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whisperedmeg · 6 days ago

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FEVER DREAM ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: you don’t get sick. you don’t let coworkers into your apartment. and you definitely don’t have vivid, full-body sex dreams about spencer reid. except today, apparently, you do all three.

genre: smut, fluff, hurt/comfort

tags/warnings: reader is elle’s sister, reader has the flu, fever dream but make it a sex dream (p in v, yapper!spencer bc it is canon to me he cant shut up in bed, orgasm denial but not intentional lol), caretaker sweetheart spencer, spencer brushes reader’s hair RAHHH, one bed trope (ig?) but he sleeps in a chair, coffee (+ tea) as a love language, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI

a/n: I was itchinggg to write smut for them and had to find a way to make it work lmao so here’s how that ended up. & check out greenaway!reader’s apartment moodboard to further immerse yourself in the story. hope you enjoy! xo | GIF credit to @reidgif !

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

You never call out of work.

Not for migraines. Not for hangovers. Not even that time you got a black eye on a case and still showed up the next day like you hadn’t been slammed into a brick wall behind a warehouse in Albany.

And you never get sick.

But today? Today, your body mutinies.

You wake with your mouth dry, your throat raw, and your head stuffed with what feels like cotton soaked in battery acid. For a second you think it must be a hangover — but you haven’t had a drink in three days and you’re sweating through your sheets.

You fumble for your phone, knock it to the floor, and groan like someone twice your age as you reach down to grab it. The screen nearly blinds you. 9:17am — over an hour late for work. Six missed calls from Garcia. Three texts from Prentiss. One from Hotch, which you don’t open because if you have to look directly at his disappointment, you might actually die.

You unlock your phone, dial the general BAU line, and hold it to your ear with the back of your hand pressed to your forehead.

“Hey,” you croak into the voicemail box. “It’s Greenaway. I’m—” You cough so hard it short-circuits the sentence. “—dying, I think. I have the plague. Tell Hotch I’m not ditching work on purpose. Actually don’t tell him, I don’t care. I’m going back to sleep. Don’t call me unless someone’s dead.”

You hang up before you can overthink it. You’re not even sure what you just said.

You drop the phone somewhere in the blankets and cocoon yourself back into the twisted mess of sheets. You’re wearing only an old t-shirt — a faded Nirvana logo stretched across the chest, neckline loose and exposing one shoulder — with underwear and nothing else, which is standard sick-day protocol. If you’re going to suffer, you’re going to suffer without pants.

The heat in your body surges and dips like a tide. One second you’re freezing, the next you’re sweating again. You vaguely consider dragging yourself to the kitchen for water, or maybe finding something resembling medicine, but your bones feel like wet concrete.

So instead you close your eyes, and the world slides sideways.

—

You don’t know where you are.

The room doesn’t have walls. Or maybe it does, but they’re soft and golden and out of focus, like lamplight through gauze. You don’t remember how you got here, but none of that matters — not when there’s a body pressed over yours, warm and slow and careful.

He’s already inside you.

That much is clear. You’re full — blissfully, unbearably full — in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut and your throat catch on a moan you can’t quite voice. You arch into the sensation before you even think to name it.

There’s a hand on your hip, gentle but firm, calloused fingers curling like he’s anchoring himself with you. Another brushes up your ribcage and cups your jaw, tilting your face with reverence. His mouth lands on your neck. Your shoulder. Every kiss feels like possession.

You gasp.

His hips move in a steady, delicious rhythm. Deep. Dragging. Each thrust winds tighter around the point of tension buried low in your stomach, and you can feel everything — the stretch, the weight, the friction. The unbearable closeness of him. The way you clench around his cock when he pulls back just enough to make you chase it.

Your mind is moving through molasses, every thought slow and syrupy around the edges. The only thing you can process is the feeling. The sound of his breath. The warmth of his mouth trailing up to your ear.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers.

Your heart lurches at the voice. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in briefing rooms, across café tables, in hotel lobbies, on planes. But never like this. Not soaked in heat and hunger. Not vibrating against your throat like he’s memorizing your breathing patterns.

“I’ve thought about how you’d sound,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s tracing every goosebump. “How you’d taste.”

Your fingers curl in his hair before you even realize they’re moving. It’s soft. Messy. And familiar, because you’ve ruffled it before.

You still haven’t opened your eyes, and you’re not sure you want to.

Because if you do, you’ll see it. You’ll see that it’s him — Spencer Reid, exactly how you’ve never seen him before.

This is ridiculous. You don’t think about him like this. You’ve spent months not thinking about him like this. But little by little — and much to your annoyance — he’s dismantled your armor without even trying. And when your hand touched his a few weeks ago and lingered for a moment too long, something shifted.

So you roll your hips up into him anyway. Your fingers dig in. And you let yourself drown.

“You always smell like cinnamon gum and coffee,” he says, breath hot against your cheek. “And like the record aisle in an old music store. And like your spicy floral perfume. Like something I want to memorize.”

His hips thrust deeper, and your back bows.

You moan — shameless, aching — and he swallows the sound with a kiss that feels nothing like the way you’ve been kissed before. It’s open-mouthed and wet and claiming, but all the while still achingly tender.

You gasp against his lips.

“You don’t ever have to pretend,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

His words slide under your skin, familiar and foreign all at once. He adjusts the angle, shifts his weight and— fuck. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, chasing that unbearable friction.

His hand slides up your body and holds you steady as he fucks into you harder, edged with something needier. He’s groaning now, breath ragged in your ear.

“Spencer,” you hear yourself moan. The weight of it slams into you, but you don’t wake.

His name is everywhere. It’s written into your pulse. Into the way your body breaks open for him. Into the way you’re trembling now, close, too close, the whole world narrowing to the ache between your legs and the velvet rasp of his voice.

“I notice things about you,” he breathes. “I know which coffee shop is your favorite. I know when you’re pretending not to be cold. I know how you press your nails into your palm when you’re trying to keep your composure.”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering. Your orgasm is right there — clawing up your spine, hot and overwhelming, threatening to rip you in half.

“I know you think no one sees you,” he says, thrusting once, twice — “but I do. I see all of you.”

You cry out. Nails digging into his shoulder. Hips trembling. Right on the edge, and then—

Knock, knock.

Your eyes slam open. Your body jolts.

And suddenly, you’re alone. Drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles clenching around nothing. Your chest is still heaving like he was really here — like his hands are still on your body.

Knock, knock, knock.

You sit up in bed, disoriented and flushed, the dream still clinging to your skin. You press your palms to your face, breath shaking.

You don’t know who the hell is at your door. But you know exactly who you just came this close to coming in your sleep for.

Why the fuck would you dream of him like that? Spencer Reid, of all people — with his stupid facts and his twitchy hands and his painfully earnest everything. That is not how you think of him. That’s not what you want.

Or is it?

You groan, dragging your hand down your cheek. You feel like you’re made of wet paper towels and static electricity — shaky, overheated, slick with sweat in places you really don’t want to think about right now. You glance toward the clock. Somehow, it’s already evening. You’ve slept through most of the day. Maybe most of the week; it’s hard to tell.

Another fucking knock.

You roll out of bed with a grunt, legs wobbling. Your t-shirt clings to your damp back, and your panties are—

Nope. Not something you want to think about right now.

You spot the silk lounge shorts you peeled off the night before crumpled near your laundry basket and tug them on with trembling hands.

The knocking doesn’t stop.

“Hold ON,” you rasp, voice raw and barely there.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you stumble down the short hallway towards your door. You’re too disoriented to check the peephole. You just unlock it with clumsy fingers and swing it open.

The man of the hour, Spencer Reid, is standing in the hall holding a crumpled brown paper bag in one hand and a reusable grocery tote in the other. There’s a slightly panicked expression on his face, as if he half-expected you to answer the door with a loaded gun but is somehow more jarred by your current state instead.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink at him. “Am I hallucinating?”

His eyes dart over you — oversized t-shirt hanging off your bare shoulder, zero makeup, flushed skin, hair in a tangled, chaotic knot on top of your head. He visibly swallows.

“You look… comfortable.”

You squint. “Ouch?”

He ducks, stepping inside. “You know what I mean.”

You don’t even try to stop him. That’s how you know you’re sick — really sick. Any other day, you’d have slammed the door in his face after cursing him out just for finding out where you live.

“How the hell did you get my address?”

“I bribed Garcia to pull it from your file for me,” he says without shame. “Cake pop and a plushy for her office. She folded in under ten seconds.”

You groan and walk towards the couch, swaying slightly as the world tilts. “You woke me up,” you mutter, voice rough and thick with sleep. “From a dream.”

He winces. “Sorry,” he says earnestly. “What was it about?”

You freeze.

You should lie. Say something believable about falling, or flying, or your teeth falling out. Anything. But before you can scramble for a cover story, he’s already rambling.

“You know, dreams are often more about emotional state than content,” he says. “I don’t really believe in dream analysis or strict Freudian symbolism, but a lot of people interpret dreams as reflections of unresolved subconscious tension or desires. Wish fulfillment, repressed emotions, that kind of thing. And Jung wrote about—”

“Spencer,” you grumble into the couch cushions.

He pauses mid-sentence. Whether it’s from the interruption or the rare slip of his first name from your lips, you aren’t quite sure.

You blink. “I’m too sick for a lecture right now.”

“Right. Sorry,” he says again sheepishly, stepping further inside. “Occupational hazard,” he adds with a quirk of a smile.

He sets the bags down on your counter and begins unloading items with surgeon-level focus: two different kinds of soup, a sleeve of saltine crackers, an assortment of teabags, ginger ale, cherry cough drops, a small jar of Vicks, extra strength cold & flu medicine, and a pack of those fancy tissues with lotion in them that you secretly really like but would never spend the extra dollar on.

You watch from the couch, arms folded tightly across your stomach. “You do realize I’m contagious, don’t you Dr. Germaphobe?”

“I got my flu shot,” he replies with a shrug. “And I’ve been loading up on electrolytes and immunity-boosting supplements all season.”

You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t make you invincible.”

“No,” he admits, meeting your gaze with a little half-smile. “I’ll be fine, though. I don’t want you worrying about that.”

That smile. Your heart lurches again — not like in the dream, but close enough to make you nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the fever.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur quietly.

“Probably not,” he agrees, rummaging through your cabinets. “But here I am. Besides, I owe you.”

You drop your head back against the cushions and close your eyes. You can still feel the dream burning through your bloodstream, the weight of his body on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear.

And now he’s here. In your apartment. Standing in your kitchen and looking like he stepped straight out of your subconscious, only realer. And worse, because he’s not touching you.

“I made your favorite tea,” he says, eventually placing a mug down on the table in front of you.

You crack one eye open. “You don’t know my favorite.”

He lifts one brow. “Orange blossom with honey. One ice cube so you don’t burn your tongue. Right?”

You stare at him.

“Right,” you mumble. “That’s… mildly disturbing.”

“I told you, I notice things.”

Those words sizzle with memories — both real and imagined.

He hands you the mug and your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. Suddenly, the dream flashes in the back of your mind like lightning. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

You sip slowly, and after he brings you the soup and crackers, he sits beside you — not too close, not too far. You eat quietly, and he doesn’t talk. Just lets the low hum of a Cranberries record fill the room. You’re not sure when he put it on, or why he put it on, but it makes everything feel… softer.

Eventually, once your bowl is empty, he takes it without a word and rinses it in your sink. You watch, dazed, as he wipes down your cluttered coffee table, carefully scoops your wilted tissue pile into the trash, and folds the fuzzy blanket you’d kicked onto the floor during a hot flash. He doesn’t say a word about any of it — just does it, and you’re too weak to protest. Too bewildered to stop him. And maybe too grateful, also.

When he finishes tidying, he rummages in your purse (which normally you’d slap him for, but again… too weak) and pulls out a battered deck of playing cards. You blink at him.

“Go Fish?” he offers, holding them up like a peace treaty.

You snort, then cough. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he says, already shuffling. “You’re not in any shape for something more mentally complex.”

You laugh, which turns into another cough, which turns into another laugh, cough, laugh. He smiles again — small, but real — as he deals the cards out between you.

It’s silly. Mindless. Totally ridiculous. You’re losing horribly because you keep zoning out and losing track of your cards mid-turn, and you think he’s trying to let you win anyway. You accuse him of cheating at least twice, and at one point, he slides a tissue toward you without breaking eye contact and says, “You need this.” You throw a pillow at him in embarrassed rage and immediately regret the exertion.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, it stops feeling weird that he’s here. It just feels like Spencer.

Time blurs again. You’re not sure how long it’s been. Long enough that his tea’s gone cold and the sun’s long since disappeared beneath the horizon. Your sentences stopped making sense about three sneezes ago — you’d exhausted all of your remaining capacity for coherence on the card game.

He glances toward the darkened window and clears his throat.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks — quiet now, a little more hesitant. The question hovers, and it’s clear he’s about to stand up and the spell’s about to break.

You stare at him for a second. You could —should — say no and just let him go.

But your head is pounding, and your skin feels wrong, and your hair— your hair is a fucking nightmare.

And… you’re not quite ready for him to leave.

You blink once. Then again. And say, voice cracking, “Brush.”

He tilts his head. “What?”

You nod toward the bedroom weakly. “Hairbrush. Vanity drawer.”

His brow furrows. “You want me to—?”

You nod again, weaker this time. “Please. Hurts. Too tangled.”

There’s a long pause. You think maybe he’s going to say no, make an excuse to leave.

But instead, you zone back into reality when you hear the faint creak of your bedroom door opening. The sound of a drawer. A rustle.

Soft footsteps approach again and you feel the couch cushions dipping with his weight beside you once more. You turn so your back is facing him and let your shoulders slump.

When his fingers slide into your hair to take out the bun on top of your head, you shiver.

He works gently. Carefully. Letting your tresses fall loose, starting at the ends and slowly detangling. It’s the kind of physical tenderness you’re not used to — not from yourself, not from anyone, and most definitely not from him.

You pretend you’re too feverish to notice how good it feels. But the truth is, you notice. God, do you notice.

You lean back slightly into the touch without meaning to. Your arm brushes his leg next to you on the couch. And then — for just a second — his hand rests on the crook of your neck.

Right there.

Right where his mouth — his lips, his tongue, his teeth — had been in the dream.

Your whole body goes still. Your breath catches.

The touch is innocent. Innocuous. Nothing about it is deliberate.

But still, it makes something snap behind your ribs.

You pull away, standing so quickly it makes you dizzy. “I should go lie back down.”

He blinks up at you, brush still in hand. “Right. Of course.”

You don’t look at him — you can’t. You shuffle down the hall, crawl back into bed, and bury yourself in blankets that feel a little too hot now. You expect to hear the front door click shut any second.

But he doesn’t leave. And a few minutes later, you hear the soft creak of the armchair in your room.

You lift your head and see Spencer curled up in it, long legs folded awkwardly. Watching you. Guarding, maybe. Or just refusing to go.

“I won’t stay much longer,” he promises, half-apologetic. “Just… until you fall asleep.”

Your throat is thick. You’re too tired to protest. “Okay.”

You close your eyes.

And when you wake sometime in the middle of the night, your fever a few degrees lower and the dream faded just enough to dull the ache, you realize he’s still there.

Asleep. Slouched in the chair. Mouth slightly open. One hand twitching faintly, as if he’s dreaming too.

Something about the sight presses warm against your ribs and bubbles up in your chest. You make a failed attempt to push that feeling back down before you get up and grab a blanket from your closet, draping it gently over his body.

You don’t say a word, but you do watch him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you crawl back into bed and let yourself sleep.

—

You’re back at work the next morning.

You’re still pale, still a little unsteady, but the fever finally broke sometime around dawn, and that’s good enough.

Your Doc Martens echo against the floor in the quiet corridor as you push through the glass doors of the BAU. You nod at an agent you don’t know in the bullpen, ignore the slight burn behind your eyes, and keep your pace steady.

It’s only when you reach your desk that you falter.

There’s a coffee cup waiting there.

Not the usual office brew. This one’s from your favorite place — the overpriced café three blocks away. There’s a sleeve around the cup as always, with a doodle scrawled in ink across the cardboard: a fish with Xs for eyes and a crooked crown. A half-assed tribute to the Go Fish massacre of the night before.

A pair of initials are scribbled beneath it, as if you didn’t already know who’d left it there:

-S.R.

Your throat goes tight.

You glance across the bullpen and find him already watching you. Spencer looks away fast, like he hadn’t meant to be caught. Like he hadn’t just pulled your subconscious apart twelve hours ago and stitched it back together with soup and cherry cough drops. Like he hadn’t slept in a chair in your bedroom and disappeared silently before your alarm went off.

You pick up the cup and walk over before you can overthink it.

He pretends not to notice you approaching until you’re close enough for him to smell the faint trace of your shampoo.

You lean your hip against his desk as you hold up the coffee and tap the sleeve with your finger. “This some kind of warning? Sleep with one eye open, the Go Fish King rises again?”

His mouth twitches into a grin. “You’re the one who stole all my jacks.”

“Stole? Please. I don’t cheat at children’s card games.”

“You cheat at everything,” he says, bemused.

You don’t argue. You just look at him — really look — and for a second, the room tilts. Or maybe you do.

The echo of his imaginary mouth on your skin hums through your nerves like static. You see the flash of his hand on your neck. The dream crashing over you again in a strange, hot wave.

You clear your throat and take a long sip of coffee, trying to shake the memory.

“I needed this,” you say finally. “Thanks.”

His expression shifts, surprised to hear that word from your lips. “You’re welcome.”

You pause and let your gaze flick up to his — steady and too soft — then back to the cup in your hand.

“That whole Florence Nightingale act yesterday…” You hesitate, words sticking. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I figured it was my turn, after the bandaid thing.”

You glance at him again. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying not to spook you.

“I’m glad you did,” you admit quietly.

Something flashes in his eyes — not surprise, not quite. More like relief and gratitude and something else that makes your stomach twist.

You look away before it can settle.

“But don’t go getting any ideas about me being some helpless damsel in distress,” you add, deflecting. “I had a 101 degree fever and wasn’t myself. I don’t even remember most of it—”

That’s a lie. You remember all of it.

“—so if I said or did anything weird, you legally can’t hold it against me.”

Then you turn, raise the coffee cup a little in a half-assed sarcastic cheers motion, and head back to your desk before he can respond.

You don’t look back.

But you can feel him watching you, just like in the dream. Only this time, you’re awake. This time, it’s real. And that might be the most disorienting part of all.

You settle in, fingers curling around the cup as you slip off the cardboard sleeve and slide it discreetly into your desk drawer.

The coffee is still hot, the dream is still lodged under your skin, and your body remembers his far too well.

It never happened. It wasn’t real. But you think about his voice, low and wrecked, whispering little things into your neck.

You think about the real parts, too. The way he ran your brush through your tangled hair. The way he stayed all night. The way he looked at you like you were something worth noticing. The way you can’t seem to scare him off.

And for a moment — just one — you wonder what it would feel like to stop pretending you don’t want him.

Wait. What?

Nope. Must be the fever talking again.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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