You Feel Like Home

Perfection.

me & you together song.

❛ i’ve been in love with her for ages, and i can’t seem to get it right. ❜

spencer reid x reader.

summary: you’ve always assumed spencer reid’s love language was acts of service. flowers left at your desk. notes written only to you. every tuesday, he gave you your favorite bagel from downtown. you knew he was like this with the rest of the team, too. you didn’t sweat it. you were focused on your job, and your job only. but when multiple instances occur over the course of a case, it’s hard to ignore both of your feelings for each other.

tags: grumpy fem!character x sunshine!spencer reid, friends to lovers, everyone knows but them, the bau literally bets when they’ll get together, no use of y/n, afab character, found family if you squint hard enough, spencer’s obsessed with her but won’t admit it to the public (the public is morgan), based on me & you together song by the 1975 btw, i wrote this while eating a doritos loco taco

word count: 2k

notes: i asked my best friends to give me a character and a trope. happy first post!

When you first landed the job as an agent at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, you first told yourself not to get too attached. This was a job, after all. A career. A high risk one, that could end in fatalities and wounds that might never heal, cuts that will always bleed for the rest of eternity. Once you made it clear to yourself that you were to be civil with your coworkers —close enough to be friendly, but not enough to go out for drinks on Saturday nights— and most important of all, do your job, and do it damn well, you poured yourself a glass of wine and watched the rest of the season of the sitcom you’ve been meaning to finish.

However, with all of the ups and downs your job gave you, it could not have allowed for you to expect the boisterous chaos that were your coworkers. They welcomed you in not only with open arms, but open minds. They respected your boundaries, your ideas, everything about you. Your attempt at remaining just civil became useless after months, but looking back, how could you have tried any longer? Penelope gave you a big kiss on the cheek every week, exclaiming that she loved your outfits and needed to go shopping with you right that minute. Morgan ruffled your hair whenever he brought you coffee (despite your incessant dismay that now you needed to brush it again). Hotch, though not a fan of public displays, would murmur a reassuring, you’re doing well every time he returned a file back to you. And then there was Reid.

Spencer Reid.

Well, what was there to say about him?

Over time, you’ve assumed that his love language must be acts of service. He brought you a bagel every week, sometimes more, from your favorite bagel shop downtown. Every Tuesday, a poppy seed bagel with extra plain cream cheese, extra toasted, cut in half so you could eat the middle dollop of cream cheese first. He made you mugs of tea whenever it grew past five pm because you told him that you had trouble falling asleep once months ago. Sometimes, small bouquets of wild grown flowers were left on your desk. At first, you thought it was Penelope being extra kind to you, or even Morgan playing a small joke on you. Both denied, but still giggled as you walked away. Whatever that meant. Behind your back, they secretly slipped each other five dollar bills.

You were sure he did the same for the rest of his coworkers, too. You’ve seen him refill coffee pots whenever Emily mentioned starting a new brew, and work extra hard on his reports in his free time to make sure Hotch or JJ didn’t stay too late. You were on the same page, anyway. Friends. Civil. It didn’t matter.

You huffed as you walked into the BAU, which was deemed more of a half jog, half marathon sprint. You hadn’t bothered to check the weather before leaving, and on the walk from the subway station to the office, it had started downpouring. The sudden drops of cold from the sky had caused you to drop your half empty cup of coffee, and you had forgotten to grab the breakfast you made yourself the night before in the fridge. Not even Harry Styles’ album blaring in your ears could have stopped you from turning the morning around. You grumbled simple good morning’s to everyone as you shook off your coat. Expecting to see your desk surrounded with papers that you were too tired to file in their intended drawers yesterday, you instead found a clean one; the papers were stashed in their designated places (in alphabetical order), the pens were compiled in the pouch you bought at Daiso years ago and cherished, even the trash under your desk was taken out. The only thing left to be seen on the wooden desk was a small brown bag that smelled of heaven and happiness and a folded piece of paper. You reached inside to find your usual poppy seed bagel the same as it always was. To make your Tuesday better. For you, always, the note read. You didn’t need to decipher whose scribbles those belonged to. You forgot it was Tuesday.

“Where’s my bagel, lover boy?” Morgan’s voice boomed as the man sat on top of your desk, snatching the bag with a grin. Spencer only swiftly passed by the desk with ease, choosing to make eye contact with the carpet.

“Good morning, Dr. Reid. Happy Tuesday.” Spencer’s eyes divert to yours quickly. He only nods, responding with the same greeting. Happy Tuesday, honey.

Morgan’s laugh carried throughout the room, swinging his legs as he spoke. “You two make me sick, that’s for sure. Can I have some of your bagel?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You furrowed your brow in annoyance, which only made Morgan smile widely.

“Do you need to get your glasses checked again? You know, there’s an optometrist across the street—”

As you started to speak, Hotch walked from his office, announcing a new case and to meet in the room immediately. You got up swiftly, grabbing your bagel from Morgan’s hands with a muttered asshole falling from your lips. It only made Morgan cackle loudly. You remind yourself to write a psych evaluation on Morgan after the case is over with.

On the first day of the case, you realized it was going to be a more difficult one than usual. You didn’t panic. You never do. The second day, you worked harder than ever only to see little to no result. You continued not to sleep. It was like clockwork. Work, coffee, repeat. After three days, the case was far from settled. In fact, it seemed to only be getting worse with no ending in sight. Everyone was continuing to work in hopes that they would be home for the weekend. The fourth day, though, seemed to be the worst. The killer was getting more spontaneous with their kills, and the team seemed to keep showing up minutes after the kill had occurred. You were running on little to no sleep and were getting more frustrated with each move the killer made in silence. Near the end of the day, as you stared aimlessly at the wall in front of you, hoping it would make some sort of answer appear in front of your eyes, Hotch put a hand on your shoulder, You jumped slightly, trance be gone, when he told you to get back to the hotel immediately.

Immediately, you persisted. “I’m fine. I’ve almost got something. I’m sure of something.”

“I’m not asking you.”

“Hotch—”

“I’m ordering you, not only as your boss, but mostly as your friend. Your dark circles are getting concerning.” You tried to budge once more, but as Hotch gave one of his stern glares, you knew you were done with work for the day. “I’ll get someone to drive you back. Wait here.”

Within seconds, Spencer appeared, replacing the previous figure of Hotch. Gently tapping your shoulder, he signaled for you to get up. With a flick of a wrist and a soft grin, he spun around a set of keys around his fingers. “Hotch is letting me drive.”

You smiled. “Don’t want Morgan to ‘vibe it?’”

“His definition of ‘vibing it’ is just turning on the sirens when he doesn’t want to stop at a red light.” You walked side by side to the car. Your shoulders brushed ever so slightly due to Spencer’s hands in his pockets, but you didn’t mind. You welcomed the warmth.

“Your definition is turning the volume up to 13 and calling it loud.”

“I would like to be able to hear when I’m old, thank you very much. Any decibel over eighty and poof. Hearing. Out the window.”

“I really don’t think playing Queen at any volume above 13 will kill you, Spence.”

“You never know, honey.” Spencer opened the door for you, ushering you in before closing the door and getting in on the driver’s side. He pulled a cassette tape from his bag and pushed it in the radio; it started to softly play Queen while Spencer messed with the volume, setting it at 13 before driving away. It made a soft smile appear on your lips as your head leaned against the cool glass. Between the constant, soothing movement of the car or the way Spencer’s lips mouthed the lyrics of Good Old Fashioned Boy, it was hard to tell when the lines blurred and sleep drifted you away. The only thing you recognized before falling asleep were the unmistakable words that left Spencer’s mouth.

“Good night, honey. Love you.”

You woke up with a start the next morning. You had no idea how you got back into your hotel room, or how you were wearing your favorite sports shirt that you find comfort in sleeping in all of these years, though your mind directed each question back to the same person, of course. Your mind wandered to the night before; it was the most relaxed you had been all week, even if it was just the simple act of driving with Spencer. You had done it before in past cases —even driven him back to his hotel at times— but this time felt different. Maybe it was the words that left his mouth.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” Spencer suddenly walked in, holding bags in his arms. He set them down on the table, pulling out various assortments of breakfast foods and handing them to you. “No bagel shops around here, but I did find some good pancakes if you want to eat now.”

“Spence.” You suddenly sat up straight, as if a revelation hit you.

“What? No pancakes? It came with hashbrowns, too.”

“Spencer.” You emphasized, getting him to look at you.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you do all of this for me?”

“What?” His head cocked to the side, not understanding.

“Why do you… I mean… you go out of your way to do things for me. Unnecessary things. I need to know why.”

“Unnecessary…?”

“You… you leave me flowers that are like, hand picked from a garden or the forest, or something not from the city. You clean my desk for me when I’ve left it too messy. You make me my favorite tea when I’m at the office too late. You write me notes that are alluding but you won’t say what. I mean, Spence, you get me my favorite bagel every Tuesday. Why?”

His face suddenly turned serious as he sat next to you on the bed. “You want to know why?” He repeated.

“I know you do these things for the rest of our team, but I just, I just don’t get it.”

“Because I’m in love with you.” Spencer stared at you. “I’ve been in love with you. I think I’ll always be at least a little in love with you, if I’m being honest. I thought you’d catch on by now.”

“…What?”

“Yeah, honey. I thought I was pretty obvious.”

“So you meant what you said last night, then?” You said softly.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Really. I would’ve said it better if I had known you were awake.”

“But I did.” Your face grew closer to his. “And I’m not upset about it. Because I’m in love with you, too.”

Just as your lips began to brush, Spencer began to smile. “You know what day it is, honey? It’s our day.”

You smiled, too. “Happy Tuesday.”

You both tried to be subtle about it for the rest of the case. Weeks had passed by without the team knowing, but one slip up of a kiss on the cheek from Spencer on a Tuesday morning had led to an entire office full of chaos (and a meeting on workplace romance and consent from Hotch). You two didn’t mind, though. It was bound to happen. Until Penelope turned to Morgan and yelled at him to cough up the fifty dollars he owed her, of course.

Happy Tuesday.

I love this with all my heart

A Bit of Lunch and Thievery - Spencer Reid

REQUESTED!

The Request: HI! I have a request: What if, kleptomaniac!reader has lunch with spencer at the BAU and keeps yapping loudly about her interests (or her job) and she keeps like taking things from his desk and he keeps slapping her hand away (perchance cameo of some amused BAU members?) -anonymous

CW: light swearing, a suggestive comment, klepto!reader, technically part of my "Smooth Criminal" series but each part can be read as standalone

AN: sorry I was gone for so long lmao lacrosse, school, and depression is rough. also does anyone else struggle writing fics when they're down bad for someone? anywayyyy-

_______

Words: 1.3k

It was a normal day at the BAU office. 

Well, obviously not a normal day considering they were even at the office and not on a jet across the country. The BAU was having a mysteriously mundane day full of filling out and organizing paperwork, so normal and boring that it was almost odd to them.

Of course, the peace had to end eventually. 

Spencer Reid’s phone rang, and he was fishing it out of his pocket immediately. The ringtone for this contact was different from the default ringtone that came with the device, different from the ringtone literally every other contact had. She had took the time to download the ringtone herself, stating he should always know when she was calling him because she was oh-so important.

Well, to him, she was. 

“Hello?” he said simply, leaning back in his chair. He could see Prentiss seated at her desk, JJ standing over her with a coffee complaining about some over-the-top thing her son, Henry, had done the night prior. 

“Hey, babe!” his girlfriend, Y/N, chirped on the other line. She was always so chipper, always so energetic. He was not. 

“You know I’m at work, right?” he deadpanned, though the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly. He could never be stone-faced when talking to her. 

She was used to his dry tone, not acknowledging it, “Why, yes, I do. Now let me in, I brought you lunch,”

Instantly, his eyes brightened, “Wait, you’re outside right now?”

“Mhm. Now let me in before the food gets cold.” 

Within the next six minutes and seventeen seconds, Spencer was back at his desk, but this time, with his lovely girlfriend seated next to him. He quietly ate the Spanish food she had bought as she spoke about her day. It was only 1 p.m., and he was sure she woke up extremely late, but, not to his surprise, she had a lot to say. A lot to say, despite the fact her day consisted of waking up and driving to get Spanish food and visiting him. 

“...yeah, I think we should get a dog,” Y/N said after explaining her run-in with a woman and her large doberman. Being herself, upon seeing the doberman running dead at her, instead of running away, Y/N had opened up her arms excitedly to hug the beast. 

She was lucky it was a nice doberman. 

“A dog?” Spencer’s brows furrowed as he contemplated the idea, “I don’t know…” 

“Well why not?” she pouted, and, not to his surprise, snatched the stapler from his desk. 

“Because I’m barely home,” he replied, gripping her wrist (a reflex at this point), other hand plucking the stapler from her and placing it back where it was before. “You’d be the one taking care of it the most, and that’s not fair.”

“Hmph,” her eyes darted to the stapler again then back to her rice, “I wouldn’t mind,”

Her hand reached for the stapler again and he gently slapped it, not even acknowledging it. See, his beautiful, wonderful girlfriend had her issues. Main issue being her diagnosed kleptomania, a condition that gave her uncontrollable urges to steal objects, no matter how useless and unneeded. 

Like the stapler which she kept eyeing. 

Upon his team finding out about her and her condition, they were all incredibly iffy on her, except Garcia, who was the one who uncovered everything anyway. One by one, Y/N was able to get the approval of each teammate, even Rossi, who had disliked her the most. 

He still didn’t trust her very much, but the rest of the team found her antics quite amusing. 

“Yes you would,” he told her, taking a sip of his drink, “You’d be fine with it for the first month or so, but then you would start getting annoyed with me and telling me I should be helping you take care of our son or daughter or whatever you would like to call it,”

Y/N paused, knowing he was 100% correct. Especially about the son or daughter part. “I think I’m more of a boy mom,” 

“Ignoring the point, I see,”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. 

“Hey, Reid, good afternoon Reid’s girl,” Morgan greeted with his usual smirk, a decent-sized stack of papers in hand, “Food looks good,”

“It is,” Spencer confirmed. Morgan plopped the papers down onto the genius’ desk. “Did you know there are over one hundred, twenty thousand varieties of rice- Y/N,” he slapped a hand down onto the stack of papers as Y/N went to snatch it up. “No,” 

“Sorry,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“You are way too fun and entertaining to want to read those,” Morgan joked before deciding to leave back to his own desk. 

“Yeah…” she muttered, bringing her hand up to bite her thumb nail nervously, “Way too fun and enter….” she trailed off, Spencer picking up his pen in time before she could snag it. “Shit,” she placed her hands onto her lap, “Maybe I should go…”

“No no no,” Spencer took her hands into his own like he always did when she was getting her urges, “I’m happy you visited me. Stay a little longer,”

“I am a kleptomaniac in a federal building, this was a bad idea,” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, that’s what I’m here for,” he gave her hands a gentle squeeze, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll make sure you don’t leave with anything,”

“A klepto dating a federal agent is so ironic,” she chuckled humorlessly, “How do you deal with me?”

“I don’t deal with you, I don’t tolerate you,” he replied, “Because you’re my girlfriend and I love you. I’m simply with you, because of the fact I love you,” 

“Don’t talk to me like that, I’ll fuck you,” she huffed, pulling her hands away while blushing red. 

“You did not just say that at my place of work,” he gasped, now blushing as well. He swiftly looked around to see if any of his coworkers were listening. He was sure every single one of them were, considering how nosy they were when it came to his relationship.

“Your fault, don’t talk to me like that,”

“Don’t talk sweetly to my girlfriend?” 

“Makes me all blushy and giggly,” she shrugged, beginning to smile as she looked away. 

“I’ll talk to you like one of your directors, I suppose,” Spencer teased gently. Y/N was an incredibly strong dancer, and had her experiences with rude and stress-inducing directors. 

She rolled her eyes and laughed, “I’ll kill myself,” Her eyes met his and she giggled softly, leaning in for a quick kiss, which he returned happily. 

“They’re so cute,” JJ told Prentiss fondly, taking a sip of her coffee, “They’re really good for each other,”

“They are,” Prentiss agreed with a nod and smile, “They’re the kind of people who you would least expect get together, but it just makes sense when they do,” 

At that moment, Hotch entered, a stressed look on his face. JJ and Prentiss exchanged looks, already thinking it was time to pack for a new case. 

Instead, he simply asked, “Has anyone seen my ID?”

Agent Aaron Hotchner? Losing his ID? Something so important, belonging to someone so aware and responsible? A completely out-of-character thing for him to do-

“Uh,” Y/N cleared her throat awkwardly, giving Spencer a knowing look. 

With a sigh, Spencer held out a hand, allowing her to drop Hotch’s ID into it.

OH MY GOD

So cuteee 🤍

helloo🫧🫧

omg i just got this idea! what about rafe getting jealous bc a little boy is flirting with kook!reader like he telling her shes really pretty and to be her gf, and rafe is laughing at first but when the little boy get more attention of reader than him he just 🤨 and he gets all protective bc of a LITTLE BOY. Idk i think is funny do whatever you feel comfortable <3333

hii!! this was sooo fun to write!!

𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉

you and rafe were spending the afternoon at the country club, lounging by the pool when a little boy—probably no older than six—wandered up to you with a determined look. rafe barely noticed at first, too busy scrolling through his phone, but when the kid cleared his throat and tugged on your chair, you looked down with a soft smile.

“you’re really pretty,” the boy announced, crossing his arms.

rafe glanced up, smirking. oh, this is gonna be funny.

“aw, thank you!” you beamed, playfully ruffling the kid’s hair.

the boy huffed, clearly on a mission. “you should be my girlfriend.”

rafe let out a laugh, shaking his head. “alright, kid, relax.”

but the boy ignored him completely, stepping closer to you. “i’ll take you on a date. we can get ice cream. my mom says girls like when boys buy them stuff.”

your heart melted at how serious he was, and you giggled, playing along. “that sounds like a sweet date!”

meanwhile, rafe was watching the exchange with his arms crossed, eyebrows furrowing. at first, he was entertained—but now? not so much. his jaw clenched when you leaned in, actually giving this tiny threat more attention than him.

“alright, buddy,” rafe cut in, voice sharp but amused. “think you should go find your mom now.”

the kid barely blinked. “no. i’m talking to my girlfriend.”

rafe’s smirk dropped. “your what now?”

“you heard me,” the little boy challenged, puffing his chest like he was really about to square up with a six-foot-something kook prince.

you tried to stifle your laughter, but rafe shot you a glare.

“listen, little man,” rafe said, leaning forward with an almost condescending smirk. “she’s mine. so, unless you can drive, pay for actual dates, and fight off anyone who looks at her wrong, i’d say you’re outta luck.”

the kid squinted at him. “my dad fights people all the time.”

rafe scoffed. “yeah? what’s he do?”

“he’s a lawyer.”

rafe sat back, exhaling sharply through his nose. “right. of course, he is.”

you lost it, full-on laughing now. “okay, okay,” you said, patting the little boy’s head. “you’re very sweet, but I think my boyfriend’s getting jealous.”

“i am not jealous,” rafe immediately shot back, crossing his arms tighter.

the little boy just shrugged, utterly unfazed. “i’ll come back when you break up.” and with that, he strutted away like he hadn’t just ruined rafe’s entire day.

you turned to rafe, still giggling, and poked his arm. “you so were jealous.”

“of a six-year-old?” rafe scoffed. “please.” but the way he pulled you into his lap, gripping your waist just a little tighter than usual? yeah. he was totally jealous.

MASTERLIST

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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.

Love love love 🤍

schrödinger’s relationship

spencer never needed to define what this was, until you did. now, the box is open, the outcome inevitable, and he has never been so happy to lose an argument.

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: situationship (ish? it gets resolved fast lol), mutual pining, friends to lovers (except they've been kissing for months), mention of heavy makeout, lap sitting, shirt removal, spencer kissing you to shut you the fuck up, cat does not survive the experiment (metaphorically speaking, there is no animal killing in this fic LOL) wc: 1.4k request: here

Your body is warm in his lap, your weight pressing down just enough to be distracting — no, disorienting — and Spencer is trying very hard not to look at your lips. Not just because they’re parted, slick, and kiss-swollen, but because the soft smudge of your lip gloss is evidence that this has been happening. That he’s been kissing you long enough to leave proof of it.

Mascara has clumped just slightly at the corners of your lashes and there’s a half-moon of pink polish chipped at the very edge of your thumbnail.

He’s obsessing over details. Your pupils are dilated, swallowing every fleck of color. He knows it’s a physiological response — dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin, all working in tandem to make you look like this, flushed and increasingly pretty on his thighs.

It’s easier to focus on biology than it is to focus on the fact that this moment exists in a state of suspended reality.

This was new. Not just in the way that everything between you had been new, in the way that months of small, careful steps had led to this, but in the way that Spencer had never felt like this. Overheated. Overwhelmed. Overrun with sensation. It had started as everything else had — soft and slow, the kind of kissing that didn’t lead anywhere except to more kissing. 

And for months, he convinced himself that he could exist in this purgatory of lips meeting and parting, of hands resting politely at your waist. That he could always pull away before the ground gave away beneath him.

Today the ground was gone.

Spencer had never been particularly drawn to categories — not in the way people seemed to crave them. Labels had always felt limiting, reductive, forcing the complexities of human relationships into neat little boxes that never quite fit. He had been content in ambiguity, had never needed something to be named in order to understand it. 

With you, the lack of label wasn’t liberating, it was frustrating. Because if this wasn’t something that could be named, then what was it?

“I’m just saying, I feel like if Rossi can write a whole book about a case, then I should at least be able to mention it in passing at brunch.” Your fingers skate absentmindedly across the dip of his throat, and Spencer, entranced, forgets to do something as basic as breathe. Oxygen is apparently optional. “But no, apparently that’s an inappropriate topic over eggs benedict. Which, okay, sure, but if I have to sit through another conversation about Carly’s fiance’s fantasy football league, I think I deserve to liven it up a little, you know?”

Your genuine need for an answer is clear, but Spencer can’t even remember what brunch is.

You gesture when you talk, and it’s so innocent — just emphasis, just a habit — but right now, it’s destroying him. Your fingers drag absently up his arm, over the soft material of his sweater, mapping the line of his forearm before skimming back up his neck. And then, like you don’t even realize you’re doing it, your palms smooth over his chest, fingertips tapping lightly against his collarbone like you’re idly counting his heartbeats. Spencer is painfully aware of every single one.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies. But he can’t decide what would kill him faster — how you touch him, or the moment you stop. 

Spencer manages to clear his throat — barely.

“I think your friends don’t appreciate you enough.” His voice sounds strained, but any attempt at analyzing tone evaporates the second his fingers breach the barrier of your shirt. 

Warm fingertips skim over bare skin, and suddenly, the conversation seems wildly misplaced. Because what was that about appreciation? If he’s trying to prove a point, he’s making it very convincingly.

You hum, shifting against him — not intentionally, probably, but it doesn’t matter, because he feels it all the same.

“Well, I can’t just hang out with you constantly.”

Spencer isn’t sure how to respond — because if he’s honest, that’s exactly what he wants. You, constantly. No breaks, no buffer. Just you.

Instead, he stares at your mouth again, because his brain is broken, and this is the inevitable destination. He never really understood the appeal of making out before you — before that first time, when he was supposed to just kiss you once and somehow ended up losing entire minutes of his life to your lips, to the sheer pleasure of pressing against you, of drinking in your sounds.

His broken brain is built to reinforce pleasure-seeking behaviors. Neurochemical feedback loops, all of it designed to keep him coming back. To keep him wanting. As if he needed the help.

Spencer doesn’t even pretend to think about it before saying, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Your lips twitch. You’re about to tease him, he can tell.

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” you say, tilting your head. “But wasn’t it you who went on that tangent about how platonic relationships significantly improve cognitive function?”

Spencer tries to find a loophole in that statement.

“And we,” you say, tracing a path down the trail of hair at his navel, “are not exactly fulfilling the platonic requirement.”

There was a time when he would have insisted — vehemently, even — that their relationship was strictly platonic. Fool’s errand.

“I mean, technically, if we wanted to be platonic, we could just… say we are.” That alone is egregiously incorrect. Spencer prepares to say as much, but then you pause, rolling the thought over like you’re actually considering it, before adding, “Like if we don’t label it, then it doesn’t count, right?”

His first instinct is to argue. His second instinct is to really argue. But neither one survives the sensory overload of you pressed against him.

“It’s like when you don’t open your credit card statements,” you continue, lips pursed. “Sure, the debt exists, but if you don’t acknowledge it, then it doesn’t feel real. So technically, if we just never say what this is, then it’s…”

“Schrödinger’s relationship?”

Spencer doesn’t know why he gives you the words — why he hands you the metaphor like a loaded gun and watches as you take perfect aim.

“Exactly! We exist in a state of undefined possibilities. We’re both platonic and not platonic until we open the box.”

Spencer sighs, rubbing at his temple, because now his entire brain is consumed by the implications of your logic. 

Schrödinger’s cat was never meant to be a real experiment — just a way to illustrate how, in quantum mechanics, particles can exist in multiple states until measured. The cat is placed in a box, along with a vial of poison triggered by a completely random quantum event. Until the box is opened, it’s both alive and dead, trapped in an impossible in-between, a paradox that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. The problem is, that concept doesn’t translate perfectly to relationships. People aren’t quantum particles. Relationships don’t exist in probability states.

Except, apparently, this one does. Because as long as neither of you put a definitive label on what’s happening here, you exist in an undefined state. 

He glances at you, at the expectant look in your eyes, and something about it makes him laugh, not because this is funny, necessarily, but because of course it would take a physics analogy for him to see what’s been obvious all along.

“I’m fairly certain that if we opened the metaphorical box, we would find that the cat — that is, our relationship — was decidedly not platonic.”

He hopes you’ll take the words for what they mean. That, for once, you won’t take the obvious escape route, won’t let yourself tuck this moment nearly into the realm of plausible deniability.

Because what he really said — what he really meant — was that he wants you. Only you. Singular, exclusive, definitively. If you pressed him for stronger language, he’d give it to you.

Your face was quick to light up.

“Are you asking me to go steady? Because Spencer, that’s a serious commitment. That means shared desserts, and, like, the expectation that I text you goodnight. And what’s the policy on PDA? Full access or —”

The rest of your sentence vanishes into fabric as Spencer pulls your shirt over your head, words muffled into cotton. You let out a muffled protest, momentarily caught in the fabric, and Spencer swears he’s never been more tempted to laugh at anything in his life.

By the time he tosses your shirt aside, you’ve recovered, blinking at him like nothing happened, hair adorably mussed.

“ — case-by-case basis?”

Spencer drags his hands down your hair, smoothing out the worst of the damage. He sighs dramatically, but his lips are twitching. “If I had known going steady required this much paperwork, I would’ve reconsidered.”

You grin at him. “Oh, you think this is bad? Just wait until we get into the holiday gift-giving policies and date night scheduling. Speaking of which —”

He doesn’t let you finish. He kisses you mid-sentence, less because he wants to shut you up (though that’s a nice bonus) and more because he can. Because he gets to. Because somehow, without him even realizing it was happening, this wonderful, impossible thing has become real.

This thing between you, this thing that was supposed to be undefined, a quantum maybe — it’s never been uncertain. It’s never been both platonic and not platonic, no matter how long he tried to pretend otherwise.

No, the box is open now. It probably always was. 

And Spencer had never been so happy to kill the cat.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

They are so cute! What the hell.

😏 ➡️ <_< ➡️ >_> ➡️ <_< ➡️ 😯

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. 

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.” 

Love, love, love 🤍🤍

Closer

Spencer reid x reader oneshot fluff

Wc: 1k

Summary: You say across from spencer when you usually sit beside him during dates

It had been a long week for Spencer Reid. The BAU had been running nonstop, cases back-to-back, with barely a moment to breathe. But now, as the weekend arrived, it was time for his favorite part of the week—his date with you.

It was a tradition at this point. Every Friday, you’d both go to that quiet little cafe downtown, the one with the cozy booths and the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the air. Spencer loved those moments. Not for the food—though he did enjoy it—but for the time he got to spend with you, the person he cherished more than anything else in the world.

You had been dating for a while now, and the routine was simple. He would always sit beside you in the booth, his long fingers gently wrapped around yours as he talked about his day. It was always the same, and yet, every time felt like a new adventure in itself, hearing him speak with that curious excitement about the latest case or random facts he’d picked up from his research. It was comforting, familiar, and perfect.

But tonight was different.

You sat down across from him, without thinking much about it. You were still adjusting your jacket when you took your seat, completely unaware of how it made Spencer feel.

At first, he didn’t say anything. He just smiled that warm, shy smile of his, his eyes flickering down at the table before glancing up at you. The conversation began like it always did, about a case he had been working on, but it felt... distant.

The space between you felt strange, like a gap he didn’t know how to bridge.

You didn’t notice anything was off, but Spencer was growing increasingly uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you; it was that he *did*—he always did—but something felt wrong when you weren’t sitting beside him. He was used to the closeness, the soft weight of your hand in his. He craved it, needed it even.

He tried to focus on his words, explaining a complex case, but his mind kept wandering. He wanted to reach across the table and hold your hand, feel your fingers intertwining with his, but it felt... wrong, in a way. It felt like a boundary had been drawn without him meaning for it to happen.

His leg bounced under the table, a nervous habit he’d developed when he was agitated, but tonight it seemed worse. He looked up at you, seeing the concerned, attentive look in your eyes as you listened to him. You were there, your focus entirely on him, but the physical space between you was heavier than he’d expected.

You tilted your head slightly. “Spence, is everything okay? You seem… a little distracted.”

He blinked, snapping out of his internal spiral. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry, I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, without really thinking, you reached for the salt shaker on the table. You were only inches from his hand, but it felt like miles. You didn’t notice the way his eyes followed your movements, how his hand clenched slightly by his side.

“I didn’t realize,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “but... I... um, I usually sit next to you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Spencer shifted in his seat, his fingers tapping against the edge of his glass, and he struggled to find the right words. “I mean, usually, we... sit next to each other. And I just... feel closer to you that way.”

You blinked, the realization dawning on you, and you smiled softly, feeling the tiniest flicker of guilt in your chest. “Oh, Spence. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it.”

He shrugged a little, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but his cheeks flushed just a hint. “It’s okay, it’s just... I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.” He hesitated, his eyes glancing at your hand, almost like he was afraid to ask. “I guess... I like being close to you. Even if I’m a little... um, well, a bit of a germaphobe, sometimes.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words. Spencer’s vulnerability was one of the things you loved most about him. He was so incredibly intelligent, yet sometimes he had this shy, almost childlike way of revealing his true feelings.

Slowly, you slid your chair closer, closing the gap between the two of you, until your knees touched. The simple gesture made Spencer's face brighten, and he relaxed almost immediately, his breath catching in a small, relieved sigh.

“There,” you said softly, your voice low, warm. “Better?”

Spencer looked at you with wide, grateful eyes, his smile blooming like spring after a long winter. “Much better.”

Without another word, you reached across the table, gently taking his hand in yours. The warmth of his skin against yours felt like coming home, and Spencer’s fingers curled around yours with a quiet, satisfied sigh.

“I like this,” he said quietly, looking down at your joined hands.

“Me too,” you agreed, feeling the sense of contentment that only Spencer could give you. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize.”

He shook his head, his smile never faltering. “You don’t have to apologize. I just wanted to be close to you. And... I guess I didn’t know how to ask.”

You squeezed his hand, leaning in just a little closer. “Next time, I’ll make sure to sit next to you.”

Spencer grinned, his eyes twinkling with that familiar spark. “Next time?”

“Yeah,” you said, with a playful glint in your eyes. “I think I could get used to the fact that you’re a little possessive of our personal space.”

Spencer’s laughter filled the space between you, a soft, genuine sound that made your heart swell. It was moments like these that reminded you just how much you adored him. Even in his quirks, even in his need for closeness, Spencer was exactly what you needed.

As the night continued, you both sat side by side, hands firmly entwined, and for once, the world felt like it had stopped moving, just for the two of you.

The space between you was gone, and you were exactly where you were meant to be—close enough.