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hi ! love ur fics <3

can i request reader as being a massive flirt publicly towards spencer but when its Intimate and Private, reader is suddenly Stunned and Speechless and Blushing and spencer kinda gets the confidence to Do Stuff

im sorry if that was the stupidest described ask ever achh but lov u !

pairing: s9!spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: established relationship, bombshell-ish(?) reader, fluff warnings: 16+ for kind of suggestive? he’s so in love UGH a/n: thank you for requesting !! wc: 1.22k

Spencer thinks that you are the most beautiful person in the world. He thinks that you’re glowing every time you walk into the room– no matter how upset or disgruntled you may be– and as cliche as it may seem, he’s certain that swarms butterflies fill his stomach and cloud his mind. In fact, he thinks that you have always had that effect on him, ever since he’s met you. You’re touchy, and despite Spencer’s general aversion to physical touch, he finds that he doesn’t mind your germs much. 

Very often he finds himself at your mercy, with the way your fingers brush against his face as if it’s nothing, as if that movement alone was something that you do with everyone (you’ve only ever done it with him). There are other instances where you’ve been very blatant in your attraction towards him, so much so that he ends up with his cheeks hot more often than not. A part of him is grateful that though you work in the FBI, it isn’t his division. He doubts he’d be able to see the end of it.

“Spencer,” you gush, curling your fingers into the ends of his hair. Or rather, lack of hair. “You got a haircut. You’re supposed to consult me first, you know.”

He laughs, looking up at you as you stand over him while he sits at his desk. “Is that what a good boyfriend is supposed to do?”

“Yes.” You speak with mock indignation, properly running your fingers through his hair from his fringe to the back of his head. “It’s so short.”

“Do you hate it?” There’s a momentary pang of unease that strikes at his heart. “Maybe I should have consulted you.”

“No, baby, it looks really good.” You smile at him, pressing a kiss to his hairline. “You’re warm. Do you have a fever?”

Of course I’m warm, Spencer wants to say while you continue to dote on him, your hands travelling to his collar next and brushing against his throat. You’re touching me in the middle of the bullpen. 

He opts to not say anything when he sees your knowing smile. You’re doing this on purpose. He clicks his tongue, squeezing at your waist lightly as you lean over him to kiss his forehead. He’ll let you win this battle; he’s going to get you back.

***

He doesn’t really know how to get you back. There are a few harmless things he’d thought of doing: sneaking into your department and hiding your mug on the top shelf (he fears that you’d ask someone, a taller more handsome someone, to rescue it for you), not wearing the tie you picked out for him that morning (he can already envision your disappointed frown and his chest aches at the imaginary you getting upset because of him), and putting toothpaste in your Oreos (he doesn’t want to die). 

All of these ideas go down the drain and he ends up not getting back at you for days. It doesn’t help that he’s been gone for a case while you’ve been stuck at home. It isn’t all bad, and a part of him wishes that he can hold himself to the same level of confidence as Derek when Penelope calls him with flirtatious motives. You do virtually the same thing. 

Your words are honey as you shower him with compliments, ending him with a simple “Hey, gorgeous.” 

It is enough to make his heart leap to his throat and his cheeks to warm to a pretty pink. There’s not much overlap between the Human Resources Branch and the BAU, especially considering that you assist more on the training and hiring side of things, so there aren’t many opportunities for you to fluster him when he’s out of the office. He finds that you always make an excuse.

“Hi,” he responds softly, avoiding the teasing gazes of Emily and Derek. “Is… are you okay?”

“Do I need to not be okay to talk to my lovely boyfriend?” 

You’re teasing him, poking fun at the way he so easily surrenders to you. He resists the urge to run out the room. 

“Stop,” he warns half-heartedly. He says your name quietly, tapping his fingers at the edge of the table. “Is there something you needed?”

He can practically hear you smile as you respond, the sound of your mouse clicking in the background. “Oh, yeah. My computer says that my storage is full. What do I do?”

“Your storage is full,” he repeats, smiling. “That’s why you called me?”

“It’s lunchtime in Santa Monica, right?”

He relents, cheeks hurting from how hot and stretched out they are. “Yes.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem.” 

He puffs out a breath of air, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re lovely.” He can imagine you batting your eyes, your smile saccharine. “Don’t you wish that you were here, gorgeous?”

He’s definitely going to get you back.

*** 

Spencer goes to your apartment once the case ends, his eyes dreary with sleep and the horrors that he saw only a few hours prior. Your apartment key hangs next to his on his keychain– a limited edition Tardis charm that you got him for his birthday. He huffs out a breath, unlocking your door and stepping inside. He’s met with you dancing around in your kitchen, headphones on whilst holding a wooden spoon. A part of him is concerned with how easily he could slip into your home without being notice, but the other part can’t help but smile at how carefree you look, and he leans against the wall to stare. 

He doesn’t get the opportunity to stare for long. It’s comical, the way you jump upon seeing him, eyes wide as you rip your headphones off. 

“You’re back! You scared me.” A smile stretches across your lips while you press your palm to your chest whilst taking steps towards him. “Don’t do that ever again.”

Spencer laughs, toeing his shoes off and resting his hands on your waist. His head dips down to meet your gaze, peering up at you with a soft smile. “You look beautiful.”

Your cheeks glow warm and you break eye contact. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” He hooks his pointer finger under your chin, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I missed you.”

He notes the way you don’t respond, in some sort of daze while your lips part in both surprise and flusteredness. He understands your sentiments– it isn’t often that he initiates affection. 

“Did you miss me, too?” Spencer asks softly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he speaks. 

“Of course I did,” you croak out, heat building in your head. 

Spencer chuckles, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s doing this on purpose, flustering you to the point of no return. He kisses you again, one hand holding the base of your head while the other squeezes at the flesh of your waist. It’s dizzying, the taste of coffee on his tongue and the feel of his fingers in your hair. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs once he’s pulled away. His thumb rubs a line from the back of your ear to where your jawline starts, and he can’t help but chuckle. “Where did that confidence go, hm?”

reblogs are always appreciated!

Squish-y - LN

Request from @sunshineeyessss - please something with squish! I miss her, if it can be something angst like her getting really hurt or something in those lines

Word count: 1.1k

Clingy/physical touch-love language!reader

Author's note: I am not making a Squish series, this is a one time part 2. Please don't request more Squish after this guys.

Lando and y/n are rarely apart at this point in their relationship. But y/n had a bachelorette party to attend and to say she was having a good time would be an understatement.

Lando did get constant text, videos and even a couple short-lived phone calls from the night.

But the joy and excitement came to a pretty abrupt end when he got a phone call from another drunk attendee of the party and finding out that his girlfriend fell down not one but two flights of stairs.

Which is how he ended up rushing to the hospital.

"Squ-Y/n y/l/n?" Lando calls having to stop himself from using her nickname.

"It was mentioned you'd ask for Squish. We've been told." The nurse comments not seeming impressed by the nickname but he can't tell if she actively dislikes him or not. "She's room 2F. That way."

Lando moves to follow the directions and finds the young woman looking pretty beat up. Her exposed knees looking pretty beaten up. But the main concern is her cast bound arm in a sling.

She broke her forearm, her elbow and her collarbone all on the right side.

"Squish." Lando sighs placing the flowers he'd made sure to grab on the way there since he's not going to be caught slacking but in reality he knows his still very much drunk girlfriend is looking very emotional as her good but still bruised arm raises making it obvious she very much wants a hug. "Aww. My Squish."

"I was having such a good time then I need to the toilet and I fell." Y/n hiccups. "What stupid club has stairs down to the toilets anyway?"

"A very stupid one." Lando reaffirms as a nurse that thankfully looks a little happier to be there and happier to see him enters.

"Hi, you must be Lando. Y/n told us all about you while we got the cast on. We did need someone sober to discharge her so we knew she was going home safely. So once you sign and sort out all the paperwork, you're free to get her home. Just keep an eye on her. She did hit her head, not too hard but we always want to be cautious with that stuff."

"Yeah, I got her. Thank you." Lando nods with a smile as she hands him the clipboard with all the forms.

"Lando." Y/n mumbles making him move towards her and absently sit on her better side, not that she necessarily has a good side, just so she can touch him somehow. "I love you."

"I love you too, squish. I might need your help for some of these forms...I think I know most of it, but I just want to double check that I'm not putting anything in wrong." Lando mumbles focusing on the paperwork before he smiles at her and leans over for a kiss at the face she's just playing with the hem of his top.

"Ok."

-

"Alright, Squish. I am all yours for however long you want me." Lando sighs once he's got her set up in bed.

And immediately y/n just wants to cuddle. The woman isn't taking into account how awkward a cuddle is going to be and Lando has to figure out the best means of getting them into a position that won't disturb her collarbone which they actually have to go back to the hospital for in a week or so to check that it's not healing incorrectly, otherwise there might be a need for surgery since collarbones can be a little difficult to heal.

Eventually they settle on her lying with her back to his chest as she sits between his legs. Just as the safest position to make sure he's not unsettling any broken bones or making her uncomfortable but still giving her the comfort she wants from him.

"Squish, are you awake?" Lando asks noticing her body pressing down more heavily on him with him realising she's probably asleep.

She’s still on some pretty heavy pain medication since her whole body is pretty battered even if it was her arm and shoulder that took the brunt of her fall. So it’s not surprise she’s passed out. But the issue is, Lando now has to pee.

By some miracle he manoeuvres himself out from behind her and gets to the toilet but there's no surprise when he's halfway through his pee, y/n appears shuffling with a pout.

"I had to pee, squish. You were pressing on my bladder." Lando laughs as she comes up behind him him and hug him with her good arm as he smiles at her, resisting the usual urge to lean back on hr since he knows her other broken limb is very much pressed gently against him. "How are you feeling?"

"Achy."

He knew that would be that answer but he doesn't like it anymore now he's actually hearing it.

"We'll sleep and cuddle then you get you something to eat." Lando states after tucking himself back away and flushing the toilet before he moves to wash his hands while y/n follows like a little puppy. "Ok, squish. Back to bed for you."

-

Walking into the paddock for the next race. Y/n is very much latched onto Lando and his concern for her not gaining more injury means he's holding her just as tightly.

"There's Lando in the garage, and no surprise, he is walking in with Squish. I was talking to Lando early in the week, he was saying that she actually fell down two flights of stairs while at a bachelorette party. She must've landed entirely on her arm. She broke her arm, he elbow and her collarbone. I just hope all concern for her isn't distracting him from the race this weekend. I doubt it. Usually having her there with him seems to actually bring out the best of him." Martin states as the camera remains on the McLaren garage and they see Lando continue to talk to y/n as he also speaks to Jon.

Lando proves that y/n definitely isn't a distraction even with how injured she is because his weekend is mega and while y/n is thankfully not feeling the pain she'd been feeling initially and actually the gifts from fans and Lando making sure to spare any attention to her that he can.

"I'm really starting to hate this." Y/n comments while Lando gets ready for bed, having already helped her. "I can't cuddle you properly."

"Hey...come on now just think, squish, it means when you can cuddle me properly and you'll have a new appreciation for it." Lando smiles before he climbs into bed and pecks her lips. "I love you, squish."

"I love you too. I just hate 4-6 weeks healing time."

I love every single word of this fic

Lodestar | s.reid

You call Spencer to tell him you've gone into labor just as he closes in on an unsub. He's determined to make it back to you in time.

Pairing: fem!reader x spencer reid Contains: fluff!, established relationship, husband!spencer, canon typical violence, reader is afraid of needles, epidural, pregnancy and labor and birth (not really described in detail lmao but does happen), girldad!spencer (supremacy), astrophysicist!reader, s12!Spencer but pre-prison, first part is from spencer's perspective and the second is from reader's Length: ~2.1k Note: this started as a joke and then became the silly "prequel" (idk it's just the same reader and daughter) to Star-Stuff, but it can completely stand alone!

They’re only three miles away from the dairy farm when Spencer’s phone rings.

Spencer nearly doesn’t answer. JJ holds her phone out over the car’s center console so he can listen to Emily’s update from the backseat, and at the rate Luke’s driving, they’ll be on the grounds within minutes. 

And, if the profile is correct, they’re already running out of time. The rest of the team is too far behind. Spencer can’t afford to lose focus.

But you're the only person who would be calling him right now, and instinct forces him to answer.

“Hi,” he whispers.

In the rearview mirror, Luke furrows his brows at him.

“Hey!” you answer, and the forced pep in your tone gives Spencer pause. “How’s the case?” 

“Uh, it’s—I can’t really talk right—hold on, are you okay?” 

“Yes, yes, sorry. Everything is fine. I just—” you cut yourself off.

Spencer’s heart races. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you breathe.

But he knows you’re lying. Your voice is strained, shaky. 

He says your name—stripped from its usual softness, now a demand.

JJ twists in the passenger seat and mouths something to him, but Spencer turns to the window as if it might give him privacy. Through the glass, he watches the overgrown grazing fields rush by.

Two miles away.

“Okay, okay,” you say. “So, I’m fine.” A pause. “But… my water just broke, and I think I’m in labor.”

Now, his heart fucking stops.

“What? Are you positive?” he asks.

“Well, I’m pretty certain that I didn’t just piss myself on our living room floor.”

“You might have!” he says desperately. “Incontinence is extremely common in the third trimester! The fetus presses on your bladder and weakens your pelvic floor, and remember when you—”

“Spencer!”

“Sorry! I’m—” driving up to a dairy farm that was recently run out of business by an industrial dairy processing plant that undercut their prices, and the former owner is now systematically killing all of the employees that left his farm to work at the plant, including his own daughter, who he is holding captive somewhere on the farm and may have already killed. You know—smaller family farms make up the vast majority of farms in the US, but are responsible for less than 20% of production. Industrial agriculture operations, despite being fewer in number, control the market entirely. Anyway, this is the best day of my life, and I love you so much.

He still has the good sense to not say all that.

“Are you having contractions?” he asks instead.

In the front, JJ’s eyes widen, and Luke mutters, “Shit.” 

The car’s headlights illuminate a dirt road lined by wooden fences. A weather worn sign that says “Walker Family Farm” swings in the wind.

One mile.

“Yes, but they’re not that strong.”

“When did they start?”

“Like. A few hours ago, but—”

“A few hours ago?!” 

“But it’s still just early labor! They’re not even—” You cut yourself off again. “—Oooh my goooood,” you groan tightly.

“Go to the hospital!”

“It’s—it’s fine! First time births usually have pretty long labors, so—”

They pass the farm’s visitor’s center.

He says your name again, urgently, desperately. “Please.”

“I know. I just—” Your voice wavers. “I’m… scared. I don’t want to do this without you. I don’t think I can.”

Spencer swallows. “I’ll be there.”

“But—”

“I have to go. I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

He hangs up, because Luke has reached the end of the road, and there isn’t time to say everything that he wants to say.

The car crunches to a stop on the gravel drive, headlights cutting through the dark. Beyond them, the dairy farm sprawls in eerie silence—barn doors yawning open, cattle stalls ghostly under fluorescents that still flicker despite the farm’s abandonment. Behind the silo, the creamery hums with electricity.

JJ looks back at him. “Spence, are you—”

“I looked at the blueprints back at the station. The creamery has two ground level entrances on the north and south walls and a cellar door in the middle of the east wall. We’ll cover ground faster and draw less attention if we split up,” he says. “I’ll cover the north entrance.”

He doesn’t let either of them get a word in before he’s running out of the vehicle.

Inside the creamery, the temperature rises, a sharp contrast to the frigid January air, and the air is perfumed by something sour, rotten. Between pasteurization vats are piles of rusted equipment jutting out like broken ribs, metal piping half-submerged in the shadows. As he makes his way through the labyrinth, he sees a still functional pressure gauge on one of the vats twitching into the yellow zone.

That faint mechanical hum runs through the building—generators still keeping something alive. The pipes running along the walls, between vats, rattle.

Then—a soft, muffled sob.

Spencer takes a right and his flashlight illuminates James Walker standing behind his daughter, Millie, one hand clapped over her mouth, the other, holding a skinning knife to her throat.

“Let her go, James,” Spencer says, revolver aimed straight ahead.

James takes a labored breath. The blade at Millie’s throat glints, a thin reflection of light dancing along the steel.

“I don’t think so,” James responds.

“James,” Spencer tries again, taking a careful step forward. “I understand you’re angry. They took your livelihood—”

“No—no.” James’ hand tightens on the hilt, and Maggie sobs. “They took my life!”

Spencer has seen grief manifest in hundreds of ways throughout his career. Some men turn it inward to let it hollow them out. Others forge it into righteous indignation and wield it like a blade. And James, hands shaking, eyes wild with devoted fervor, is the latter.

This isn’t about work. It isn’t even about family or betrayal or revenge.

This is about legacy, something passed through blood and dirt, roots sprawling deep beneath the earth to last centuries.

Cut down a tree, and it will grow again.

Dig it out by the roots, and the ground caves in, leaving only a hollow, a scar in the earth easily paved over, as if nothing had grown there at all.

But legacy is more than roots—it’s the seeds carried away by the wind, shaped by their origin, but still meant to grow into something new.

James doesn’t see that, and now, he’s willing to cut down his own future to avenge his past, ready to sacrifice his daughter at the altar of his loss rather than let her become something beyond him.

As if she is not his legacy, too.

Spencer knows that he’s supposed to deescalate first, but that takes time, time he’s not willing to spend on James Walker.

He has his own legacy to think about—his family.

Somewhere else in the creamery, something clangs against a vat. It draws James’ attention for half a second, and when it does, Spencer shifts his aim and fires.

The bullet slams into a pipe running behind James’s head.

Steam erupts, shrieking into the air, and James jerks away, raising his arm against the blast.

Millie wrenches free, stumbling, gasping, and suddenly, JJ is there pulling her to safety.

James reels and turns to Spencer with his blade raised, but before he can even take a step, Luke surges forward and pries the blade from his grasp.

By the time they’re escorting him out of the creamery, the rest of the team and local PD finally arrive.

Half an hour later, he’s back on the jet, staring out the window, counting the stars that seem to pale in comparison to the one guiding him home.

When Spencer rushes into the hospital room, you’re standing, gripping the bed rail like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. The moment you see him—breathless, wide-eyed, and grinning (asshole)—you grit out, “What the fuck took so long?”

Spencer, to his credit, takes a second to reassess.

He stops short beside you, hands slightly outstretched but clearly trying to determine if you want to be touched.

You do not.

“It—we had to—” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here. I love you.”

“I love you, too, obviously.” You glare up at him from beneath your sweat beaded brow. “But If you ever hang up the phone while I’m in labor again, I swear on my life, I will become a serial killer out of spite.”

“Noted.” His expression softens. “What can I do?”

“Um—” You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. “You want to do this instead? Do a seahorse-type thing?”

“If I had a brood pouch, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

You laugh—breathy and high pitched. “A what?”

“A brood pouch! That’s where male seahorses fertilize and incubate the eggs after the female deposits them. It’s actually—”

Another contraction rips through you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the rail even tighter as you let out a quiet groan. When it passes, you pant and open your eyes.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

Spencer scans the screen with your vitals. “That was sixty-two seconds. How often—”

“Four minutes,” you hiss.

“Okay, have you spoken to the anesthesiologist about the epidu—”

“Not doing that.”

He pauses and blinks. “Are you sure? I thought you wanted to—”

“Changed my mind.” You keep your eyes on your fists clenched around the guard rail. “It’s—it’s fine.”

Spencer pauses again, and you can feel him assessing you. “I just want to make sure—”

“It’s a giant fucking needle in my spine,” you rush out. 

“Technically the needle itself doesn’t stay in your spine.”

He’s the love of your life. He’s also, apparently, your greatest adversary. You glare at him and hope he telepathically gets that message.

“The risk of complications is extremely rare!” he says. “Paralysis is only one in a million, and permanent nerve damage is one in 23,500 to 50,000!”

“Oh, well, thank god for that! No!”

Spencer’s mouth opens. Then closes.

You groan softly and lean down, resting your head against the cool metal of the guard rail. “I would rather calculate the gravitational pull of a black hole on a rogue planet with nothing but a notebook and a pen than do this right now.”

You expect Spencer to comment on it, say something upbeat, like what an interesting challenge—however impossible—that would be.

Instead, he just brushes your hair away from your forehead and says, “You could do it if you wanted to. And you can do this, too.”

You keep your head down to hide the quiver in your bottom lip.

After twenty minutes, you decide that your crippling fear of needles isn’t so crippling, afterall. 

And then, it’s a waiting game.

Until—

She arrives with the sun, and nothing else matters anymore.

Nothing.

Not the pain, or the frustration of waiting, or the fear. Not even the terrifying, all-consuming weight of your official parenthood.

Maia—impossibly tiny, infinitesimally small Maia, just a speck in the grand expanse of the universe, and yet, she’s everything.

When she’s bundled and settled on your chest, you and Spencer just stare at her. He sits in a chair beside your bed but rests his head next to yours. 

“She’s so wrinkly,” you whisper, voice horse. “Like a little alien.”

Spencer huffs a laugh through his nose. “Don’t call her an alien.”

“Can’t help it. She’s straight stardust. Carbon, oxygen, hydrogen—the legacy of ancient supernovae.” You run a finger down her cheek, and she coos in her sleep. “The universe spent billions of years making her,” you murmur.

Spencer’s quiet for several moments. Then, he tilts his head to kiss your cheek. “She was worth the wait.”

You blink, throat tightening. “Everything’s going to be different now,” you whisper. “Our lives are… Do you… will we be okay at this?”

You expect a statistic, a comforting fact, in response.

Instead, Spencer murmurs. “I don’t know. I think we can only try.”

The gravitational orbits of two celestial bodies are easy to predict. Introduce a third, and the system unravels into chaos—unpredictable, unknowable, its future mapped only by imperfect simulations that can never quite capture reality. 

It’s a delicate dance on the edge of collapse.

But here, now, it has never felt so fragile.

Or so precious.

“Our very own three-body problem,” you muse. 

Spencer breathes a laugh. “There’s no closed-form solution to parenting, is there?”

“Nerd,” you whisper.

He doesn’t argue. He just squeezes your arm, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against your skin.

For all the unknowns still to come, for all the unpredictable forces pulling at your lives, you know at least one thing will remain constant—her, this, your family.

And somehow, even without a closed-form solution, the math still works out.

Bombshell r loosing her mind when Spence walks into work late that one day and he has the “boy band” haircut

“What’s with the face?” 

Morgan raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for an answer you don’t have. 

“What’s wrong with my face?” you ask. 

“Nothing–”

“Clearly.” 

“You look way too happy, considering.” He gestures to the board currently displaying a grisly crime scene photo and the empty seat across from you. “Another case, and a severe lack of your favourite toy.” 

“Spencer isn’t my toy, he’s my sweetheart, and I’m gutted he’s running late but I’m toughing it out.” 

Being on the team is all you’ve ever wanted. With Gideon long gone and enough time elapsed between Strauss’ political push for Emily, you’re here permanently, where you’ve always wanted to be. It’s been the best few months of your life. A lot of that due to Spencer’s unfailing friendship. He’s so kind to you. You’re really getting along. 

“Let’s focus in,” Hotch says. 

You bridle with excitement, poorly contained. You don’t get very far into spitballing when JJ’s lips part in bemusement.

“Well, hello,” she says. 

You turn in your chair away from JJ and Penelope where they’re giving the presentation to the door, where Spencer is smiling genially. He sits down with his bag still on his shoulder, a heavy silence having fallen over the room. 

Spencer has cut his hair. Gone is the long, mostly straight lengths of his hair. Did he get a perm? You’re shell-shocked. “Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself. 

“What, did you join a boyband?” Hotch asks, frowning. 

His lips part in small offence. “No,” he says. 

Emily and Morgan laugh. Spencer tucks his chair in, and you don’t know who wants to say what or how quickly you’re supposed to pretend to get over this, but you don’t care. “Spencer!” you say, “Spencer!” 

“L/N, please don’t start.” 

Hotch is only saying please because he knows he had his own reaction he could’ve kept internal, how can he ask you to smother your own. You lean hard across the table and gaze at Spencer lovingly —startled but inarguably infatuated.

“You’ve never, ever looked this handsome before,” you say, true and not true, “ever. I gotta–” Your hand reaches out at the same moment your legs decide to stand. “Can I touch it?” 

Hotch sighs with disappointment. 

You pass behind your teammates' chairs to look at him. 

“Stop,” Spencer says immediately, his palm to your stomach. “You’re being mean.” 

“I’m being mean? You didn’t even consult me.” 

“It’s my hair.” 

“Spencer, you’re gorgeous no matter what, but I need some warning if you don’t want me to do this.” 

“Sit back down,” Morgan says, rolling his eyes. 

You tuck one lovely curl behind Spencer’s ear carefully. “I love it so much, I can’t believe it. This is the best thing that’s happened to me since I joined the BAU.” 

💕💕

hi, first of all, I love your stories and am a fan of your work 💓 I have a request, in a case with the team, spencer meets a girl who understands his intelligence and talks about the same topics like: science and the reader feels jealous and insecure that she is not smart enough for him despite working at BAU.

insecure — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) contente warnings: established relationship, reader feels insecure / not smart enough and jealous , some tears, but otherwise it's just emotional fluff <3 a/n: hii !!! hope you like this :) also another john steinbeck mention sorry ( found this in my drafts whoops )

The words washed over you like static—scientific facts, literary references, inside jokes that might as well have been a foreign language.

You stood beside Spencer, arms crossed, staring blankly at the crime scene photos pinned to the board. The images should have held your focus, but they blurred at the edges, your mind too occupied with the conversation happening just inches away. 

Spencer and a woman from the field office, were exchanging rapid-fire dialogue about something you couldn’t follow.

A quip about quantum physics, maybe, or a pun so niche it sailed right over your head. Whatever it was, it made her laugh and Spencer chuckled in response, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way you loved. 

You knew Spencer loved you. He told you constantly—in cozy moments before bed, in rushed kisses on your temple between cases, in the way his fingers lingered whenever he handed you a coffee.

But right now, watching him so effortlessly connect with someone who spoke his language you felt like an outsider in your own relationship. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your attention back to the case files. 

Then, a gentle touch at the small of your back. 

Spencer’s hand was warm, his thumb brushing lightly over your spine before he pulled away to circle something on the map. “You okay?” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. 

You nodded, offering him a quick smile. “Yeah.” 

But the word felt hollow. You turned away before he could read the lie in your eyes, pretending to sift through the files at the end of the table. It was easier to focus on the paperwork than the quiet ache settling in your ribs. 

You managed to keep up the act until it was time to leave. 

Just as you reached the door, the woman called out to Spencer again, something about an obscure novel you’d never heard of. He responded without hesitation, and you bit your lip, staring at the floor as you waited.

A beat passed. Then another. 

Finally, Spencer’s footsteps followed, and before you could take another step, his fingers slid between yours, squeezing gently. 

“Hey,” he said softly, tugging you to a stop just outside the conference room. His brows knit together as he searched your face. “You’ve been quiet.” 

You shrugged, forcing another smile. “Just tired.” 

Spencer wasn’t fooled. He never was. But he let you be. 

He knew you—knew the way your fingers tapped restlessly against your thigh when you were upset, the way your gaze fixed on nothing when you were lost in thought. Right now, you were doing both, and though every instinct in him screamed to press, to fix, he held back. If you needed space, he’d give it to you. 

On the jet, he sat beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. Normally, you’d lean into him, your head finding its place against his shoulder, your fingers lacing through his without a second thought.

But today, you kept your distance, arms folded tight across your chest as you stared out the window.

Spencer set a coffee in front of you, just how you liked it. You didn’t grin at him like usual. Instead, you offered a faint, wary smile that didn’t reach your eyes before turning away again. 

His stomach twisted. 

Across the aisle, Emily glanced up from her file, her eyes flickering between the two of you. Spencer met her gaze. Then, Emily raised an eyebrow, tilting her head subtly toward the kitchenette. 

Spencer hesitated. His hand was still on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent circles over the fabric of your pants. He gave you one last gentle squeeze before standing, half-hoping you’d reach for him, pull him back. 

You didn’t even look up. 

Emily was already pouring coffee when he reached her, her expression unreadable. “What’s up?” Spencer asked, leaning against the counter. 

She didn’t answer right away, stirring sugar into her cup slowly. Then, without looking at him: “You chatted a lot with that woman.” 

Spencer blinked. “What woman?” 

Emily shot him a look. “The one you talked about all that nerdy science stuff with? At the precinct?” 

It took him a second—then it clicked. The local liaison, the one who’d laughed at his terrible pun. He hadn’t even registered the interaction beyond professional courtesy. But you had. 

His stomach dropped. “Oh,” he said, voice quiet. 

Emily studied him over the rim of her mug. “You really didn’t notice, did you?” 

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I was just—it was case-related. Mostly.” 

“Mostly,” Emily repeated, dry. 

“I wasn’t—” He cut himself off, frustration bubbling up. Not at her, not at you, but at himself. How had he missed it? How had he not seen the way you’d withdrawn, the way your smile had faltered? 

Emily sighed, setting her coffee down. “Reid, look. You’re brilliant, but sometimes you’re oblivious.” 

He swallowed hard, glancing back at you. You were still staring out the window, your reflection ghostly against the glass. His chest ached. 

Without another word, he pushed off the counter and crossed the cabin, sinking back into the seat beside you. This time, he didn’t hesitate—he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing tight. 

You turned to him, looking at him for a long moment, his warm hand still enveloping yours. Part of you wanted to pull away, to protect that bruised, vulnerable part of your heart that still stung from earlier. But you didn't.

Then you caught Emily's gaze from across the jet. She looked away quickly, but not before you saw the knowing glint in her eyes, the subtle satisfaction in the way she sipped her coffee.

Of course.

You turned back to the window, but you kept your fingers laced with his. The rest of the flight passed in quiet. Spencer didn't push. His shoulder was solid under your cheek when you finally gave in and leaned against him, his fingers never once loosening their grip on yours.

An hour later you reached his apartment. You kicked off your shoes by the door as you suppressed a yawn.

"Are you okay?" Spencer's voice was soft behind you.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile. "Yeah." 

He didn't look convinced. His brows knit together as he stepped closer, hands hovering like he wasn't sure if he should reach for you. "You've been quiet since—" 

"I'm fine, Spencer." The words came out sharper than you intended, and you watched as his face fell, just slightly. Guilt twisted in your gut. "Just tired." 

Spencer exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything." 

Of course you knew. But this—this insecurity, this childish fear that you weren't enough, not smart enough—it stuck in your throat, stubborn and suffocating. 

"Yeah, I know." Your smile felt thin as you turned to hang up your jacket, fingers fumbling slightly with the hanger.

When you turned around, he was right there - closer than you expected. His long fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but wasn't sure he should.

"Do you?" he asked softly, the words tentative, his head tilted in that way that meant he was analyzing every microexpression. 

You bit your lip, the familiar sting of tears threatening behind your eyes. Forcing yourself to meet his gaze, you raised your hands to his face, thumbs smoothing over the deep furrow between his brows.

"Yes," you murmured, "just not feeling too great today." 

Your hand drifted down to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the sharp plane of his cheekbone. You hoped he wouldn't notice the slight tremor in your fingers, but of course he did - Spencer noticed everything. His eyes darkened with concern, and he caught your wrist gently, turning his face into your palm to press a kiss there. 

"You've been quiet since the precinct," he observed, his voice carefully neutral. Too carefully. You recognized his profiling tone - the one he used when he was trying to understand without pushing. 

"I'm just tired," you lied again, pulling away to busy yourself with straightening the blanket on the couch.

Spencer followed, his socked feet silent on the hardwood.

"You know," he said slowly, "when I was eleven, I memorized The Grapes of Wrath because I thought it would make my mom happy." He paused, waiting until you turned to face him. "It didn't. Because what she really needed wasn't facts or figures. She just needed me to sit with her." 

Your breath caught. 

His hands found yours, long fingers threading between yours. "I don't need you to understand every reference or equation," he murmured, bringing your joined hands to his chest where you could feel his heartbeat. "I just need you here. With me." 

The dam broke. A tear slipped free, then another. Spencer made a soft, wounded sound and gathered you close, his chin resting atop your head as you buried your face in his sweater. 

"I felt so stupid," you admitted, the confession muffled against his chest where his heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear. The wool of his sweater scratched lightly at your cheek as you turned your face deeper into him, hiding from the vulnerability of your own words. "Watching you two talk like that. Listening to you talk about things I didn't understand." 

Spencer's hands - those elegant, restless hands that could calculate bullet trajectories in seconds but still fumbled with simple knots - slid up to cradle the back of your head with the most gentle touch possible.

His fingers tangled gently in your hair as he pulled back just enough to see your face, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on your cheeks you hadn't even realized was there. 

"I love you because you're you," he said, voice so tender it made your breath catch. His palm came to rest over your heart, warm even through the fabric of your shirt. "Because you see people—really see them—in a way I never could. You notice the way Garcia's smile doesn't reach her eyes on bad days before she even says a word. You're the one who always remembers to bring Morgan that terrible gas station coffee he likes after overnight surveillance." 

His fingers traced the line of your jaw with reverence, calloused fingertips catching slightly on your skin.

"You know exactly what books I want to read when I'm too overwhelmed to think straight," he continued. "And when I'm lost in my own head..." His hands cradling your face. "You're the only one who knows how to bring me back." 

He smiled softly at you.

"You're my home," he murmured, the words so simple yet so devastating in their truth. "All the equations in the world couldn't change that." 

A tear escaped despite your best efforts, tracing a hot path down your cheek. Spencer caught it with his thumb, his touch achingly gentle as he brushed it away.

"You're too sweet, Spence," you finally managed, the words coming out watery and broken between a sob and a laugh. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his sweater.

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, his nose brushing against yours. "Only for you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Always only for you." 

🤍🤍

fluffy aaron request !! reader is on a date that is going so bad when she gets called in for a case so she shows up in her like fancy date outfit and confides in hotch about her horrible date then he offers to make it up to her and takes her out when they get back <3 maybe there’s some room for slight jealous!aaron in there somewhere tehe

it's a date

there's always room for jealous!aaron 🤭 cw; fem bau!reader, mutual pining, a touch of nervous and jealous!aaron, brief standard cm case info, fluff <3

You were the last one to arrive at the BAU, departing from the far side of town and evening traffic to blame.

Consequently, you pulled stares the second you arrived within the roundtable room. Your presence was anticipated, for one, the sound of your heels clacking against the hard floor, and:

A low whistle exited Morgan.

"Look at you." He tossed out, a tickled grin spread wide across his face.

Your current attire was a dress; a fancier, slightly more risqué choice compared to your typical office wardrobe. It was a light beige, your hair was down your back in loose curls, makeup more enhanced than your usual routine. Aaron had to (internally) admit, you looked stunning.

"Hot date?"

"You could say that."

Aaron felt his jaw move. Clench, actually.

"Sorry for cutting your night short." He apologized, forcing his sentence out deep from inside his chest. He turned towards the screen, concealing himself.

"On the contrary," You eased yourself into your chair, eagerly accepting a file from Emily. "Thank you for cutting my night short."

"With this one, you may want to rethink that sunshine." Penelope clicked her remote, illuminating the screen with the latest case photos. "Ain't no rest for the wicked."

The team collectively ran through it quickly; a brutal family annihilator, decreasing cooling off period, the gravity of the situation heightening and a panicked town. Wheels up in 30 to Oklahoma.

As the others trailed out, Penelope hurrying to her bat cave, Aaron slowed his pace. He prolonged securing his files into his briefcase, zipping it shut, leaving only the two of you in the room.

Coincidentally, you weren't in too much of a rush either.

"That bad?"

You huffed in response as your eyes found his. He was met with a hardened, utter annoyance, instead of your familiar warm liveliness.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's not much to talk about." The bottom of your files hit the surface of the table, loudly, stacking the few evenly together. "The guy sucked. Interrupted me every second he could. I don't think the restaurant he picked was up to code either. Thank goodness I got the call before our food arrived." You shuddered lightly, in theatrics but also genuineness. "I'm greatly looking forward to pretending it never happened."

There was a carefree airiness within your voice - attempting to wave it off, the simple acceptance of one night gone bad - but small dismay was amongst your words.

"I'm sorry." While Aaron meant his apology wholeheartedly, he couldn't help but feel relieved, for his own selfish reasons. "But I am glad you narrowly escaped the potential food poisoning."

That pulled a laugh from you, agreeing. "But it's fine, really. I didn't want to go anyways, don't know why I did." You shrugged as you disrupted the continual, shared eye contact. While the tail end of your sentence was spoken lowly, it wasn't long lasting, picking up some enthusiasm. "How was your night going?"

"Jack and I were just settling down to watch a movie."

"Which one?"

"Shrek."

Your head tilted exasperatedly, face pulling into jealousy. "Really? How fun." You whined gently, wishing your night could have been spent with the two of them. Your preferred choice of company.

"Well, he wasn't too happy it was cut short." Aaron admitted, a loose, downhearted chuckle escaping.

"You'll make it up to him. Perhaps a multiple movie feature when we're back? Shrek, Shrek 2, Shrek the Third... maybe order some pizza too." You suggested, reaching out to touch his arm reassuringly with a gentle smile. "No matter, he'll be thrilled."

Sourcing from your touch, lightning bolts dashed within his arm, feverishly. Aaron soon found himself simply studying your face, falling on the silent side. You were just, you. Extraordinarily kind, beautiful you.

"C'mon, Dave told me if I was late to the tarmac once more, he'd tell the pilot to leave and I'd have to take a commercial." You joked. Although, a small part of you feared he'd stick to his promise.

"Yeah, like I'd let that happen." He rolled his eyes, amusedly shaking his head.

The bullpen was quiet; most had gone home, the overheard lights had dimmed, the team long out of earshot. As the two of you neared the glass doors - Aaron leading - there was an urgency heightening in his chest, mere seconds away from bursting. As if each step forward, he was losing precious time. Any hesitations on the temptations he had felt for months dissolved. Now or never.

"What about you?" He asked, sweetly but timidly, finding a sudden interest in the floor.

"What about me?"

"Who's going to make it up to you?"

"Well," That caught you in a bit of surprise, your feet halting. Aaron turned, his eyes lifting. "That's a million dollar question right there. I don't see anyone lining up to take me on some extravagant outing, do you?" You forced out a laugh, your cheeks fairly blushing.

"Maybe," Aaron replied, his voice wavering with a touch of nervousness. It was rather endearing, seeing him so adorably flustered. "Perhaps the person you're looking for is right in front of you. Figuratively, at that."

A rather charmed expression formed on your face. Eyes brightening, lips pursing upwards, "Are you asking me out?"

"I'm trying." He confessed, his boyish expression just as light as yours. "So, tell me. How am I doing?"

"How about this," You spoke slowly, attempting to suppress the butterflies in your own stomach, hoping to maintain some composure within your answer. "Your next available night after your movie marathon with Jack, I'm completely and all yours."

All yours. He could get used to that.

"It's a date."

Love, love, love 🤍

hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause. 

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably. 

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 

Oh. He was fucking with you. 

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you. 

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 

Something resembling jealousy. 

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

You swallow and try to act like yourself. 

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown. 

She makes a good point. 

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny. 

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are. 

What about cutie first season Spencer Reid who is desperately in love with his coworker and is kinda blind sided when Lila kisses him🥺 He wants to make it really clear that the kiss was one sided but his soon to be girlfriend is jealous jealous🩷

jealous — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader being jealous , mention of lila ( obviously ) a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this :)

When you read in books the phrase “jealousy boiled in her veins,” you never quite understood it. Sure, you’d felt jealousy before, in fleeting moments of insecurity or longing.

But boiling jealousy? That had always seemed like an exaggeration. 

Not until four days ago. 

Though, boiling wasn’t the right word for it. No, what you felt then was explosive jealousy.

A kind of heat so intense it made your skin prickle, your throat tighten, your hands curl into fists at your sides. It was the kind of jealousy that made your stomach churn and your heart pound with something dangerously close to heartbreak. 

Because four days ago, you saw them. 

Spencer and Lila. In the pool. 

The images were burned into your memory, tattooed on the inside of your eyelids like a cruel joke. Every time you closed your eyes, there they were—her arms wrapped around his neck and their faces too close.

You had barely slept since. 

And work? Work was even worse. 

Two days ago, when you walked into the BAU for the first time since that dreadful moment, you told yourself you’d be fine. You could be professional. You could pretend it didn’t bother you. 

But you couldn’t even look at Spencer. 

Every time he stepped near you, all you could see was her in his arms. Every time he spoke, all you could hear was the laughter they shared in that damn pool. You forced yourself to act normal, to keep your voice steady and your posture composed.

But it was so, so hard. 

Elle had noticed. She kept shooting you those pointed glances, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Are you okay? 

Of course you weren’t. 

How could you be when you had been crushing on Spencer for so long, you could barely remember a time when you hadn’t been? How could you be okay when the sight of him with someone else had nearly shattered you? 

Spencer noticed too. Of course he did. 

He wasn’t oblivious—not when it came to you. He saw the way you avoided his gaze, the way your once warm smiles had faded into stiff nods and clipped responses. He saw the way your shoulders tensed when he entered the room, how you kept your distance like even standing next to him was unbearable. 

And it was unbearable. 

He wanted to talk to you, to explain. 

To tell you that what happened was one-sided. That he hadn’t meant for it to happen. That he hadn’t wanted it to happen. That it had been unexpected and overwhelming and, ultimately, meaningless. 

That he was in love with you, not Lila. 

But how could he say that when you wouldn’t even look at him? When every time he tried to get close, you turned away? When the words on the tip of his tongue kept dying in the silence you forced between you? 

Today, when you walked into the bullpen, the first thing you noticed was Derek. He was leaning against Spencer’s desk, a smirk playing on his lips as he held a paper in his hand.

The moment he saw you, he straightened, casually tossing the paper into the trash, his expression softening as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greeted smoothly. 

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a small, tired smile. 

You already knew what he had been holding. The pictures. The ones of Spencer and Lila in the pool. The same ones Derek had undoubtedly been using to tease Spencer with before you arrived. You also knew why Derek immediately threw the magazine away.

Because Derek, just like the rest of the team, knew exactly how you felt about Spencer. 

And how Spencer felt about you. 

Everyone with eyes and ears could tell. The way you gravitated toward each other, how you always seemed to seek each other out, how Spencer’s face lit up when you laughed. It wasn’t just friendship. It had never been just friendship. 

Spencer glanced up from his desk as you passed by, flashing you a hesitant, almost hopeful smile. 

You only nodded, forcing yourself to keep walking. 

You settled into your chair, taking a slow breath as you forced your hands to stay busy, flipping through the files on your desk. You could feel Spencer’s gaze lingering on you, like he was trying to gather the courage to say something. 

Spencer missed you. 

He missed the conversations, the inside jokes, the way you used to nudge his shoulder whenever you walked by. He missed the way your voice softened when you said his name, the way you actually listened to his rambles instead of tuning them out like most people did. 

And he wanted—needed—to explain. 

But every time he opened his mouth to speak, the words tangled in his throat. Because what if he ruined everything? What if trying to explain just made things worse? 

He had been so close before all of this happened.

Just a few days ago, he had been sitting right here, talking to Elle, asking for advice on how to ask you out. He had been nervous, but excited. He had a plan, one he had been going over in his head a hundred times—something simple, something meaningful. He just wanted you to know how much you meant to him. 

But then Lila happened. 

And now, instead of planning a date, he was trying to figure out how to make you look at him again. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

Spencer stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with a quiet scrape against the floor. He hesitated for only a second before crossing the room, stopping just beside your desk. 

“Can we talk?” His voice was quieter than usual. 

You didn’t look up right away, your fingers tightening around the file in front of you. A moment passed before you finally let out a slow sigh and nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Spencer felt his heart stutter in relief. 

The two of you walked to the breakroom in silence. 

Spencer closed the door behind him, the soft click sounding much louder in the quiet space. He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. 

“I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply. Then exhaled. Then hesitated again. 

You leaned against the coffee counter, arms crossed, waiting. Your heart pounded a little too fast in your chest. You felt awkward—just a tiny bit. Because Spencer wanting to talk to you meant he had noticed your behavior. Not that you had been subtle about it. 

But it also meant he had noticed your jealousy. 

And that was almost worse. 

Finally, Spencer spoke, his voice quiet, careful. Earnest. 

“I miss you.” 

Your head snapped up and you just stared at him, wide-eyed. 

You didn't expect him to be so direct.

Spencer was blushing, a deep red creeping up his neck, dusting the tips of his ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear, like saying those three words had been the most terrifying thing he had ever done—which, knowing him, it very well might have been. 

But the way he was looking at you, like he was afraid he had already lost you, made something twist painfully in your chest. 

“I—” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “You… what?” 

Spencer gave a small, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I miss you,” he repeated, voice softer this time. “And I—I know you’re upset. I know why. And I just… I need you to know that what happened with Lila, it—it wasn’t what it looked like.” 

You pressed your lips together, your fingers gripping the counter behind you. “It looked like you were kissing her,” you muttered, unable to stop the sharp edge in your voice. 

Spencer winced. “She kissed me,” he corrected quickly. “I—I didn’t expect it, and I definitely didn’t want it. I pulled away as soon as I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It wasn’t what I wanted.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. He was shifting anxiously, his hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he could. His brows were drawn together, his lips pressed into a tight line, like he was bracing himself for you to tell him you didn’t care. 

But you did care. That was the problem, wasn’t it? 

You looked down, inhaling deeply before meeting his gaze again. “Then… what do you want, Spencer?” 

His breath hitched. 

For a moment, he said nothing, just looking at you like he was memorizing every detail of your face, like he needed to get this right. Then, finally, he took a small step forward, eyes locked onto yours. 

“You,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped. 

And then it started again, thundering against your ribs, because Spencer Reid had just admitted—out loud—that he wanted you. 

The jealousy that had been burning inside you for days was suddenly replaced by something else entirely. 

Hope. 

“I—what?” Your ability to form sentences had seemingly vanished. Your mouth hung slightly open as you stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Spencer, for his part, was barely looking at you. His eyes flickered to yours for a second before darting back to the coffee pot behind you, like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Me?” you finally managed to say. That was it. That was all your brain could come up with. Me? 

Spencer nodded, still not quite meeting your gaze. 

Silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words.

Then, finally, he spoke again. 

“I was—I was trying to figure out how to ask you out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “I was talking to Elle about it, actually. Trying to…to make a plan.” His hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “And then Lila—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Everything just got messed up.” 

“Really?” you asked, your lips curving into the smallest hint of a smile. 

Spencer finally looked at you again, his expression both relieved and vulnerable all at once. “Yeah,” he breathed out. 

The heaviness in your chest eased, just a little. 

You took a slow step toward him, close enough that you could see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was stopping himself from reaching for you. 

“So…” You tilted your head, your voice softer now. “How were you going to ask me?” 

Spencer let out a short, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I had a whole thing planned. Something about books and coffee and, um, statistics on first-date success rates…” He trailed off, his face burning. “It was probably a bad plan.” 

You bit your lip, your smile growing. “I don’t know,” you mused, your heart pounding. “I think I would’ve liked it.” 

Spencer blinked at you, hope flickering across his face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was warm.

You took another step forward, and this time, Spencer didn’t move away. He was still nervous, still hesitant, but he didn’t look away when you reached out and brushed your fingers against his. 

“I still would,” you said quietly. 

Spencer swallowed, his fingers twitching against yours before he finally, finally curled them around your hand. His grip was unsure at first—like he was waiting for you to change your mind—but when you didn’t pull away, his shoulders relaxed. 

“Then,” he said, his lips curving ever so slightly, “would you maybe want to—” 

“Yes,” you interrupted, grinning now. 

Spencer smiled, a real, relieved smile, and you felt something settle in your chest—something that had been in turmoil for days. 

omgg could i request bubbly reader whos always smiling and giggling but one day an officer (or whoever) says shes being unprofessional and too much and it makes her so so sad so she tones it down and spencer is so upset seeing her like this bc shes the light of his life

-🦨

light — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: sunshine!reader feels insecure abt herself, mention of officer saying she's being unprofessional a/n: hii 🦨 !! hope this is what you asked for <3

"Morning." Your voice was quieter than usual, your smile smaller—just a polite curve of your lips rather than the bright, beaming grin the team was used to. You walked into the conference room, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you took your usual seat.

Morgan and Emily immediately exchanged a glance.

Normally, your entrance was impossible to miss—an enthusiastic, cheerful “Good morning!” ringing through the air, maybe even a playful comment about someone’s coffee choice or how exhausted everyone looked.

“Morning, sunshine.” Morgan’s voice was gentler than usual. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, forcing another smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Thanks, Derek.” The words felt rehearsed, like a line you had practiced just to avoid further questions. You glanced up at him for only a second before lowering your gaze to the table.

Emily’s frown deepened as she studied you, before cutting her eyes to Morgan again. Neither of them were buying it.

The door opened, and Spencer walked in, carrying two coffees.

He placed one in front of you like he always did—a silent little tradition between the two of you. Normally, this would earn him that smile, the one that made his heart stutter in his chest. The one that felt like warmth on the coldest days.

You would’ve reached for his hand—his hand, the one no one else was allowed to touch—and squeezed it, your fingers lingering just a little too long, just like they always did.

But today?

“Thanks,” you mumbled, barely looking up. You wrapped your hands around the cup, but nothing more. No smile. No touch.

Spencer’s spine went rigid. His fingers twitched at his sides as he stood there, processing, waiting—hoping—for a second longer than necessary. When nothing else came, he hesitated before reluctantly taking his own seat.

Emily and Morgan’s eyes were already on him when he looked up, their silent concern mirroring his own. He swallowed hard.

Something was wrong.

But it just got worse from there.

When Garcia called, her voice bubbled through the speakerphone, laced with her usual flair. "Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite team of crime-fighting superheroes! Tell me, my loves, who needs saving today?"

Usually, you’d fire something right back—some exaggerated response about how she was the real superhero or how you were tragically in need of her brilliance. Instead, silence stretched for a beat too long before Rossi finally spoke up, filling the gap where your usual laughter should have been.

At that moment, even Hotch—who rarely indulged in team gossip—glanced at you, his gaze lingering longer than usual. A whole five seconds in Hotchner time. That was basically a siren blaring that something was wrong.

Your usual energy, the lightness that kept them all going, was gone. Every word you spoke was muted, every sentence clipped.

You kept your gaze trained on files, your hands fidgeting with the corner of the page, and when someone addressed you, your responses were polite but distant.

Spencer watched you more than he paid attention to the case briefing.

His mind ran through every possibility, every variable that could explain this drastic shift. Were you sick? Had something happened? Had someone said something?

His stomach twisted at the thought.

Spencer caught up to you just as you reached your hotel room that night. You glanced at him, surprised. The cool metal of your keycard was still in your hand when he spoke.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice was careful and concerned.

You hesitated.

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this was about. The stolen glances from the team, the way Spencer had been watching you all day. It was obvious. You could still avoid the conversation if you wanted to. You could brush it off, say you were tired, say you had work to do.

But a part of you knew you couldn’t do that. Not to him.

So you sighed, slipping the keycard into the slot and pushing open the door. “Yeah. Sure.”

Spencer followed you in, shutting the door behind him as you plopped down on the bed. You leaned back on your hands, crossing your legs, trying to look nonchalant—trying to make this feel like nothing.

“So,” you said, offering a weak smile, “what did you want to talk about?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He just stood there for a moment, watching you, hands fidgeting at his sides.

A beat of silence.

“You.” The word landed between you like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Spencer took a step closer, his voice dropping. “You haven’t smiled all day. You didn’t laugh at Garcia’s joke. You didn’t even—” He cut himself off, fingers flexing at his sides. “You didn’t squeeze my hand.”

The admission hung in the air, fragile and aching.

Your stomach twisted. He noticed. Of course he noticed. You looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“That's a lie.”

Your head snapped up. Spencer was rarely so direct.

“You think I don’t know you?” he said, voice cracking. “You think I wouldn’t notice when the best part of my day just—just disappears?”

The honesty in his words punched through you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Because what could you say? That some stranger’s offhand comment had unraveled you? That you’d spent the entire day replaying his words in your head like a broken record?

Unprofessional. Too much. Annoying.

Spencer took another step forward, his voice softening. “Talk to me. Please.”

Your throat tightened as you stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs.

Spencer Reid—your Spencer—was looking at you like you’d just ripped the stars from his sky.

You swallowed hard, forcing out a breath that barely made it past the knot in your chest. “It’s stupid,” you whispered.

Spencer shook his head immediately. “It’s not.”

You let out a hollow laugh, rubbing your palms over your thighs. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

His voice softened even more, barely above a breath. “And I still know it’s not stupid.”

That did it. The dam cracked, then crumbled, then completely shattered.

“Someone—someone said I was too much.” You exhaled shakily, finally putting the ugly truth into the open. “That I was being unprofessional—that I need to tone it down because I laugh too much, because I smile too much, because I don’t act like—” Your voice wavered, and you clenched your fists against the overwhelming sting in your eyes. “Like I belong here.”

Spencer inhaled sharply. You finally met his gaze and all you saw as fury. Not at you, never at you—but at the words that had managed to dull your light.

He took another step closer. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if you’d let him.

“Who?” His voice was controlled, but barely.

You shook your head quickly. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me.”

God. Why did he have to care so much? Why did he have to look at you like that—like you were something precious, something irreplaceable, something he wasn’t willing to lose to someone else’s careless words?

You chewed on your bottom lip, shaking your head again. “It’s not like he was wrong, Spence.” You forced a smile, but even you could feel how empty it was. “I am a lot. And maybe I do need to—”

“Don’t.” The word was firm. Gentle, but unyielding.

Spencer exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself. “You are not too much,” he said, each syllable deliberate. “And whoever made you think that doesn’t understand what this team—what I—would be without you.”

Your breath hitched, tears threatening to spill over.

“You make things better.” His voice cracked, and it nearly shattered you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to see you walk into a room and not light it up?” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It—it hurts.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. You swiped at it quickly, but Spencer had already seen.

And that was when he finally moved.

Slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand. His fingers, warm and steady, curled around yours—just like they always did. The same comforting touch you’d given him a hundred times before.

Except this time, he was the one holding you together.

“Please don’t dim yourself because of someone who doesn’t understand how lucky they are to know you,” he murmured.

Your heart clenched. Your lip quivered.

Spencer slowly let go of your hand, his warmth lingering even as his fingers slipped away. He didn’t move far, though. Instead, he lowered himself in front of you.

His hand hesitated just inches from your face, his breath uneven. “Can I?” he asked softly, his fingertips ghosting near your cheek.

You swallowed hard and gave the smallest nod.

Spencer wiped away the tear with a touch so gentle it made your chest ache. But his hand didn’t drop. It hovered there, close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His thumb traced just beneath your eye, barely skimming your skin, as if he could erase not just the tear but the weight of everything that had led to it.

His voice, when it came, was a whisper—rough around the edges.

“Whoever said that to you… they don’t know you. Not the way I do.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking at him.

“They don’t know the way your laugh makes even the worst days bearable.” His thumb barely moved, brushing against your cheekbone. “They don’t know how your energy—your light—makes all of us better. How it makes me better.”

A fresh tear slipped free. Spencer caught it before it could fall.

His other hand lifted then, resting gently on your knee. Another silent plea for you to believe him.

“I don’t want you to change.” His voice cracked.

You bit your lip, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it was useless. His words—his kindness—were unraveling you.

Spencer inhaled sharply, like he was gathering courage, and then—so quietly you almost didn’t hear it—

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your breath hitched. A teary-eyed smile broke across your face before you could stop it. And then—without thinking, without hesitating—you threw yourself into his arms.

Spencer barely had time to brace himself, but to your luck, he held firm, his balance steady despite the force of your embrace. His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you close.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into the crook of his neck, your voice muffled.

Spencer let out a breath. His hand moved in slow, soothing strokes along your back.

When you finally pulled back, you sniffled, brushing away the last few stray tears that had slipped down your cheeks. Spencer watched you, his expression impossibly soft, his own smile small but so incredibly fond.

You inhaled deeply, gathering yourself before flashing him a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow—back to being the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Spencer’s ears went bright red. He opened his mouth—whether to protest or agree, you weren’t sure—but all that came out was a flustered little laugh as he ducked his head.

The next morning, Spencer was already waiting for you when you stepped into the conference room.

Two coffees sat on the table—one in front of his usual seat, the other carefully placed at yours.

You bit back a smile.

Spencer was flipping through a case file, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

“Good morning, everyone!” you greeted, voice bright and chipper, just like always.

Morgan and Emily—who had clearly been watching you like hawks since yesterday—immediately exchanged a look before turning back to you.

“There she is,” Morgan grinned, arms crossing over his chest. “I was starting to think we’d lost our sunshine.”

You smirked. “Please. You could never get rid of me that easily.”

Garcia gasped dramatically through the speakerphone. “Oh, thank God! Do you know how hard it is being the only source of light in a room full of broody FBI agents? I almost cracked under the pressure.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the team, but you weren’t really paying attention.

Because across the table, Spencer was staring at you.

Not in the way he had yesterday, all worried and desperate to fix something he didn’t understand—but in the way he always did.

With quiet awe. With warmth. With something so soft it made your heart ache.

You sank into your chair, reaching for the coffee he’d placed in front of you. The cup was still warm, and when you took a sip, it was exactly the way you liked it.

You glanced at Spencer, eyes twinkling. When you reached under the table to squeeze his hand—just like you always did—Spencer let you.

And just like that, the warmth returned. And Spencer knew, without a doubt, he would do anything to keep it shining.

I love him 🤍🤍

summary — spencer goes easy on you in a game of chess

pairings — s1!spence x shybaufem!reader

a/n — part 2 of this also requested so thank u! also when they talk they sound so nerdy so just smile and nod

The gentle hum of the jet engines had become a familiar soundtrack to these impromptu moments with Spencer. This time, the battlefield was a chessboard, the pieces miniature soldiers poised for strategic combat on the small pull-down table.

"Your move," Spencer said softly, his gaze steady across the board.

You considered your options, a nervous flutter in your stomach mixing with a spark of anticipation. He had a remarkable ability to make you feel both challenged and completely at ease, though the former often made your cheeks flush. You moved your knight, a calculated risk, your gaze flicking up to meet his shyly before quickly returning to the board.

Spencer’s eyes flickered over the board, a thoughtful pause before he responded. His move was swift and precise, countering your advance while subtly positioning his own pieces. You couldn’t help but notice that he seemed less intensely focused than usual. Almost indulgent.

"Interesting," you murmured, studying the new configuration. "Are you perhaps taking pity on my distinct lack of chess prowess, Dr. Reid?" The question was soft, laced with a hint of self-deprecation.

A faint smile touched the corners of his lips. "Pity? My analysis indicates that you possess a developing strategic mind. Though perhaps lacking in aggressive tendencies."

"Aggressive?" you echoed quietly, fiddling with the base of your queen. "I prefer a more cautious approach. Less confrontational."

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that made you jump slightly. "A pacifist on the chessboard. A novel approach." His eyes flickered up to meet yours, a hint of amusement in their depths. "Though sometimes, a well-timed offensive can be surprisingly effective."

"Perhaps," you conceded, a small, shy smile gracing your lips. "But I find a well-defended position rather comforting." You moved your rook, a safe, predictable move.

"Comforting, perhaps," Spencer replied, making his next move. "But comfort rarely leads to victory."

"Maybe not victory in the traditional sense," you countered softly, your gaze lingering on his thoughtful expression. "But perhaps a quiet draw has its own merits."

"A draw," Spencer echoed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "An interesting proposition. Though I confess, I find the pursuit of a decisive outcome rather compelling."

"I can imagine you do," you murmured, your cheeks warming slightly. "You do seem to have a… decisive nature."

"I believe in efficiency," he corrected gently. "And in identifying the optimal solution."

"Even if the optimal solution involves letting me one across the board almost capture your knight?" you teased softly, your gaze finally meeting his with a touch more confidence.

A genuine smile now touched Spencer's lips. "Sometimes," he said, his voice softer than usual, "the optimal solution involves a more nuanced approach."

@sleepysongbirdsings @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @khxna @raysmayhem-72