hints of regret, but he could only see desire in them.

“I'm so close,” you mumbled with a wrecked voice.

Spencer kissed you more deeply and passionately, his tongue licking your lips as his thrust became almost animalistic yet still tender.

“Come for me. I want to feel you,” he said when he finally pulled away from the kiss.

You came hard again, feeling his thrust becoming reverent, almost worshiping. You heard Spencer falling apart with a groan that sounded like surrender. Vibrations ricocheting through your neck and collarbone, where Spencer left soft kisses all along.

You passed your fingers through his hair, clinging to reality. He left slight kisses on your shoulder, your neck and cheeks.

Spencer pulled out, still holding you steady against the wall. You unraveled your shaking legs and put them on the ground, knowing that no matter what, Spencer would be there to hold you.

“I've got you, princess.” His whisper was steady, but your chest wasn’t. The intensity of it all crashed over you, harder than any climax —your love for the man waiting at home, your need for the one holding you now. It tangled inside your ribs until the tears came, quiet, hot, unstoppable. You didn’t even know if they were from guilt, or from the terrifying truth that maybe, in some unspoken way, you wanted Spencer just as much.

Spencer didn't move, he didn't say a word either. He just stood there, holding you. His hands caressing the sides of your body and your back, warmth pressing against you in a way that made your heart ache even more. You sighed, wiped away the tears and looked into his eyes. His gaze was tender. Spencer was aware of your feelings. He knew why you were crying, he knew what this all meant for both of you.

Afraid of thinking too much, you decided to pull him closer to you, in order to shake all those feelings, you kissed him again —soft, messy, reverent, desperate to shake away the weight of guilt pressing at the back of your mind. He kissed you back, his lips moving against yours rough enough to tell you Shh I understand, don't say anything.

He led you to his bedroom, placed you gently over the bed, he sneaked over you. You pulled him by the shoulders, still kissing him, softer this time. You separated just enough to tug your dress over your head and threw it away. He finished putting down his dress pants, before crawling back to you.

“Don't think too much this time,” he murmured over your lips. “Just feel.”

He laid your head to the pillows, while capturing your lips on a tender kiss. He left another one on your cheek and separated a little, just to pull your panties down off your legs. In that moment you could see his bare body for the first time. He wasn't very muscular; his arms were slim but strong. His hair was a disaster, his thighs were firm and toned. You bite your lips, looking at him through your lashes. You still wanted him so bad, your core ached with the memory of him and the desire for more.

“Don't look at me like that,” he muffled.

“How?”

“Like you want to eat me alive,” he said with a mischievous smirk, looking at you.

You laughed airy.

“Maybe,” you said, “c’mere”

He trailed kisses from your mouth, your collarbone, until reaching your chest, where he left soft kisses over your bra. Then, he sneaked his hands behind your back to undo it. He helped you pull it away from your body.

His eyes scanned your whole body while gently touching your abdomen.

“You're so beautiful, princess.”

The sweetness almost broke you more than the desire did. It felt like betrayal wrapped in tenderness.

Your body shivered when you noticed the desire dragging him —his eyes darkened at the sigh of your bare chest.

He leaned on you, his hot breath tickling your skin.

He stopped, just for a second, as if he wasn't sure whether to continue. You felt the pain of his hands off your body.

“Is this okay?” He asked with a breathy voice. You just nodded, incapable of speaking. You just wanted to feel it, as he had said.

He began to caress the sides of your body. He took one of your breasts gently and sucked on your nipple. You moaned, and your gaze went blurry.

His tongue went flat over your nipple, while he rubbed the other one between his index finger and his thumb. You arched your back, offering yourself even more.

“Spencer…”

“I know, princess,” he said as he cared about the other one. You were a disaster of whines, moans, and heavy breaths.

You didn’t even realize the words until they spilled out of you.

“I want you inside me.”

You didn't recognize your own voice —all needy, raw, wrecked. Guilt flickered sharp in your chest, but your body betrayed you, arching closer, desperate.

Spencer froze for half a heartbeat, his eyes dark, unreadable. Then he leaned in, steady, grounding you with a hand at your waist.

“I will,” he whispered. His voice sounded like a promise. A promise you wanted to keep for eternity and you knew it was not possible.

In a blink, he was between your legs, and you wrapped around him as if afraid he’d disappear.

He wasn't so careful this time, he knew you could take him. Nevertheless, he looked into your eyes now and then, like he was expecting you to stop him.

You arched your back when you felt him completely buried into you. He stood still while pressing you back to the mattress.

The silence hummed all around you. His eyes locked with yours. His gaze told you something you understood.

You whined, desperate to feel him.

“Shhh, princess.”

“M-move,” you said under your breath.

He shifted slightly, letting you feel every inch before fully rocking into you. You found yourself clenching around him. Your breath hitched as he pressed closer.

“I can’t move if you keep clenching like that.” he said, pressing a kiss against your lips, stealing your breath away.

His eyes met yours for a second—asking, daring, giving you the opportunity to stop him. To get back.

Then he finally moved, harder this time, his hips thrusted into you with passionate reverence, unable to do anything else, you dug your nails to his back.

He drove himself back into you, your eyes shut down while you let a cry out.

All you wanted was him to stay forever like this.

Every thrust was a memory that this shouldn't have been happening. That there was someone else involved in this situation. But every move made you feel alive.

Spencer kissed you again, his mouth memorizing yours with passionate tenderness.

You caressed his back before he grabbed your hands together and pressed them to the pillows, above your head.

“Can you handle it?” He inquired.

“Yeah…” you said under your breath.

And then, Spencer began to move faster, raw —like he wanted to be sure you couldn't think straight.

Dizziness hit you, you were only aware of the smell of his sweat, mingled with coffee and old books.

Spencer kissed you passionately, and filthy like he had held back for days, weeks, months, even years. You whimpered against his rough kisses.

“I want to…” he kissed you again. Rocking his hips against you. “I want to hug you.”

Then, he let your arms flung around him. He pressed soft kisses all along your collarbone and neck.

His thrusts became messy, desperate, reaching for the climax.

“I can't hold it much longer,” he warned against your lips.

His release tore through him, he groaned and moaned over you. You lingered strokes on his back.

When he got down from his high, he took one hand to your core, pressing his fingers against your clit, working you with desperate precision, diving into you a couple of times more until you were clenching around him and panting, announcing you were about to finish.

“Spence,” you moaned.

“Yes, princess, come for me,”

That was it. You came for the third time that night, letting out some whimpers and murmuring Spencer's name like a prayer.

Even as his name left your lips, another face haunted the back of your mind—guilt twisting with pleasure.

The weight of what you've experienced tugged you into a deep spiral. You could only feel Spencer all around you. Letting gasps of air collide into your skin.

No one said anything for a while, you stood like that. All tangled and curled together. Then, Spencer pressed a kiss on your cheek, cleaning the tears you didn't know you started to cry.

—

The following morning came so quickly that you woke up feeling a little dizzy and sore. You blinked to adjust your eyes to the light coming in through the window. Then you realised that this wasn't your room. Memories of last night hit you like a train, explaining why you felt that way.

You felt a hand curl possessively across your body. You followed the direction of the arm with your eyes. Your heart was beating fast. Then, in a broken voice that was almost a whisper, you were asked:

"How are you?”

You didn't answer right away. His perfume intoxicated you in a way you could never have imagined.

“A little sore,” you said. You could feel his little smirk right at your back.

“Was I very rough?”

You weren't sure. Was he? All you could remember was how much you had wanted that.

“No.”

You turn around in his arms to face him. Spencer looks so dangerously gorgeous, his unruly curls framing his face in a charming way. A few strands fall across his forehead, giving him a youthful look, and he has traces of stubble from a few days ago. God, he looked so beautiful.

You reach out to smooth one of his strands of hair, but freeze halfway when your phone rings with that familiar tone. It's your fiancé. Spencer's eyes travel to the nightstand where your phone is.

“Is that him?” he asks. You nod.

“I can't answer right now. I couldn't lie to him so blatantly.”

Spencer looks at you with something indecipherable. But you know he's not judging you. You bite your lip in a nervous tic until your phone stops ringing.

“Do you regret it?” Spencer asks.

Honestly, you don't know. It's true that you should, you should feel like trash, like the worst person in the world. But you don't.

“No.”

You stay there for a little, just looking at him. Thinking about what you should do with these strange feelings. The only thing you know is that is not right how much you wanted a man that was not yours.

Ok well, this is it. That you for reading. I created a bucle without planning it. Idk if I'll come back to this in the future, but for now, that's it.

🍓 He’s very calm about this stuff. Yeah, in early seasons he doesn’t have a ton of experience, but he KNOWS things. He knows how the body works, and he uses that knowledge to make you feel good. 🍒 He’s the type that checks on you constantly: “Are you okay? Do you like this? Want me to keep going?” 🫠 🍓 He's very vocal. He’s not afraid of telling you how good you make him feel. (And he’s got that breathless, nerdy, desperate tone that ruins you). 🍒 He's the one who doesn’t stop. He can continue and continue and continue until you’re wrecked and satisfied. 🍓 PRAISE KING. He will not shut up about how incredible you are. “Do you even know what you do to me?” 🍒 He reads. A LOT. Which means every now and then he’s like: “I was reading something earlier… I was wondering if you’d want to try it out, only if you’re comfortable—” and you already know you’re not walking straight the next day. 🍓 Spencer is an enthusiast — your body is his favorite experiment. He loves watching how you react, memorizing every sound, every shiver, every arch of your back. 🍒 You and me, we both know Spencer is the BEST at aftercare. Even when you’re a puddle, he’s still there like: “Was that okay? Did you like it?” while you’re just lying there, forgetting your own name.

bedchem pt 1

❥ Once you told him about how much you liked his perfume and now he uses it everytime he gets to see you

❥ He can't believe you get so warm and wet whenever he's close to you

❥ When you say his name with that wrecked needy voice, he melts

❥ He can't believe the sounds you make because of him

❥ He fantasizes a lot about you but he never admits it

❥ He likes to take his time with you. He's never on a rush. He likes to explore, to touch, to kiss, he kisses you like he's never gonna do it again. Like he's worshipping you

❥ He's not demanding, oh but he can be... If you only ask for it

❥ He's got core memories of you, and your sounds, and the way your body shivers when he touches you. And he's gotten into trouble because of his damn eidetic memory

🍒𐙚⋆ cherry masterlist ⋆𐙚🍒

summary: 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.

tags: professor reid!, professor! reader, writer! reader, post prison! reid, comfort, probably inaccurate facts, reader is a total nerd, so is spencer, slow burn, no use of y/n, not proofread

w/c: 2.7 k

“So you want me to take your colleague under my wing?” David Rossi asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Just so you can give her your opinion as one writer to another and some tips,” Spencer replies, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous tic that hasn't gone away over the years.

“Spencer Reid asking for favors on behalf of a colleague. Interesting,” says Penelope, who was walking behind him with folders in her hand.

“There's nothing strange about that,” replies Spencer.

“Sure,” says JJ, who was coming in just as Spencer was asking Rossi for the favor.

“I just want to be nice. She seems nice,” he says, not giving it much thought. Rossi raises his eyebrow again, JJ and Penelope look at each other without saying anything else.

“All right,” says David Rossi, finally. “Set up the meeting.”

Spencer smiles faintly, and it doesn't go unnoticed by the man.

“Okay, I hate to interrupt such revealing moments, but...” Penelope begins. “We have a case.”

—

You stop running when the music in your headphones stops for an incoming call, you sigh to catch your breath, and press the answer button.

“Hello, hello, my favorite writer,” John greets you.

“Hi John...”

“I hope your students are treating you well,” he says in that sing-song voice that irritates you.

“Yes, everything's fine... Did you get the chapters?” you ask, knowing he did. It was more of a question of was it enough to keep them from suing me?

“Tsk... About that, little one…” he makes a pause. “They're not what I expected. I honestly don't want to send this to the editors. I know you can do better,” he says with a certain condescending tone.

“John…” you say with a restrained voice.

“Listen, little one… the chapters you send are so well written, that is not the problem. The thing is that I feel like your characters don't have… soul. And I know what you can write… and this is not it, little one.”

You don't answer right away. What he told you hit you deeply in a way you didn't expect. The lacking of soul in your characters perhaps performs the way you see yourself right now… because you haven't felt like yourself these days.

“Are you still there, little one?” John asks when he notices your silence. “I didn't mean to…”

“No,” you interrupt. “You're right. I'll rewrite the chapters. I'll call you when I have something.”

“Okay, but please… hurry up,” he begs before hanging up.

You sigh and start running again. At least thirty minutes before getting back home.

You take a hot shower to clean you up, then you head up to the kitchen to prepare yourself a delicious omelette. You tie your hair back with a kitten-shaped hair clip that your best friend gave you before you moved away. You concentrate on making sure the omelette doesn't burn. When it's ready, you slide it onto a plate and smile when you see that it turned out just the way you wanted. The smell makes your stomach rumble. You sit down quietly and start eating, when your cell phone flashes with a new notification. You pick up the phone and see that it's an email from Spencer.

Hi, I hope you're doing well.

I have news: Rossi will be able to advise you. I hope today is a good day for you. 6:30 at the Royal Palace restaurant.

So you type back:

That's perfect.

Quick question: how am I supposed to know who David Rossi is? I mean, like how to recognize him in a crowd?

He answers almost immediately:

You'll recognize him. He's almost too Italian to hide.

That comment makes you giggle, and you find yourself smiling at the phone for a while until your attention gets back to the omelette in front of you.

—

It's 4:45 pm and you don't know what to wear. There are several dresses and pieces of formal clothes on your bed, forming a pile. You better hurry up before it's too late. You're supposed to get to the Royal Palace at least twenty minutes before your meeting. It’s a protocol.

You decided to use a purple long sleeve formal dress, and shoes that are not comfortable at all: the only pair of high heels you own for special occasions. You look at yourself in the mirror and you're not convinced but it is already too late. You grab your purse, your keys and your coat, then leave the house.

The Royal Palace is a well-known hotel/restaurant in the city. And it's quite expensive. It's definitely not a place you would normally go to, but here you are. The man at the reception desk asks if you have a reservation. You try your name, nothing; then Spencer Reid's, nothing either; finally you say:

“David Rossi?”

The man smiles ironically and accompanies you to the table, where an elegantly dressed older man is already seated. And Spencer was right, he definitely looks quite Italian.

“David Rossi?” you ask doubtily. He looks up and stands up, the waiter opens the chair for you and you take your seat. David greets you by your name and you nod.

“Spencer told me about you and your struggle with your novel. So, let me ask you a question…” he pauses to offer you a glass of wine and you accept it.

“The year is 1950, one of the best harvest, if you ask,” he informs you, both of you sip on your glasses. “What do you think is your real problem with the novel? Think about it. We have plenty of time for you to really think about it.”

That question makes you think, really think about what you believe your real problem with the novel is. But you're sitting across from David Rossi, and it's also a good time to talk about how much you like his books.

"I've read some of your books, and I have to say... You're really talented at making people feel something for those characters. Not just for the victims, but for the criminals too. I mean, you can feel more than just hatred or fear," you say. David Rossi looks you in the eye and smiles.

“I appreciate the compliment, but we're here to talk about you. Tell me... after Look Who's Through the Window, are you afraid to write?”

Your eyes open in amazement. You didn't expect him to recognize you or even have read your book. That is, it was a very popular book, but you were still surprised by that kind of detail. You also didn't expect that question at the end. Fear? Was that it?

You don't have an opportunity to answer because at that moment, the waiter arrives with your order.

“What? You didn't expect me to know you?” He asks.

You clear your throat before answering: “Honestly… yes, I'm surprised.”

“Your book was a boom. Of course I read it. Honestly, when Spencer talked about you, I thought you were some kind of amateur writer. But you already got a pen.”

You remain silent, thinking about what Rossi has just said to you. That's when you decide to open up a little and admit what you haven't admitted to anyone else.

“Maybe I am afraid. But it's not writing, it's provoking...”

“Provoking what?” he asks, intrigued.

“I don't know.”

“When you wrote Look Who's Through the Window, were you afraid of provoking?”

“No, I just wanted to tell a story. I had no expectations...”

“Touché,” he says as if it were obvious.

You keep talking about other stuff but the novel; perhaps David can understand you've already touched something deep and that was enough for one night. The raviolis you ordered are fantastic and so is the wine.

“I don't really think you need someone to guide you,” comments David after a while. “I believe you already found your path. You just need to believe more in yourself and write with your heart, not with your hand.”

You smile at him. Not a smirk, more like a shy smile. Then, he clinks his glass with yours.

This is not the night you were expecting, but maybe it is what you needed. And you're not what David Rossi expected, but that is not a bad sign.

—

After your last class of the day, you practically run to your apartment. The streets are full of people, college students coming and going from their classes. The air smells calm and peaceful; DC is so different from New York in so many ways, starting with the fact that here people don't run, they walk, they enjoy the air; they live less quickly. There are fewer lights on the streets, and you feel warm.

You don't want to think about the other reason the warmth keeps creeping.

You hurry to get to your apartment by bike, going down the street that will take you home. Actually, it was a great idea to choose this neighborhood.

You don't really know why you give it so much importance, but when you arrive, you realize that your underwear is still hanging on the terrace. You hurry to take it down and put it away in your bedroom. That say, it is just Spencer but… you definitely don't need him to watch your it.

You arrange some chairs, fix the curtains, put in a pile all the books you were using previously; open one window so the air can refresh the place. Then you lit a couple of candles to aromatize the room. You wonder if it's too much, but in that moment you hear a knock knock from the door. You walk toward the door and when you open, Spencer is standing there. Five minutes before the hour.

He smiles at you and waves a hand to greet you. You smile at him and murmur a shy hello.

“Welcome,” you say as you let him in your apartment.

“Are you ready?” He asks.

“Let's get started,” you confirm.

24 hours before

After your conversation with Dave —he asked you to call him that— you feel more confident to write. So, when you arrive at your apartment, you head straight to your computer. You open the document and you're about to start typing when you realize you know very little about dealing with actual criminals.

You're so concerned, you didn't realize the hour and type an email for Spencer.

Good night,

I hope you're ok, the meeting with David was revealing. Thank you so much.

I want to ask you another favor. Would you teach me about criminal behavior?

You didn't expect to receive an answer so immediately. Considering it was nearly midnight.

Sure, when do you want to start?

Your eyes shine and you type back:

Whenever you have time.

—

And so, here you are.

He steps in, looking ridiculously tall under the door frame. It makes you smile. You ask him to take a seat on the couch. You sit on the other couch, to give him a little space.

“Where shall we start?” He asks, looking around like he was looking for something.

“Maybe… uh…” you lean over and take a plushie that is dangerously almost under him. “I… uh, I was going to order something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“Sure…” he answers.

“I didn't have the time to cook anything,” you explain while you take your phone and open a food app.

“Don't worry,” he says with a soft voice.

“Do you want Chinese, Mexican or Thai?”

“Chinese is fine,” he says. You nod and make the order.

“I'm kinda nervous… I mean, I… it's been a long since a man is in my apartment…” you confess. Then you regret it, you feel your cheeks getting warm. “Not like you're a man in here… I mean, yes, you're a man in here but… what I mean…”

Spencer laughs, low and soft.

“I understand. It's okay.”

Oh God, why'd you say such a thing...

“Tell me about your novel. What is it about? We should start from there.” He asks.

“Well, Dr. Rei… Spencer,” you say, correcting yourself, remembering he asked you to call him that. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “My idea is that my protagonist is the daughter of a famous serial killer. She feels betrayed, sad and with her sense of trust completely destroyed…”

Spencer doesn't say anything, he just looks at you.

“Have you ever… had a case like this?”

“Well, of course you have, right?” you say after Spencer doesn't respond.

“From my experience,” Spencer begins, "the children of serial killers feel torn. On the one hand, they cherish memories of their parents as family, but they also feel pain. A pain different from that of losing a loved one to death. It's hard to explain. And fear... Fear of knowing what their parents are capable of.” You can't help but notice the way he explains things. He's so academic. His hands seem soft and strong at the same time. That thought takes you by surprise. You definitely shouldn't be staring so intently at your colleague's hands, let alone thinking about how strong they are.

A notification from your cell phone, along with a knock on the door, pulls you out of your thoughts and interrupts the conversation.

“Sorry, it must be the food,” you say, getting up from the couch.

You walk to the door and receive the food. When you return, you find Spencer standing looking at the shelves where your books are. His hands caress the spines with elegant gentleness. His slightly tousled hair shines under the garland lights that adorn the shelves.

You're conscious you're looking at him way for too long. But you cannot take your eyes off of him. Until his gaze finds yours.

“Is the food here?” His voice is calm and steady. Enough to make you come back to the present.

“Yeah… yes, it's here,” you point at the bag in your hands. He walks toward you to help take out the two little boxes of food. He places both of them on the coffee table.

“Do you want a fork or chopsticks?” You manage to ask.

“I want a fork, please,” he says with a smile. You head up to the kitchen and take one fork and a pair of chopsticks for you.

You also pour water on strawberry stamped glasses. You take everything and come back to the living room, where Spencer waits for you seated on the couch again.

“Sorry, I don't have any other fancy drinks,” you joke a little.

“Water is fine,” he says, he looks at the glass and says nothing, but you can see a delightful gaze. “So, as I was telling you… you can give your protagonist a sense of justice that was not fully developed before…”

You take one notebook that was on the coffee table and start writing ideas. They start floating as Spencer keeps talking. You keep doing that while eating, he laughs when a noodle falls off the chopstick.

“That's why I prefer the fork,” he comments with a boyish smile. You pretend to be offended.

“C’mon, The Doctor Reid doesn't know how to use chopsticks?” You tease.

“It's not that I don't know how it works, it's just that noodles do not always cooperate.”

Now it's your turn to laugh.

“That is ridiculous,” you say without thinking. Then, you lean to grab the glass of water and he has the same idea, you get so close you can almost smell his skin. You pull straight again, but that move doesn't escape from Spencer's gaze but he doesn't say anything.

He glances at the clock, and you do the same. It's almost midnight.

“I think it's time to leave,” he begins, but he doesn't stand up right away, instead, his eyes look around the apartment.

“Yeah, thank you so much. This was really helpful,” you say. You both stand up and he helps you to discard the boxes in the trashcan. You put the glasses and the utensils in the sink. Then, you walk him to the door.

“I had a good time here, thank you,” he says.

“Anytime,” you reply.

When he leaves, you stay there for a while, just staring at the door. You sigh without even planning to.

There's something about Spencer that feels just different.