Hiyaa, Cold Reader Series Is So So Amazing I Just Read It All In One Sitting Again But I Was Wondering
hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with
AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!
a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.
spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.
main masterlist.
a/n — is this… progression?
The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.
The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.
Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.
You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.
Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.
And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.
You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.
It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.
“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”
Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”
“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”
You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.
He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.
It’s unprofessional.
That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.
It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.
Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.
“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.
Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.
“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”
She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?
You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.
—
You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.
But instead, you feel your focus splintering.
Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”
“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”
You stiffen.
It’s unprofessional.
That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.
It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.
Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.
Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.
And that irritates you.
So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.
“Reid.”
Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.
You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”
Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.
“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.
You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”
It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.
Except.
Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—
If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?
—
The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.
Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.
The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.
You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.
But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.
You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.
She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.
But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.
It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.
“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.
Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.
You don’t care.
Except you do. And that makes it worse.
Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.
“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.
You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.
You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.
Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.
But you don’t feel relieved.
The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?
You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.
Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.
Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.
“Are you okay?”
The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.
No. You’re not okay.
You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.
You can’t look at him anymore.
“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.
Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.
You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.
But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.
You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.
But none of that feels convincing anymore.
By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.
A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.
You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.
But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?
And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.
—
The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.
There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.
He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.
He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.
The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.
Instead, he looks to you.
“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”
You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.
“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”
Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.
You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.
Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.
Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.
He’s noticing you. He’s listening.
When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.
“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.
You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.
"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.
Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.
You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.
And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.
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Derek Morgan x reader warnings: language, some body insecurities, smut, squirting A couple of different req's combined into one. I'll admit it sat in the wip pile for a little too long, but let's hope that doesn't happen anymore!
Derek was fresh out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist when he entered the bedroom, finding you in front of the mirror with a frown on your face. You were fiddling with your shirt, tucking it in then untucking it, pulling it tight, pinching at it to fall loose, pulling it over to only one side all while you turned in various degrees to see all the angles of your body. You let out a huff, hands dropping to your sides as your head tilted and you pulled up your shirt, pinching at your sides and stomach, pulling at your skin.
“What’s going on in that pretty little head baby?” He asked, crossing the room and you let out a huff, finally pulling your gaze away from the mirror.
“Are these jeans too small?” You asked, frown still on your lips as you turned back to the mirror, continuing to pinch at your skin.
“Do I have to fight somebody?” Derek asked, only half kidding as his arm wrapped around your waist from behind and he pressed a kiss to the crook of your neck.
“Did you see that pic Elise posted on insta from lunch?”
“Mmhmm.” He nodded, kissing at your neck again.
“My mother so kindly, and very publicly commented on it that it was looking like I should be laying off the fries and cocktails.”
“Bullshit.” He huffed in annoyance.
“Just made me think maybe she’s right.” You face dropped as your eyes returned to the mirror and you continued picking at your skin and adjusting your shirt. “We went shopping after and nothing I tried on fit properly in my regular size, maybe I need to do a cleanse….” You trailed off as your head tilted, gazing at your body in the mirror.
“Baby, I wish you could see the way I see you.”
“What’d you mean?” You asked, your head twisting to see his face and he pressed a kiss to your cheek before turning your face back toward the mirror.
“Well for starters, these jeans are your tightest pair.” His thumbs slipped into the waistband, tugging gently at it to prove the point as they barely moved from your body, “and I know that because they’re the ones that show off this gorgeous fuckin’ ass.” His hands moved around and squeezed at your ass, spanking you gently and he was happy to hear the little squeal you let out was followed with a laugh. His hands ghosted around your waist, taking your hands in his so you would stop scrutinizing yourself, “they’re so tight it doesn’t matter how tiny someone is once you’re sitting down they’re gonna push in on your stomach.” His hand brushed over your tummy, “and you’d just finished a big, fueling, nutritious lunch with carbonated drinks, a little bloat is natural.” He kissed the side of your neck again, “you are perfectly fucking stunning just the way you are. I think you’re the sexiest,” another kiss, “most beautiful,” another kiss, “stunning woman I have ever seen.” This time he nipped at your sensitive skin and your head fall back against his shoulder as you let out a little sigh.
“Derek…”
“Baby, you and this gorgeous body drive me absolutely wild.” He rolled his hips against your ass and you could already feel his cock starting to get hard, “and I will absolutely show you how much I love it and you.”
“Please…” You murmured and he chuckled, spinning you in his arms so he could kiss you properly. He caught your chin in his hand, directing your lips to his and you couldn’t help but moan into the kiss.
Every time Derek kissed you he put every ounce of pleasure and love into it, lips molding to yours, moving with grace in the dance you’d perfected over the years. Your arms wrapped around him, fingernails tickling at the back of his neck and the arm he had around your waist tightened, pulling you closer to him. His tongue slid across the seam of your lips and you gladly parted them, letting him slide into your mouth. He began to back you towards the bed, his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, breaking the kiss to tug it over your head. Returning to the kiss he started work on the offending jeans, shoving them down your legs along with your underwear and you did your best to kick them the rest of the way off while he got rid of your bra.
“Lie back princess.” He nudged you toward the bed and you were quick to drop down onto it, shuffling backwards until you were nestled against the pillows. “God just look at you…” He purred, hands ghosting up your legs as he climbed onto the bed.
You let out a little giggle, your cheeks heating as your arms crossed over your body, turning your face away from him and into the pillows. “Derek…”
“Oh c’mon baby girl, none of that.” His hand softly gripped your chin, turning your gaze back to his, “there’s no reason for you to play shy.”
Derek ducked down, kissing you gently while his hands moved your arms, guiding them to loop around his shoulders while he deepened the kiss, tongue slipping into your mouth. You couldn’t help but relax into the bed, your whole body melting at the feeling of his embrace as his tongue rolled against yours. One of his hands crept up your side, fingers tickling your skin, drawing patterns across your body as he went, teasingly slow. He traced the shapes and curves of your body, somehow leaving a pathway of both heat and goosebumps as he went, creeping closer to your more intimate areas. His fingers brushed just under the curve of your breast and his lips curved up into a smirk at the feeling of your back arching off the bed to lean into the touch. His hand came to rest, just there, just close enough for you to know it was coming but not bothering to move it any further quite yet.
You couldn’t help it, letting out a small whine into the kiss as you felt the need beginning to build up within you, tingles shooting through your body from where Derek was touching you all the way down into your pussy, gently fluttering around nothing. His lips pressed into the corner of yours, trailing a hot and sticky path across your jawline before he nipped your earlobe, his breath hot on your skin.
“Just relax for me baby, I’ll make you feel good, promise.” He pressed a gentle kiss right behind your ear and your eyes fluttered shut as his lips made their way down the column of your neck.
Derek’s nose nudged at your chin, turning your face away from him so he had better access to your sensitive skin, teeth gently scraping your neck before he sucked at the same spot, tongue laving across it. He let out a soft groan against your neck, his body nearly grinding down onto yours as he bit into your pulse point and you moaned, a hand wrapping around the back of his neck. While his mouth made a home in the crook of your neck, determined to leave you with a few marks his hand finally slid upwards, groping at your chest.
“Oh god…” You moaned, your body arching into the touch and you could feel Derek chuckle against your skin.
“You like that baby?” He asked, fingers pinching at your nipple, earning a small gasp from you as the tingles shot through your body once more.
While his mouth latched onto your neck he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pressing harder around it at random intervals until you were whining underneath him. He shifted slightly so he could mimic the movements on the other side, barely pulling himself away from your neck so he could see the way your nipples had hardened from his teasing.
“My princess does like that.” He teased with a grin and you were about to retort with something smart but his mouth was on your skin again, tongue licking its way across your collarbone and your head fell back into the pillows with a soft sigh leaving your lips.
Every touch from Derek was electrifying your senses, you felt him on your body, tongue, lips, teeth, hands, the weight of his frame on top of you as he left a path of kisses on the center of your chest. Fire prickled under your skin with each touch, tingling through you, lighting up your senses and sending pleasure shooting through you, building deep in your stomach with each pass of his mouth. One hand wrapped around one of your tits, groping it, thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple while his mouth found your other one. He bit at the top curve of your chest, tongue lapping out to sooth the burn before his lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
“Fuck…” You let out a gasp, feeling the tingles picking up and you couldn’t help but rub your legs together in search for some relief, your pussy beginning to ache between them.
Derek’s tongue flicked at your nipple while his finger did the same on the other one, teasing and toying with you, teeth scraping against your tender flesh while you began to writhe on the bed underneath him. He pulled your nipple away from your body, letting it go with a lewd pop, watching the way your mouth fell open and you let out a breathy sigh at the feeling. It only took a moment for him to swap sides, repeating the motions, his cock twitching between his legs at the sounds coming from your lips.
“That’s it baby…” he husked against your skin, “relax… I don’t want you thinkin’ about anything aside from how good this feels.”
“Mmm…” you whined in response, your breath catching in your throat as his teeth sunk into your skin again.
His hands ghosted over your stomach, fingers trailing across your skin with a featherlight touch while his mouth stayed on your chest. He shifted between your legs, hands rubbing at your inner thighs as he spread them wider for himself, now able to fully settle between them, the towel around his waist falling to the side. His hands wrapped around your thighs, massaging gently, thumbs pressing into your skin just enough to help you relax into the bed, spreading your legs wider for him while his mouth continued to toy with your chest. Derek slid one of his hands between your legs, cupping at your heat, lips curving upwards at the quiet gasp that escaped your lips. His palm massaged your pussy slowly, gently, just enough to have your hips softly rocking into the touch while breathy moans came from your mouth. His lips stayed wrapped around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth deeper as he continued to toy with you.
“Fuck Derek..” you sighed, feeling your wetness smearing across his hand each time he rubbed at you.
“Relax pretty girl.” He murmured.
Two of his fingers slid through your lower lips a few times, the tips of them barely dipping into your heat, collecting your juices before coming up to rub your clit and your breath caught in your throat. Your hips jumped up off the bed and he chuckled against your skin pressing harder on the nub before his hand returned to your entrance. One finger slid in easily, twirling inside you while the heel of his hand brushed against your clit,
“Already so wet, baby.” He grinned, nipping at your chest and you let out a small whine.
“More, please.”
“Anything my girl wants.”
A second finger slid in to join the first and you let out a soft moan at the feeling, gently stretching your soaked walls out. Derek hummed against your chest, his fingers pumping faster in and out of your cunt, beginning to scissor randomly. He reluctantly pulled his mouth away from your chest, sitting up between your legs and each time his fingers came out of your pussy they were slick with even more of your juices. Your sporadic moans were replaced with breathy whimpers, your hands clawing at the bedsheets as your body arched off the bed, pleasure shooting through you, you could feel it building deeper and tighter in your stomach, fire crackling under your skin.
Derek sunk his fingers as deep as he could into your pussy, letting out a soft groan as he did, feeling the way you were already pulsing around him.
“That’s it baby, wanna feel you squeezin’ me tight.”
He placed his free hand down right above your clit, thumb angled so he could play with the swollen nub as he continued to finger you. Feeling you flutter around his fingers again he thrusted back into you before curling his fingers, quickly finding the sensitive spot inside you and the hand on your lower stomach pressed down gently, thumb flicking at your clit.
“Fuck!” You moaned, your back arching off the bed, pleasure about to burst within you and all you could hear were the squelching noises coming from your cunt as Derek’s fingers picked up speed again.
“Relax pretty girl.” He purred, “just let go… trust me.”
Derek’s thumb increased pressure and pace, rubbing at your clit with more intent, watching with pride at the way your hips continued to buck up off the bed, griding against his hands harder with each thrust of his fingers. Your juices had drenched his hand, slicking down his wrist and dripping down your cunt making a complete mess of things and you didn’t have a care in the world, his touch electrifying your senses as you felt it twisting tighter and tighter inside you, the spark about to burst into a full flame.
“Oh fuuu-ck… fuck!”
Your thighs began to shake, threatening to close if Derek hadn’t been sat between them and he pressed down harder on your stomach, thumb rubbing faster at your clit while the fingers inside dragged across your g-spot. Your hips shot off the bed as you let out a cry, the damn bursting, the prickling under your skin exploding into pleasure you felt through your entire body. Your pussy clamped down around Derek’s fingers, juices spurting out, a second smaller wave coming when he pressed against your g-spot again and you swore.
“Fuck..” your body shook against the bed, “oh my god…. Oh my god…”
“Fuck that was hot as hell.” Derek murmured, finally pulling his drenched fingers from you, watching your cunt squeeze around nothing as you began to catch your breath. “Feel better princess?” He asked, barely giving you time to nod before he ducked his mouth down to your pussy, tongue lapping out to clean up your juices. He sucked and kissed at your thighs, avoiding the still sensitive spots until you’d finally stopped trembling and his tongue surged through your folds, letting out a groan at your taste, barely flicking against your clit before he crawled back up the bed.
“Christ…” You muttered and he laughed softly, “I’ve never done that before.”
“First time for everything.” He replied, leaning over you to kiss you and you let out a soft moan at the feeling of his cock twitching against your thigh.
“Need you…” you murmured, feeling his lips curve up into a grin as he wrapped a sturdy arm around your waist and rolled onto his back.
“How about you ride me? I wanna see this gorgeous body.”
A small smile on your face you pushed up to sitting, straddling his hips as you rubbed your pussy over his cock a few times, grinding down onto him, smearing your wetness and his head fell back into the pillows as he let out a low hiss. Your hand reached between your bodies, wrapping around his cock and lining it up with your entrance while Derek’s hands found your waist to help brace you as you sunk down onto him. A mutual moan and quiet swear echoed through the room as he filled you, now fully stretching you out.
“Fuck, pussy feels so fucking good.” He moaned, his ever so slightly rocking up into yours and you let out a small squeak, pussy fluttering around him.
Bracing your hands on his stomach you pushed up until just the head was left inside your pussy and then sunk down all the way, setting a steady pace as you began to ride him. Still sensitive, your pussy was already pulsing, squeezing his cock in the perfect way, you could feel him throbbing inside you, the head rubbing against your g-spot with each rock of your hips. You began to let out small whines, your eyes fluttering nearly shut as the pleasure began to build up again. Derek’s hands squeezed around your waist,
“God look at you…” he groaned, “so pretty riding my dick. Always take me so well baby, you’re doing so good for me.” His eyes raked over your body, watching the way your tits were bouncing, how your lower lip was pulled in between your teeth and you brow was furrowed. He felt himself twitch inside you, resulting in your pussy clamping down around his cock and he let out a loud groan. “Play with those gorgeous tits…”
He squeezed at your hips again, making sure he had a hold on you to guide you riding him and your hands started to slide up your body. You cupped your chest, groping at the tender flesh as you let out a soft moan before pinching at your nipples and a small gasp left your lips.
“Fuck…”
“That’s it baby.” He grunted, “so fucking hot.” He drove his cock deeper into you and you let out a louder whine. “Gonna need you to come for me again princess, squirt all over my cock.”
He knew he was too close to last much longer and judging by the way you were clenching down around him and the wetness where your bodies were joined, you weren’t far off either. You let out a needy whine, your head nodding as you continued to toy with your tits. One of Derek’s hands left your waist, fingers quickly rubbing your clit again and you felt the similar sensation beginning to build.
“Oh god don’t stop!” You moaned, thighs beginning to quake, “fuck, Derek, s-so good!”
“Yeah?” He groaned, pressing harder against the pulsing nub, “you like that?”
“Mm-mm hmm.” You whined, “gonna make me come.”
“Then come for me baby.”
With a final press of his fingers, he rolled his hips just right and you cried out, your back arching before your entire body rocked forward, hands catching yourself on Derek’s chest as your orgasm rocked through you. Derek let out a low swear, feeling your juices drenching his cock, dribbling out around it as you did your best to continue to ride him.
“So good for me.” He husked, your body trembling in his arms, as you panted. He braced his feet on the bed, driving his cock faster and deeper into you as he chased his own release, panting into the crook of your neck before letting out a low swear and a grunt, his hips stilling against your own.
“Fuck…” you muttered, feeling his release coat your walls as you finally relaxed against him, nuzzling into his neck.
Derek’s arms squeezed gently at you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as you caught your breath. Once he’d stopped twitching and could control his breathing again his hands began soothingly rubbing up and down your back, finger tips tracing patterns across your skin, peppering your cheek and shoulder with kisses. You let out a satisfied hum at the feeling, turning your head to face his so you could kiss him properly.
You shifted slightly, a breath escaping your lips as his cock slipped from you and you dropped to the bed beside him. He did his best to kick up one of the blankets, wrapping it around your waists while you nestled into his side, welcoming the embrace of his arm around you. Derek softly played with your hair while you traced the outlines of his shoulder tattoo. You let out a very happy sigh, pressing a kiss to his chest and his finger curled under your chin, tilting it up to him and he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.
“Feeling better now baby?”
“Incredibly.”
“Don’t feel the need to bad talk my favourite girl anymore?” He asked and you giggled, playfully rolling your eyes as you swatted at his chest.
“No.”
“Good.” Smiling, he kissed you again, “because you are without a doubt, the love of my life. And your body is beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, sexy and I love it just as much as I love you. Woman, I would happily suffocate between your thighs.”
“Derek!” This time you laughed loudly, punching his arm.
“What? I would.”
“Way to ruin a sentimental moment.” You half scolded; half teased, rolling out of the sheets to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I had to get you moving somehow.” He joked, “if we don’t get in the shower now we’re gonna be late for dinner.”
“Jerk.” You grinned, moving toward the bathroom as he scooped up the towel discarded from earlier.
“Hey, you’re the reason I have to shower twice.”
“Uh.. pretty sure you instigated, and you would have no matter what.”
“Yeah? How am I supposed to resist that ass.” He whipped the towel in the direction of your ass and you squealed, darting for the bathroom with Derek quick on your heels, “love that ass.”
“Perv.” You retorted, turning back to him and he grabbed you around the waist, pulling you to him.
“But I love you more.” He tapped the tip of your nose before his hand cupped your cheek and he kissed you deeply.
“I love you too.”
______________
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Perfection
Don't Get In Your Own Way
Summary: You and Spencer have always been close - everyone else can see it's more than just friendship. When will you two be ready to see it as well?
Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader
Category: fluff, light smut (18+)
Warnings/Includes: alcohol consumption, suggestive content, friends to lovers, minimal BAU case talk, mild public indecency
Word count: 10.3k
a/n: this was an olddd draft ,,, i came back to give it the ol' razzle dazzle
main masterlist
Every afternoon, like clockwork, you and Spencer retreat to the stairs outside the FBI offices, your little quiet corner away from the noise of the bullpen. The team is usually scattered—some opting for takeout at their desks, others heading out for a bite—but you and Spencer? You prefer the fresh air, the slight reprieve from case files and fluorescent lights, just the two of you.
Spencer talks—a lot. And you let him. You never interrupt when he goes off on a tangent, whether about a book he’s been reading, some obscure historical event, or even the latest behavioral theory he’s been mulling over. He’s learned, over time, that you listen—that you don’t just humor him but engage, ask questions, challenge him. It’s one of the reasons he feels safest around you, why he lets the mask slip, why he doesn’t feel the need to filter himself. Around you, he’s just Spencer. Not Dr. Reid, not the genius of the BAU. He's just a guy who loves sharing the things that make his brain light up.
Lately, he’s been growing his hair, letting the waves fall into his face while he works. He never noticed how often he pushed it back, but you did. One afternoon, after watching him shove it out of his eyes for the hundredth time while struggling through paperwork, you wordlessly slid a hair tie onto his wrist.
“For when you finally give up,” you’d said with a small smile.
Spencer had looked at the simple black band like it was some kind of sacred object before slipping it on. He never did tie his hair up, but the band stayed. Now, when he’s anxious, when his thoughts spiral too fast for even him to keep up, he rolls it between his fingers, snaps it lightly against his skin, and uses it as an anchor. He wonders if you even realize what you’ve given him and how something so small makes him feel grounded.
You are completely unaware of how much Spencer sees you and how much he feels for you. You like him—more than you should, more than is probably appropriate for two people who are just friends—but you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Spencer is brilliant and kind and so effortlessly attractive, and you? You convince yourself he’d never see you that way. It’s not self-deprecating, not really—just… reality.
Meanwhile, Spencer sits beside you every day, wondering how you don’t notice how his eyes linger, how his heart jumps every time you laugh, and how he holds onto your hair tie like a lifeline. How he wonders if you feel the same way.
—
Derek doesn’t let up. Not now, not ever.
Spencer’s been subjected to his relentless teasing for years, but ever since he started growing his hair out—and ever since you gave him that hair tie—Derek has been on a mission.
“Pretty Boy, you’re pathetic,” Derek says one afternoon, leaning against Spencer’s desk with his arms crossed, watching him roll the hair tie between his fingers like it’s some kind of lifeline.
Spencer, who has been deep in thought, barely looks up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, man,” Derek scoffs. “The hair tie? The way you light up every time she talks to you? The fact that you, the man who hates all forms of physical contact, don’t even flinch when she gets in your space? Do you even hear yourself when you talk about her?”
Spencer blinks at him, feigning ignorance. “I talk about her the same way I talk about all of my friends.”
Derek lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “That’s funny. Real funny. Because I don’t remember you getting all flustered and dreamy-eyed when you talk about me.”
Spencer’s brows furrow. “I don’t get flustered.”
Derek raises a brow and mimics Spencer in a high-pitched, breathy voice. “Oh, she listens to me ramble. She actually engages with me. She’s so perceptive.” He drops the act, shaking his head. “Man, you are down bad.”
Spencer rolls his eyes and turns back to his book, a weak defense mechanism. “I really don’t think—”
“No, you don’t think,” Derek interrupts. “That’s the problem. Because if you were thinking, you’d realize that she looks at you the same way you look at her.”
That makes Spencer freeze, a book halfway in his hands.
Derek smirks, knowing he’s struck something deep. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Spencer opens his mouth, ready to protest and argue some logical counterpoint, but nothing comes out. He can’t explain away the way his heart clenches at the mere possibility that you might feel the same.
Derek slaps a hand on his shoulder, grin widening. “Any day now, Pretty Boy. Any day now.” Then he walks off, leaving Spencer to stare blankly at his book, brain absolutely wrecked.
He glances down at the hair tie around his wrist, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it sits against his skin.
Rossi is just as relentless with you as Derek is with Spencer—except he’s a little more subtle about it. He doesn’t tease in the same playful, in-your-face way that Derek does with Spencer. No, Rossi prefers to plant little seeds, make small comments, and give you just enough to get your mind churning.
He’s been keeping a close eye on you ever since you joined the team. Maybe it’s the way you love to talk about home or how you light up when someone treats you like family. So, naturally, Rossi steps in. A guiding hand, an occasional piece of advice, a warm presence when you need one.
And right now? Right now, you need someone to tell you that you’re being blind as hell.
“You know, bella, I’ve been around a long time,” Rossi says one afternoon, leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of things. A lot of things. And I’d like to think I have a pretty good read on people.”
You barely look up from your case file. “Are you about to say something wise or just something annoying?”
He smirks. “Oh, I can do both.”
You roll your eyes but don’t argue.
Rossi takes a sip of his drink, watching you with that knowing look that makes you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. “You like him, you know.”
Your stomach twists uncomfortably, but you don’t react. Not outwardly, at least. “Who?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re smarter than that.”
You exhale sharply, still keeping your eyes on your paperwork. “I don’t like Spencer.”
Rossi chuckles, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That’s cute. Now say it again like you mean it.”
You finally glance up at him, narrowing your eyes. “I mean it.”
“Mm-hmm,” Rossi hums, clearly unconvinced. He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “You know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.”
You raise a brow. “Oh? You had a thing for Spencer, too?”
Rossi lets out a full-bodied laugh. “No, but I was stubborn. And I was good at convincing myself that things weren’t what they obviously were.” He tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me ask you something. If I told you that Spencer thinks the world of you, that he practically glows when you’re around, what would you say?”
You swallow, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. “I’d say you’re exaggerating.”
Rossi shakes his head. “No, bella, I’m not. Derek sees it. I see it. Hell, even Garcia sees it, and she’s usually too busy matchmaking herself to notice when something’s right under her nose.” He leans back again, watching you carefully. “But the real question is—why don’t you see it?”
Your mouth opens, then closes. The truth? Because the idea that Spencer could feel that way about you is terrifying. You’ve convinced yourself he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not in the way you secretly hope.
So you deflect. “Spencer’s just… Spencer. He’s sweet to everyone.”
Rossi sighs, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. “You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.”
You scoff lightly. “What, you want me to march over there and declare my undying love?”
Rossi grins. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
You shake your head, muttering something about meddling old men as you shove your paperwork into a neat stack, trying to ignore the way your hands feel slightly unsteady.
Rossi just watches you, amusement still lingering on his face.
Because he knows.
And one day, you’ll know, too.
—
The precinct is buzzing with too much movement and too much noise. Officers shuffling papers, detectives arguing over case details, coffee machines gurgling, the fluorescent lights humming like an irritating static in the back of your head. It’s a small station, cramped, and the team has been forced into an even smaller conference room, shoulder to shoulder with local law enforcement.
Spencer has been quiet all morning, his fingers twitching slightly, his blinking a little too frequently. You’ve been with him long enough to notice when the world is becoming too much for him, and right now, it’s clear that the rapid-fire conversations, the overlapping voices, the smell of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener—it's all pushing him to the edge of his tolerance.
So, as usual, he attaches himself to you.
It’s something he’s done for years, seeking you out when things get overwhelming. You’ve never minded. In fact, you never even thought much of it—until now.
Right now, his head is slumped against your shoulder, a deep sigh escaping him, his breath warm where it ghosts over the fabric of your shirt. His long fingers loosely clutch your jacket sleeve, not in an obvious way, but just enough that you know he’s anchoring himself with your presence. His entire frame is pressed slightly against your side, fitting into your space in a way that should feel intrusive—but it doesn’t. It never does.
But today? Today, it does feel different. Not bad, not at all, just... noticeable.
The warmth of his body against yours. The way his hair brushes your cheek when he shifts. The way you can feel the weight of him, trusting, unguarded.
You should say something—acknowledge it, maybe even tease him like Derek would—but your throat feels tight. Instead, you sit perfectly still, let him rest, let him take what he needs from you.
Across the room, Rossi is watching. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a knowing look, an almost smirk, before turning back to his conversation with Hotch.
You swallow hard, your mind racing with thoughts you don’t have time to entertain. Not right now. Not with a case on the line.
Spencer exhales again, a deep, exhausted sound. Without thinking, you lift your hand and gently brush it over his arm, a quiet reassurance. He hums in response—barely audible, but enough to let you know he appreciates it.
And you?
You pretend your pulse isn’t hammering; pretend this is just like every other time.
Even though, for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way anymore.
—
The room is already cold and sterile, the air thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic and something darker, something that clings to the walls of places like these—death, decay, the remnants of lives cut short. The mortuary is dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs casting a bluish hue over the metal slabs, the bodies covered with crisp white sheets.
Spencer and Emily step inside, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them away from the world of the living for just a little while.
Emily exhales, rubbing her hands together despite the temperature-controlled environment. “I don’t know what Hotch thinks we’re going to find that we didn’t already see,” she murmurs, but there’s no real complaint in her tone—just exhaustion.
Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, scanning the room with sharp, restless eyes. He doesn’t like being back here. Too quiet, too still. Too much time to think. And he’s already spent the morning overstimulated, barely hanging onto himself. If it weren’t for you—your presence, your steadying warmth—he might have lost his grip entirely.
But you’re not here now.
Emily watches him for a moment, sees the way his fingers twitch slightly, how he pushes his hair back only to drop his hand to his wrist, rolling the familiar hair tie between his fingers. A grounding mechanism. She’d seen him do it before.
“Spencer,” she calls gently.
He blinks and looks at her.
“You okay?”
He hesitates, then nods.
Back in the SUV, Emily watches Spencer out of the corner of her eye as he flips through the case file, his knee bouncing slightly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the folder. He’s rattling off statistics about the likelihood of unsub behavior escalating post-mortem examinations, but there’s a certain absentmindedness to the way he’s speaking—like he’s not entirely here.
And Emily Prentiss? She’s no fool.
So, as she turns onto the road leading toward the mortuary, she decides to go for it.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she starts, keeping her tone casual. “In fact, I haven’t for the past few years.” She glances at him and watches as his fingers tighten slightly on the folder. “But today felt different. Are you sure you’re alright?”
Spencer stills, his knee stopping mid-bounce before he forces it back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Emily snorts. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”
Spencer purses his lips, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to physically move away from this conversation. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”
“Uh-huh,” Emily hums. “And yet, back at the station, you looked about one deep sigh away from crawling into her lap.”
Spencer stiffens. “That’s an exaggeration.”
Emily shrugs, smirking slightly. “Is it? Because from where I was standing, you were practically molded to her side.”
Spencer stays silent, glaring down at the folder like it’s personally offended him.
Emily softens, tilting her head. “Look, I’m not teasing you. I’m just asking—are you okay? Because I’ve seen you cling to her before when things get overwhelming, but today… it was different.” She hesitates. “You were different. She was different.”
Spencer swallows, pressing his lips together. He could brush it off. He could easily throw out some logical, cold dismissal. I was overstimulated, and she provided a familiar presence. There is nothing unusual about that, but the problem is, it is unusual.
Because for the first time, he noticed it.
Noticed how natural it felt, how good it felt, to be pressed against you. Noticed the way your touch lingered, how your fingers brushed his arm with a softness that made his skin buzz. Noticed how he felt safe, not just because you were familiar, but because he wanted to be close to you. Because he liked it.
And that? That realization is unraveling something in him he isn’t sure he’s ready for.
“I—” He hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”
Emily watches him for a moment before nodding, letting the conversation settle for a few beats before she speaks again.
“You know,” she says, keeping her tone light. “You could always ask her.”
Spencer’s head snaps toward her, eyes wide, panicked. “Ask her what?”
Emily grins, eyes twinkling as she pulls into the mortuary parking lot.
“Oh, you know. On a date.”
Spencer makes a strangled noise of protest, but Emily is already unbuckling her seatbelt, pretending she doesn’t hear it.
She lets him stew in his thoughts and sit there with that panicked expression because honestly?
He needs to figure it out for himself.
—
Tuesday nights were for Star Trek, and Friday nights were for pizza and movies. It had started as something casual, a way to unwind after long days at work, but over time, it became an unspoken rule—a part of your week as consistent as waking up in the morning.
Tuesday nights meant curling up on your couch, debating over which Star Trek series to watch that week. Spencer always had his preferences—he loved The Original Series for its groundbreaking storytelling and The Next Generation for its philosophical depth—but he never protested when you picked Voyager because he knew how much you liked Captain Janeway. You didn’t always pay attention to the episodes the way he did, but you loved listening to him ramble, watching his eyes light up as he dissected the scientific inaccuracies or argued about the moral dilemmas presented in each episode.
And then there was Friday night—pizza and movie night.
Unlike Star Trek night, where Spencer usually held the reins, movie night was a battle. You had vastly different tastes—Spencer leaned toward old classics, noir films, and things with intricate plots that required full intellectual engagement. On the other hand, you sometimes just wanted to watch an over-the-top action flick, something fun and ridiculous.
“I don’t understand why we can’t watch Casablanca,” Spencer had complained one Friday, frowning at your choice of Die Hard.
“Because Casablanca is depressing, and I just want to watch Bruce Willis blow things up,” you’d argued, plopping onto the couch.
Spencer had grumbled but ultimately stayed, reluctantly eating his pizza while you enjoyed Die Hard a little too much.
But despite the friendly bickering, you both always showed up for each other. No matter how draining the week was or how heavy the cases got, Tuesday and Friday nights were yours. If one of you was too tired, the other brought food. If Spencer needed to visit his mom, he’d make you promise not to watch Star Trek without him. If you had a bad day, he let you pick the movie without a single complaint (except for that one time you picked Twilight, which he still refuses to acknowledge).
For years, it was just routine, something comfortable, something easy.
The case had finally wrapped up late Wednesday afternoon, and while you should have been relieved—grateful that everything ended as cleanly as possible—you were distracted. Off-kilter. Your mind wasn’t on the debriefing, the flight back to Quantico, or even the pile of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow.
No, your mind was stuck on him.
Spencer.
More specifically, the way you couldn’t seem to shake the lingering warmth of his body from when he had leaned against you, or the quiet, vulnerable way he had sighed into your shoulder, or the way Rossi’s words had wormed their way into your brain and stuck.
"You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time."
Damn him.
You were usually so good at compartmentalizing, at keeping your feelings neatly boxed up and shoved into the farthest corner of your mind where they couldn’t betray you. But now? Now, every little thing Spencer did had you spiraling.
Like right now.
Friday afternoon rolls around, and you’re already on edge.
When Spencer casually walks up to your desk, his messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and his hands are tucked into his pockets, you already know you’re in trouble.
“Hey,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”
You blink at him.
Wait. What?
Is he confirming plans? He hasn’t done that since the first month you started doing this—since he was still unsure if the ritual was set in stone. But now, after all this time, he’s asking?
Your heart starts hammering, palms go clammy.
“Yeah—yes,” you blurt out, nodding a little too fast. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”
Spencer watches you carefully, clearly picking up on something being off. His brow furrows slightly, and he studies you with that damn profiler gaze, the one that makes you feel like he’s reading every single thought you’re desperately trying to bury.
“You okay?” he asks slowly.
You force a laugh. It comes out weird. “Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”
His frown deepens.
Okay. You need to fix this before you combust.
You grab your phone off your desk and clear your throat. “So! What are we watching tonight?” you ask, trying to force the conversation forward before you completely unravel.
Spencer tilts his head slightly, still watching you with suspicion, but he lets it go.
“For our movie night? Or are you asking if we’re switching to a Star Trek episode lineup for some reason?”
You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Movie night, obviously.”
He hums, his lips quirking slightly. “I figured it was my turn to pick.”
You groan dramatically. “Ugh. If this is another silent foreign film that you claim is ‘captivating,’ I’m kicking you out before the pizza even gets here.”
Spencer smirks. “It’s not silent.”
You narrow your eyes. “But it is foreign.”
Spencer just shrugs.
You groan again, shaking your head. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”
He grins, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels normal again.
Except it’s not.
Because now you’re noticing everything. The way he’s smiling at you, like he genuinely likes looking at you. The way he’s still standing a little too close, the scent of cologne you’ve never noticed mixing with the faint smell of old books and coffee. Your heart is pounding, not from panic anymore but from something else.
And Rossi’s voice echoes in your head—You’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to push the thought away.
Spencer is still looking at you, waiting, expectant.
You clear your throat. “So… my place at seven?”
He nods. “Your place at seven.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving you gripping your desk, trying to convince yourself that your entire world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.
—
The knock at the door makes your stomach drop.
You weren’t expecting it. Not from him.
Spencer never knocks. Not anymore. Not when he’s been coming here for years, slipping inside without hesitation, using the key you gave him so long ago that neither of you even remembers when it stopped being your apartment and started feeling like his, too.
But tonight, he knocks.
And for a moment, you just stare at the door, pulse pounding in your ears, a strange, unsettling panic twisting in your chest.
Why?
Why would he knock?
Did something happen? Did you do something? Did he?
You scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug in your rush to reach the door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob for half a second too long before you finally pull it open.
And there he is.
Standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, looking just as nervous as you feel.
He’s holding the pizza in both hands, gripping the box like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His lips are parted slightly as if he’s mid-thought, mid-explanation for why he’s standing here like a stranger instead of walking in like he always does.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice is careful, deliberate. Like he’s testing the temperature of the air between you.
You swallow. “Why’d you knock?”
Spencer shifts, his fingers flexing against the cardboard. “I—” He exhales sharply, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wasn’t sure if I should just—if you wanted me to just come in.”
Your stomach twists. “You always just come in.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallows, tries again. Spencer takes a breath, shifting his grip on the pizza box. “Can I come in?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the doorknob as you nod and step aside.
The warm glow of your living room wraps around Spencer like a familiar embrace. The scent of old books and candle wax lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh pizza. He’s holding the box carefully as if it were fragile or important. His fingers clutch the edges a little too tightly.
Something is different.
You feel it the moment he walks through the door, the way he hesitates on the threshold before closing it behind him. His usual easy presence is replaced with something unsure, something heavy that neither of you can quite name.
It’s never been awkward before.
But tonight, it is.
Maybe it’s the way he swallows before speaking or the way you feel hyper-aware of the space between you—space that’s usually nonexistent when you’re tangled up on the couch, watching whatever movie you finally agreed on after bickering for twenty minutes.
Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush against his wrist absentmindedly, rolling the hair tie between them, a habit you know means he’s feeling too much.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because something unspoken has been hanging in the air between you for a while now, something neither of you have dared to name.
Spencer sits down beside you, a little closer than usual but still not quite enough. His knee brushes against yours, and you don’t pull away. Neither does he.
“Movie?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying to push through the tension.
Spencer nods, but he doesn’t reach for the remote. Instead, he glances at you, searching your face, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something.
And for the first time in all the years of Friday pizza-and-movie nights, for the first time in all the comfortable silences and easy laughter, you think—
He might actually say what you’re both thinking.
But when Spencer finally does speak, it’s not what you expect. You blink at him, your brain short-circuiting.
"Do you want to watch 10 Things I Hate About You?"
It takes you a second to process the words because that is not what you were expecting.
For a moment, your grip tightens on the edge of the couch, your knuckles going white, and your heart still hammering from the sheer weight of what you thought he was about to say.
“What?” you finally spit out, voice higher than you’d like.
Spencer shifts awkwardly in his seat, clearing his throat as if he’s just realized how strange the moment is. “It’s… isn’t it your favorite rom-com?”
You stare at him. “Yeah… but I didn’t think you liked it.”
“I don’t dislike it,” he hedges, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “And, statistically speaking, if we’re ranking romantic comedies based on their adherence to Shakespearean influence, it’s arguably one of the better adaptations of Taming of the Shrew—”
You cut him off with a squint. “You’re rambling.”
He presses his lips together, a nervous habit, his fingers twitching slightly. “Right. Sorry.”
The air between you feels charged, like an unsaid truth is pressing against the walls, threatening to break them down. But instead of confronting it and saying whatever it is that’s clearly sitting on the tip of his tongue, Spencer is talking about rom-coms.
You cross your arms, tilting your head. “Okay, but… why? Why that movie? Why now?”
His eyes flicker up to yours then, just for a second, and there’s something raw, vulnerable, and uncertain.
And then, before you can decipher it, he shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”
Your heart clenches painfully because God, he’s so Spencer. Always thinking of you, noticing the smallest details, and looking out for you even when you don’t expect it.
And yet… there’s still something unspoken lingering between you, something simmering beneath the surface, something that almost came out before he took a sharp left turn into the world of 10 Things I Hate About You.
“Do you want to watch?” Spencer asks again in that vulnerable tone, lifting the movie case from his bag.
You exhale, rubbing your hands on your pants to wipe off the nervous sweat. “Yeah,” you sigh.
Spencer nods, but it’s almost hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes. He lingers for a second with the 10 Things I Hate About You DVD case in his hands, gripping it just as tightly as he had the pizza box moments ago.
You swallow, rubbing your palms against your pants again before reaching for the remote. “Uh, you can put it in.”
He moves toward the DVD player slowly, methodically, like he’s focusing on the action so he doesn’t have to focus on you. You watch him as he kneels down, sliding the disc into the tray, his fingers steady even though you know he isn’t.
The air between you is thick with something unspoken, a weight pressing on both of you, but neither of you acknowledges it. Instead, you wait as the movie boots up, the familiar menu music filling the quiet space between you.
Spencer hesitates before sitting, but it’s closer than usual when he does.
Not overly close—not close enough to make it obvious—but close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, close enough that his knee brushes yours again.
You pretend not to notice.
He pretends not to, either.
The movie starts, and for the first time, neither of you is watching it.
You’re too aware of him—the way he shifts slightly when you do, his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s trying not to reach out, and the way his breath catches ever so slightly when your arm brushes his.
Spencer doesn’t usually do this. He’s tactile when he’s overwhelmed, yes, but this? This is different. This is hesitation; this is awareness; this is something tiptoeing dangerously close to the edge of something neither of you has dared to touch before.
And you don’t know what to do with that.
So you try to focus on the movie, try to push through the nervous energy coiling in your stomach.
But then—
Then Spencer shifts, leans back against the couch, exhales softly—
And his arm drops, just slightly, around your shoulders.
Your heart stops.
You stare at the screen, unblinking, unsure if he even realizes what he’s done.
But he doesn’t move.
And neither do you.
The room feels different now. Warmer, heavier, charged with something neither of you have spoken aloud. You can’t tell if it’s the candlelight flickering in the dim space or if it’s just him, just this, whatever this is, settling around you like a second skin.
Spencer’s arm—his arm—is resting along the back of the couch, not quite on you, but close enough that you can feel its weight, close enough that if you shifted even the slightest bit, it would be.
You try to focus on the movie. Try to act like nothing’s changed.
But your body betrays you.
Your shoulders stiffen at first, instinctively, not because you don’t want this—God, you do—but because you don’t understand it. Because Spencer Reid does not do things like this. He does not reach out in this way, not unless he’s overwhelmed, and even then, it’s different. This is intentional, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
You inhale slowly, carefully, keeping your eyes trained on the screen as Kat Stratford delivers another sharp-witted insult. But you’re not really listening. You’re waiting. Waiting for Spencer to shift, realize what he’s done, pull back, laugh nervously, and pretend like nothing happened.
Except—
He doesn’t.
If anything, he seems more relaxed than before. His breathing is even, his body settling into the couch like he belongs there. Like you belong there.
And then, before you can stop yourself before you can overthink it like you always do, you shift. Just slightly. Just enough that your shoulder leans into his arm.
The movement is so small and insignificant that if it were anyone else, they wouldn’t notice. But this is Spencer. And Spencer notices everything.
You hear the sharp inhale of breath and feel the way his body tenses just for a moment—just long enough to make your pulse hammer against your ribs—before he exhales slowly, deliberately.
And then—
Then his fingers brush against your shoulder.
A whisper of a touch, hesitant, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull away.
But you don’t.
You can’t.
So, he stays.
And for the rest of the movie, neither of you moves. Neither of you speak.
But everything, everything, has changed.
The credits roll. The music swells softly through the speakers. The dim glow of the screencasts flickering shadows across the room, but neither of you move.
Not even a little.
Your body is still pressed into his side, your shoulder tucked against him, his arm draped so loosely yet so deliberately around you that you can’t tell if it’s keeping you close or if it’s keeping him grounded.
Maybe both.
Maybe that’s what this has always been.
You don’t know how long you sit there, frozen in the moment. You don’t know if he’s thinking the same thing, if he’s waiting for you to speak, to move, to acknowledge that something unspoken has settled between you like a weighted silence.
But then—
“Y/N,” Spencer murmurs.
Just your name.
Soft. Almost careful.
You inhale sharply, blinking yourself back into the moment. Your head turns toward him slowly, cautiously, like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile balance is hanging between you.
And then—
Spencer shocks you.
Because the second your eyes meet his, the moment your lips part in silent question—he leans in.
And he kisses you.
It’s not hesitant.
It’s not unsure.
It’s not like the Spencer Reid you thought you knew—the one who second-guesses, who overthinks, who analyzes every possibility before making a move.
No.
This is something else entirely.
This is Spencer moving without logic, without calculation, without fear.
This is Spencer wanting.
And for a split second, your brain short-circuits, unable to process what’s happening or understand how the man who had just spent two hours analyzing 10 Things I Hate About You is now kissing you like he means it.
But then—
Then you kiss him back.
And it’s over.
Whatever line had existed between you—whatever barrier had kept you from stepping over the edge—it's gone.
Spencer exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years. His fingers tighten against your shoulder, just slightly, pulling you in closer, pressing against you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.
But you’re not going anywhere.
Not now.
Not after this.
—
Dating Spencer is like stepping into something timeless, warm, and constant. It’s not rushed or overwhelming. It’s not dramatic or chaotic. It’s just Spencer. And that, in itself, is everything.
He doesn’t love convention. He doesn’t do big grand gestures unless they mean something. But he does the little things, the things that matter. The things that show how deeply and irrevocably he feels for you.
Like reading to you before bed.
It starts without much thought, just a quiet habit that becomes part of your nights. You never ask him to do it, and he never makes a point of it, but it happens—night after night, in the soft, dark quiet of your bedroom when the world slows, and nothing exists but the warmth of his arms and the soothing rhythm of his voice.
Some nights, it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or a few pages from Pride and Prejudice. Other nights, it’s something entirely different—a passage about an old poet, a historical retelling of an artist’s life, something obscure and worn, a book he’s read a hundred times before. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even remember the contents most nights.
What you remember is the sound of Spencer’s voice, the way it lulls you into a hazy, comfortable state within minutes. The way his fingers draw lazy circles on your arm as he reads, absentmindedly tracing patterns like he can’t not be touching you. The way his lips brush the top of your head in soft, feather-light kisses like he’s saying goodnight without ever actually stopping the words on the page.
You never make it past a few minutes.
That’s how long it takes for his voice to pull you under, for the warmth of his chest to turn into a lullaby, for his steady breathing and gentle presence to quiet every thought in your mind.
And Spencer?
Spencer never minds.
Even when you fall asleep on him mid-sentence, even when his voice trails off and he realizes you’re gone, lost to dreams, he just smiles to himself, presses one last kiss to your temple, and quietly closes the book.
Because he loves this.
Loves you.
Even if he hasn’t said it yet.
—
You knew Spencer was good with kids—he had an innate gentleness, a patience that most adults didn’t possess. You had seen him with Jack before, seen the way he could calm a crying toddler with a few soft words and a fascinating fact about dinosaurs. But this? Watching him take care of a baby?
This is a whole different level.
JJ and Will had been desperate for a night out—just a few hours, nothing crazy—and with Garcia tied up at some tech conference, JJ hesitantly asked you and Spencer to watch Henry. She had barely finished asking before Spencer nodded, assuring her that he had plenty of experience with child development and cognitive growth.
Now, an hour into babysitting, you sit on the couch in quiet awe as Spencer moves around the living room, cradling Henry against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"Statistically speaking, infants exposed to language early on are more likely to develop higher literacy skills in adolescence," Spencer muses softly, bouncing Henry gently in his arms as the baby babbles against his sweater. "So even though you might not understand this now, Henry, I think you'd really enjoy learning about the Fibonacci sequence when you’re older."
You stare, biting your lip to contain the ridiculous grin threatening to take over your face. "Spencer, are you seriously lecturing a one-year-old on mathematical sequences?"
Spencer glances at you, unfazed. "He seems interested."
Henry lets out a delighted squeal, gripping a fistful of Spencer’s cardigan and yanking with surprising strength.
"Ah—Henry, no, that's my—" Spencer stops mid-sentence as Henry starts giggling, his tiny fingers still tangled in the fabric. Instead of pulling away, Spencer just sighs in resignation, adjusting his hold so Henry can comfortably rest his cheek against his shoulder.
And oh, no.
Your heart is gone.
Your ovaries? Destroyed.
Because Spencer—sweet, brilliant, slightly awkward Spencer—is standing there in JJ’s living room, holding a baby like he was made for it, rubbing gentle circles on Henry’s back as he hums absentmindedly.
And you are not okay.
"You’re good at this," you murmur before you can stop yourself, watching how he instinctively shifts to sway Henry slightly, lulling him between sleep and contentment.
Spencer shrugs, but there’s a soft pink dusting his cheeks. "It’s just… knowing how to respond to their needs. Babies need security and reassurance. If they feel safe, they thrive." He glances at you then, his voice quieter. "It's not complicated."
But it is.
Because suddenly, your brain is not thinking about just this night. It’s not just thinking about babysitting Henry. It’s thinking about Spencer as a father, Spencer with his own baby in his arms, rocking them just like this, whispering facts to lull them to sleep, pressing soft kisses to their tiny forehead.
And the thought wrecks you.
JJ has no idea what she’s done by asking you to babysit.
Because now?
Now, you are painfully aware that Spencer Reid would be the best dad in the world.
And you really need to go splash cold water on your face before you say something insane.
The drive is quiet at first, a comfortable kind of silence, filled only with the hum of the engine and the faint rustling of Spencer shifting beside you. The weight of the night still lingers, the softness of it, the warmth—Spencer holding Henry, the easy way he’d cared for him, the way it had done things to you that you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to name yet.
"Are you dropping me off," Spencer asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness, "or am I coming over?"
Your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.
The question is simple. Straightforward. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something unspoken. Because this isn’t the first time Spencer has stayed over. But tonight, with the way you’re feeling, with the way you want him—really want him—the meaning feels different.
Your pulse picks up.
You don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know what you want, but because you do.
Because you want him to come over. Because you want him in your bed for more than just resting. Because you’ve wanted it for a while now, but neither of you have crossed that line yet.
And suddenly, it feels like Spencer knows exactly what you’re thinking.
He’s watching you, quiet, observant, his fingers resting lightly against his knee as he waits for your response. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry—he just waits.
You swallow, exhaling slowly before finally speaking. "Come over."
Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his lips are pressed together, his fingers twitching slightly—nervous energy, anticipation, something else.
"Okay," he says finally, voice quiet but firm.
And that’s all.
You don’t talk for the rest of the drive.
But you feel everything.
The way his hand rests between you is so close to yours but not quite touching. The way your breaths sync up is slow but uneven, charged with something you both know is coming.
When you finally pull into your parking spot, turn off the car, and steal one last glance at him, Spencer doesn’t hesitate.
He just unbuckles his seatbelt, pushes open the door, and follows you inside.
Spencer follows without hesitation but doesn’t move past the doorway immediately. He lingers, standing just inside your apartment, watching as you set your keys down on the counter, as you exhale slowly, as you try to steady yourself against the weight of what this night is turning into.
You turn back to him then, and the sight of him standing there—hands tucked into his pockets, shifting slightly on his feet, looking at you like he’s trying so hard to figure out what happens next—makes your stomach flip.
He’s waiting for you.
Waiting for permission.
You take a step forward, closing some of the space between you. Spencer watches you carefully, his breath hitching just slightly, his fingers twitching where they rest at his sides.
Spencer nods. Swallows. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Are we just sleeping?”
The question hangs between you, thick with implication, and that’s when it happens—the shift from nervous anticipation to something else.
You step closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that if either of you moved just slightly, you’d be touching.
And then, softly, hesitantly, you reach for his wrist, fingers brushing against the skin just above the hair tie he still wears, the one you gave him so long ago.
“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to just sleep?”
Spencer’s breath catches. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back up again.
“No,” he murmurs. “Not really.”
And that’s all it takes.
Because suddenly, you’re kissing him.
Or maybe he kisses you—you don’t know who moves first, don’t care, because all that matters is the way his hands are suddenly on your waist, pulling you closer, the way his lips part against yours, slow and deep and wanting.
It’s different from the previous kisses you have shared. And as his hands slide up your back, as you press yourself into him like you’ve been waiting forever for this, as he exhales sharply against your mouth because he’s finally getting to have you—
You know neither of you will be getting much sleep tonight.
The first time you and Spencer had sex was nothing short of mind-blowing—at least for him.
You hadn’t known just how little experience he had until later when he mumbled something against your skin about only having done this once before, his voice laced with disbelief and something like awe.
But it wouldn't have changed anything even if you had known beforehand. It had started so slow, like neither of you wanted to rush like you were both trying to memorize each other in ways you hadn’t been able to before.
Spencer had been nervous at first—not clumsy, not hesitant in a way that made you think he didn’t want this, but careful, intentional, like he wanted to make sure he was doing everything right. Like he was terrified of messing up, of not being enough.
But God, was he more than enough.
Because once he got past the nerves, once he stopped thinking and started feeling—
It was everything.
He touched you like he was discovering something new like he was learning you in real time. His fingers mapped the soft curves of your body, memorizing the way your breath hitched when he kissed your neck and how you sighed when his hands gripped your waist.
And when you guided him, when you whispered what you liked against his lips when you told him exactly how to move—
That was when he really fell apart.
Because Spencer thrives on knowledge, learning, on understanding. And now, he was learning you—learning what made you shiver, what made you moan, what made you clutch at his shoulders and gasp his name in a way that sent a shudder through him so deep he thought he might break apart completely.
By the time you were actually together, when he finally slid inside you with a deep, shaky moan, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—he knew.
He knew he was ruined for anything else.
Because nothing—not the one experience he had before, not the books he had read, not the theories or statistics—could have ever prepared him for this.
For you.
And when he came undone, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and ragged, your name tumbling from his lips like a prayer—
It was the closest thing to heaven he had ever known.
You pulled Spencer on top of you without hesitation, letting his exhausted body flop onto yours, his full weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He didn’t resist or try to roll away or give you space—he just let himself be and melt into you like he belonged there.
You traced slow, lazy shapes on his bare, sweat-slicked back, feeling the way his breathing gradually evened out, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against yours in a steady rhythm. His damp curls tickled your skin where his face was buried against your neck, but you didn’t dare move. You liked having him close like this.
Then you felt it—Spencer taking a deep breath like he was about to say something important.
His voice was muffled, soft, still laced with lingering wonder as he exhaled against your skin.
“Did… was that good for you?”
You smiled at the ceiling, your fingers still tracing mindless patterns along his spine. He was too cute. Too him.
“It was amazing, Spencer.”
He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt him tense slightly, his arms tightening around your waist as he let out a small, almost sheepish exhale.
“I’m sorry it was over so quickly.”
You laughed, tilting your head so you could press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Spencer, you have nothing to apologize for.”
He huffed, shifting slightly so his face was visible again, his flushed cheeks still pressed against your skin. “But I—”
“Nope.” You cut him off before he could finish whatever self-deprecating thought was about to leave his mouth. “I loved it. And besides…” You trailed your fingers down his spine, feeling the shiver it sent through him. “Now that the nerves are out of the way, we’ve got all night to take our time.”
Spencer froze for half a second before lifting his head just enough to look at you properly, his eyes wide, dark, needy.
“All night?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
You smirked, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his back. “Mmmhmm.”
And just like that—
Spencer wasn’t exhausted anymore.
The night stretched long and slow, turning into early morning, and in those quiet, intimate hours, you discovered things—things that made you grin, things that made Spencer writhe, things that neither of you had ever put words to before but suddenly felt so obvious now.
Like hickeys.
Spencer really liked hickeys.
You hadn’t meant to leave one, not at first. But the moment your lips latched onto the sensitive skin of his neck, the second your teeth scraped lightly against his pulse point, Spencer let out a sound that was almost embarrassing—a sharp, gasping whine that had his fingers digging into your waist, his hips bucking up against you without thought.
And just like that, you knew.
“You like that?” you murmured against his skin, already smirking, already marking another spot just below his jaw.
Spencer shivered violently, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening. “I—” He cut himself off with a choked noise, arching into you again.
Yeah. He definitely liked it.
And then there was the other discovery that made your entire night.
Spencer was a certified bottom.
He liked giving up control, liked you taking the lead, liked it when you moved on top of him, guiding him, making him fall apart underneath you.
And oh, he thrived in it.
Especially when your hands threaded into his hair, whispered things to him, and praised him in that sweet, teasing tone that made him whimper.
And God, the way his hands roamed when you were on top—
Which led to the third discovery of the night.
Spencer was a tits guy.
Sure, he loved all of you—he worshipped every inch of you with those big, eager hands, his lips, his tongue, taking his time, savoring you like he had all the time in the world.
But your boobs?
Those really got him going.
Maybe it was because of the angle, the way they bounced when you moved, or maybe it was the way they fit so perfectly in his hands, how he could squeeze, cup, and knead them just the way he liked.
Maybe it was the fact that he could bury his face in them, groaning as he nuzzled into your chest, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your skin, mumbling about how perfect you were, how soft, how he never wanted to stop.
And when you realized?
When you teased him about it?
He turned a deep shade of red, sputtering something about biological instincts and aesthetic appeal, but the second you rolled your hips and dragged his hands back to your chest, his words died completely.
“Oh my God,” he groaned, his head thudding back against the pillow, his fingers squeezing you almost desperately.
And yeah—
You really liked that discovery, too.
—
Spencer had barely stepped into the bullpen when Derek’s booming voice rang through the air like a damn foghorn.
"Pretty boy!"
Spencer flinched. He knew that tone. That taunting, giddy, Derek-is-about-to-ruin-your-life tone.
And then—before Spencer could so much as blink—Derek was grinning at him, full teeth, eyes sparkling with absolute mischief as he pointed directly at Spencer’s neck.
“Oh no,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, instinctively reaching up as if he could somehow erase the evidence.
But it was too late. Because Derek had seen it. The hickey.
The hickey.
The one you had left on him Saturday night. Or was it Sunday morning? Honestly, it didn’t even matter—what mattered was that he had forgotten to cover it up, and now? Now, Derek was never going to let him live this down.
“Damn, kid,” Derek laughed, sauntering over with the confidence of a man who lived for this kind of teasing. “So you are gettin’ some.”
Spencer groaned, his entire face going up in flames. “Derek—”
“Nah, nah, don’t even try to deny it,” Derek interrupted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That is a grade-A hickey, man. I’m talkin’ official, stamped, certified ‘this man is gettin’ wrecked’ level.”
“Derek, please,” Spencer hissed, glancing around desperately as if he could somehow stop this from escalating.
Too bad the damage was already done. Because JJ and Penelope were already staring. And then laughing. Loudly.
“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, practically shrieking with delight. “Spencer! Look at you! Our boy is all grown up and getting marked up like a romance novel protagonist!”
“Okay, stop,” Spencer pleaded, feeling absolutely doomed.
JJ just smirked, sipping her coffee like this was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. “So, how was your weekend?”
Spencer exhaled sharply, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and making a beeline for his desk, determined to escape. “I hate all of you.”
Derek just grinned, following after him with his arms crossed. “Nah, Pretty Boy, you love us. Just not as much as you love your girl—who, by the way, did some damage on you, man. She got territorial.”
Spencer slammed his forehead onto his desk with a loud thud. JJ and Penelope cackled. Derek patted him on the back like he had just won something. And Spencer?
Spencer knew damn well that this was never going away.
—
Spencer was always composed. Always Spencer. Polite, intelligent, articulate. The type of man who didn’t act impulsively, who thought through everything before making a move.
Except, apparently, when it came to you.
Because when it came to you, Spencer had no self-control.
And nowhere was that more apparent than tonight—right now—when he had you pressed up against the bar in the middle of a crowded room, his lips hot against your neck, his hands resting just a little too low on your waist, and his very obvious boner grinding against your ass.
This was not the Spencer the team knew. This was not the awkward, hesitant genius who stumbled over his words and overanalyzed his every move.
No, this Spencer was different.
This Spencer wanted you, and he didn’t care who saw.
This Spencer also happened to be a few glasses of champagne deep in his birthday celebration with the team.
“Spencer,” you hissed, gripping the edge of the bar for support as another firm roll of his hips had heat coiling low in your stomach.
He hummed against your neck, his lips still moving, still marking you in the same way he had been since he discovered how much he loved leaving hickeys on you.
“Hmm?” he murmured, voice low, dragging his tongue lightly over the fresh mark before pressing an open-mouthed kiss against it.
Your grip tightened on the bar. “We’re in public,” you reminded him, but your voice was breathy, weak, barely convincing.
Spencer chuckled—actually chuckled—against your skin, his fingers flexing against your hips. “And?”
And?
And?
You blinked, stunned by his sheer audacity, by the fact that Spencer Reid was grinding up against you in a public bar like he had every right to.
Like he owned you.
And maybe he did.
You hated to stop him. God, you hated it.
But Spencer was too drunk.
It wasn’t that he was wasted—Spencer didn’t drink often, and when he did, he rarely overindulged—but tonight, between rounds of celebratory drinks with the team and the way he had relaxed into your presence, he was just tipsy enough that his usual inhibitions were gone.
And normally, you wouldn’t mind. Normally, you’d love seeing him like this, out of his shell, more bold in his affections. But Spencer was intoxicated, and you were sober, and you refused—refused—to take advantage of that.
So, with a deep breath, you gently pried his hands off your waist, turning around to face him fully.
“Spencer,” you murmured, voice soft but firm.
He blinked, slow and dazed, his lips swollen from where he had been so intent on marking you up. “Huh?”
You cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his flushed cheeks. “We need to get you home, okay?”
His brows furrowed. “But—”
“No ‘buts,’” you interrupted, kissing his cheek quickly before pulling away completely. “Come on, before Derek starts making bets about whether you’ll take shots with him.”
Spencer groaned, looking devastated—like a scolded puppy who had just been denied his favorite treat. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to pull you back, but even in his inebriated state, he listened.
With one last longing look at you, he sighed. “Fine.”
You smiled, taking his hand and leading him back to the group. The second you announced, “I’m taking Spencer home,” a chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from your friends.
Derek practically howled with laughter. “Damn, Pretty Boy, she’s gotta put you to bed already?”
“I hate all of you,” Spencer grumbled as Penelope cackled.
JJ smirked into her drink. “Don’t forget to hydrate him.”
“Oh, I will,” you assured her, rolling your eyes as you steered Spencer toward the door.
After a few more teasing remarks and one last dramatic wolf whistle from Derek, you managed to load Spencer into the passenger seat of your car.
As soon as you pulled out of the parking lot, you reached for the stereo and turned on classical music—something calming that would hopefully settle the restless energy still buzzing under Spencer’s skin.
And sure enough, within minutes, he was already melting into the seat, head lolling to the side as the soft notes of Debussy filled the quiet space.
You smiled to yourself, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
“Almost home, Spence,” you murmured.
He sighed deeply, squeezing back. “You’re the best,” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.
The rest of the night had been easy enough—getting Spencer home, guiding his sleepy, clingy self into bed, listening to him mumble drunken nonsense as you pulled the covers over him. He had curled around you the second you lay down beside him, burying his face in your neck, sighing deeply as if you were the cure to whatever hangover awaited him in the morning.
Before you had drifted off, you had set up a glass of water and some painkillers on his bedside table, making sure everything he needed would be right there when he woke up.
Now, in the golden light of morning, you were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, reading while Spencer slowly resurfaced from his alcohol-induced slumber.
He stirred first, shifting slightly under the sheets, letting out a sleepy little grunt before blinking blearily up at you.
For a moment, he just stared.
His hair was a complete mess, curls sticking up in every direction, and his face was still warm and soft from sleep. His lips parted slightly, his eyes unfocused as he tried to piece together where he was, why he felt like this, and why the hell you looked so perfectly content beside him while he felt like his brain was swimming in molasses.
“…Morning,” he croaked, voice raw from sleep.
You glanced down at him, smiling over the top of your book. “Morning, baby.”
He blinked slowly, still processing. Then, realization dawned—the bar, the teasing, you dragging him home like an overgrown toddler.
He groaned, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. “I was drunk.”
You laughed softly, closing your book and setting it aside. “Yep.”
He peeked out from under his arm, his lips twitching slightly. “Did I…?”
“You were very affectionate in public,” you teased, shifting to face him. “Like, very affectionate.”
Spencer made a noise between a groan and a laugh, rubbing his face. “Derek’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”
“I didn’t let anybody see, Spence.”
He sighed dramatically before turning his head to look at you again, his expression softening. His eyes flickered to the bedside table, taking in the water and painkillers, the small gesture that made something warm and fond settle in his chest.
“You took care of me,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Of course I did.”
Spencer didn’t say anything momentarily, just looking at you like he was trying to memorize you in the morning light. Then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you down into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder.
“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, voice still thick with sleep.
Your heart stopped.
Completely.
Frozen in time, in this moment, in him.
Spencer had said it. So casually, so effortlessly, like it had always been there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to slip out. Like it wasn’t something earth-shattering, something that made your breath catch and your entire world tilt.
You barely breathed as you whispered, "You love me?"
You felt his lips curve slightly against your skin—soft, sleepy, so sure.
"I love you," he repeated, voice muffled but certain, like it wasn’t even a question in his mind. Like it never had been.
The warmth of his words settled over you, seeping into every inch of your skin, curling around your heart like the softest, safest thing you’d ever known.
Suddenly, you were moving, pulling back just enough to cup his face in your hands and tilt his head so that his eyes met yours—still drowsy, still heavy with sleep, but so incredibly full. You smiled, soft and disbelieving like you couldn’t believe you had gotten this lucky. Like you couldn’t believe he was yours.
"I love you, too."
Spencer blinked, like it was his turn to freeze like his still-sleepy brain was trying to process that you had said it back. Then he smiled—wide and beautiful, the kind of smile that made his dimples show, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best possible way.
And without another word, he kissed you.
Slow, deep, certain.
Like he had just decided—right here, right now—that he was never letting you go.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee
Glasses Reid is elite and Emily in this is fucking iconic
i NEED anything with glasses reid or munch reid i’m literally frothing at the mouth 🙏
ty for ur request :D fem!reader
"Emily," you say weakly. "What is that?"
Emily looks up from her desk, clearly desperate for a distraction, the lip of her coffee mug against painted lips. "What's what?"
"That." You point. You feel sick to your stomach. "That right there."
"Oh," Emily says happily. "You finally noticed. Yeah, Spence forgot to renew his contact prescription. He has to wear glasses for two weeks."
Spencer stands by the photocopier with a perturbed frown, clicking a button, then another. His brow is furrowed and his hair is falling into his eyes. He has the stupidest, dorkiest, prettiest face, and practically every expression he makes has you weak in the knees.
"That long?" you ask.
Derek looks up in concern at your pained tone, following the line of your eyes. When he realises what it is that's hurt you so, he skirts around the desk to shake your shoulder. "You could always tell him how you feel. I'm sure he'd keep the lenses forever if he knew you liked them."
"I don't like them," you say. You sound faraway to your own ears. You hate them. They're gonna be your demise.
Spencer runs a fingertip across the photocopier's screen, in his own world as the machine finally begins to chug out whatever it is he'd been wanting a duplicate of. The frames of his glasses sit snug on his nose. You can tell from even this distance that the lenses make his eyes look a tiny bit smaller. You could probably point out a misplaced freckle if he asked you to.
"Don't be cruel, he looks cute," Emily teases.
Spencer collects his papers, shuffling them into a straight line as he makes his way back to the bullpen. You pretend to take interest in Emily's things. She sips her coffee too nonchalantly. Derek doesn't even bother pretending.
"What?" Spencer asks, swift to spot your suspicious behaviours. "Is it the glasses?"
You wince. "Of course not. You look… you look really nice, Spence."
"You know he used to wear 'em every day?" Derek asks.
You would've died. "Before I joined?"
"For a few years," Spencer says, looking you over. "You're unhappy. Is something wrong?"
He looks to Derek and Emily for confirmation. Emily stutters for an answer while Derek laughs in the background, "She– you know. She just– She missed breakfast!"
Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose by the leg and drops his copies onto the desk. "I have dried apricot in my bag. Two seconds."
He bends over his chair to retrieve his bag from under the desk. Your eyes blow wide at his position, the sudden demonstration of well-fitted pants. Derek's laugh echoes up to the eaves.
"And he has that twenty four seven," Emily says against the rim of her coffee.
You scrunch your eyes closed and tilt your head back. After a few seconds, a hand touches your elbow gently, a hesitance that comes with only one member of the BAU. "You okay?" Spencer asks.
"I'm okay. Headache," you lie.
Spencer presses the apricot into your hands. "Maybe you should see an optician. You know they can tell if you have a brain tumour from one photo of your sclera?" He smiles morbidly, his glasses slipping down his nose. "They measure the size of your optic disk. It takes less than a minute. I can give you the name of my doctor, if you want. She's nice. Not as nice as you."
Your throat is so dry you can't form words to answer him. He doesn't judge your rigid nodding.
"I'll write down the number for you. And, Y/N?"
"Yeah?" you choke out.
"You look really nice today, too."
Emily has to kick you in the leg to bring you back to earth. Stupid Spencer. Stupid lovely glasses.
I love this so much
Patron Saints of Nightmares
Summary : Bucky needs to go on a mission, so he asks the rest of the team to take care of his girl.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) / Platonic!Thunderbolts x reader
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Established Relationship. TOWER FIC!!! Fluff, angst. Cursing. trauma. Death, nightmares, sleepwalking, hurt/comfort. Sam and Bucky aren’t mad at each other in this one (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 4.1k
Note : This story is based on my own experiences with sleepwalking. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
The New Avengers weren't as polished as their predecessors. You weren’t even close to the universal beacon of hope they used to be — you flickered and survived.
This team was a patchwork of second chances and shattered pasts, proof that good people came with scars — that good people might have done things that kept you all up at night. It was a miracle anyone got any sleep at all.
Least of all you.
Ever since your first kill, you barely got a full night’s rest.
By the time you joined the team, it had already been years of fragmented rest— twenty-minute naps stolen on ships here, an hour of sleep on dirty cots there. And when sleep did finally drag you under, it was rarely ever peaceful.
Sometimes, the worst part wasn’t even the nightmares. Sometimes it was waking up in the living room, not even in control, your feet bare and your skin clammy from a sleepwalk you didn’t remember beginning.
You’d warned Bucky when you started dating him.
One night, you sat him down while your fingers nervously pulled at the threads on your sleeve and handed him a list. Not a literal one, but it felt like that—“If I start talking in my sleep, don’t wake me up too fast. If I’m not in bed, check the bathtub or the closet. Don’t try to hold me down if I fight in my sleep. Only wake me if it becomes dangerous. But most of the time, it passes. I promise.” And worst of all, “Don’t be scared of me.”
You’d braced yourself for rejection then, for an excuse or another that said “you’re too much.” But Bucky had only taken your hand in his, metal fingers brushing gently against your palm like he understood in a way that no one else ever had.
One night, after you’d had a particularly brutal episode—screaming in your sleep, flinching from his touch even though he’d tried to soothe you—he didn’t say a word.
He just pulled you close once you’d woken, let you curl into his chest with your face pressed against his skin.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered into your hair.
That night, you cried into him until your breathing slowed, and for the first time in a long, long while, you stayed asleep.
Over time, you found a kind of peace with him that you’d never had before. It didn’t fix everything— Bucky would be the first to admit— but it eased your nights. You rested better because he made you feel safe.
On bad days, he’d lie beside you, his arm around your waist, his thumb brushing circles into your side.
And sometimes, when sleep came like a gentle tide instead of a crashing wave, you’d open your eyes in the morning light and find him already awake, watching you protectively.
“You slept,” he’d say with a proud smile, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
For a while, things almost felt normal again. Maybe not perfect, but better— until you and Bucky got dragged to be part of the New Avengers. And just like that, for convenience's sake, you both moved in the Watchtower.
It wasn’t awful. There was always someone around, always laughter coming from the common room. But adjusting was hard.
The bedroom felt too large, the ceilings too high, the Watchtower too big. It was… unfamiliar. Uneasy. Still, with Bucky lying beside you, it was manageable.
But some nights… some nights were worse than others. You’d still find yourself drifting barefoot through the corridors, your eyes glassy, your fingers twitching restlessly. You’d pull open drawers, rearrange cabinets, and unconsciously line pens up in perfect gradients. Once, Bucky found you curled in the closet with a granola bar clutched to your chest. You didn’t remember getting there. You only remembered waking up in his arms, sobbing so hard even though you couldn’t explain why you were upset.
That night, when Yelena peeked out of her room to see what all the commotion was about, Bucky smiled and said, “She’ll be okay, Lena. She just needs some peace and quiet, right, baby?”
You gave a small, hopeful smile. “Y-yeah.”
Because with him there… it really was easier to breathe.
—
The next morning, you asked Bucky to tell the rest of the team of your condition, and he waited until you were in the shower to gather the team in the kitchen. Ava leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, John was already halfway through his second cup of coffee, Bob dropped his book, Alexei was drinking a glass of milk, and Yelena sat on the counter with a knowing look in her eyes.
Bucky didn’t pace or shift or stall. He just said it.
“She sleepwalks, sometimes. Worse when I’m gone. It’s not… always random. It’s tied to stress. Or nightmares.” His voice was gentle. “You might hear her moving around at night, maybe see her organizing weird stuff or… I don’t know, in a closet. Don’t freak out. Don’t wake her up unless she's in danger, Don’t make it a thing.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was understanding.
Yelena gave a small nod and muttered, “I’ve done weirder.” John just said, “Got it, man,” and reached for another coffee pod.
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He didn’t want pity for you. He didn’t want tiptoes or whispers. He just wanted you to have a little space to exist without explaining yourself.
And when you wandered into the room an hour later, eyes still a little hazy, no one stared. No one asked questions.
They just said “Hey,” like it was any other morning.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
—
Still, no one got involved... yet.
Bucky was the only one who knew how to reach you. The only person who could read your silences like sentences, who knew exactly when to speak, and when to hold you so tightly the pieces couldn’t fall apart again.
So when Sam reached out to Bucky for help with an intel recovery mission in Madripoor, your heart dropped. You didn’t tell him not to go, but Bucky saw the way your hands twisted in the hem of your sweater, the way your mouth stayed open like you were trying to find a reason to make him stay.
He found you in the kitchen the night before he left, staring blankly into a cup of tea you hadn’t touched.
“Sweetheart,” he said, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Look at me.”
Your eyes slowly found his, and he knew.
“I hate this,” you whispered, the words brittle.
“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. “I’ll be gone for two days. Three, tops. I swear.”
You leaned into him, “I sleep better when you’re here.”
“I know, honey,” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I hate leaving you. But he needs me just for this one thing. And I promise I wouldn’t go unless I knew you’d be taken care of.”
You looked up at him, “I don’t want to be a burden to the team.”
“You are never a burden,” he said firmly, his voice a low rasp. “Never. And while I’m gone, they’ll keep you safe because they want to, not because they have to.”
Before he left, he gathered the others in the main room.
“Keep an eye on her,” Bucky said quietly. “She’s strong — don’t let her tell you otherwise — but she doesn’t always ask for help.”
They all nodded, some more solemn than others.
“If she does, don’t wake her unless you have to. It can be… disorienting. But if she’s not safe — if she’s near stairs or rooftops or anything like that — then wake her up gently. No yelling. No shaking her. It’ll only make it worse.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow. “What if we throw a blanket on her and pretend she’s a ghost?”
Bucky gave her a pointed look.
She raised her hand in defeat. “Fine. No blankets. Understood.”
“Thank you,” Bucky said, quieter now, looking over each of them. “Just… She means everything to me.”
They nodded again. Even John offered a pat in the back, and Ava gave a flickering smile.
That night, he kissed you once more at the door. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
But time always moved slower without him. And sleep — if it came at all — would bring with it the ghosts you couldn’t outrun.
—
The first night without Bucky was the worst.
You didn’t sleep. Not even for a minute. You paced the compound like a spectre, wearing one of his oversized Henleys and a pair of mismatched socks. The halls were quiet but your mind was unbearably loud.
What if something happened to him? What if this was the one time he didn’t come back?
You were awake in the kitchen at 2 a.m., your fingers trailing along the countertops. You made tea and forgot it on the counter. You folded a blanket you didn’t remember picking up. You stood in front of the window for forty-five minutes, watching shadows move across the landing pad like you were trying to count sheep.
Yelena followed you silently, not intruding. She was nearby, perched on the kitchen island, tossing a grape between her fingers.
She didn’t ask you to sit down. She didn’t ask what you were thinking. She just waited.
“Can’t sleep?” she finally said casually.
You shook your head. “If I try, I’ll just end up with a bad dream.”
“Then don’t try. Come,” she said, patting the spot beside her. “Sit. Eat terrible snacks with me. I stole jerky from John .”
You offered a smile, and for a moment, it felt almost normal — like you were just friends pulling a late night, instead of trauma survivors outrunning your past.
—
The second night was harder in a different way.
Your body gave in, just barely, around 3 a.m.
You collapsed on the couch in the common room and curled into yourself. The others left you be — glad to see you resting at all.
But two hours later, you screamed in your sleep.
Bob got there first.
He found you thrashing in, tangled in the blanket like it was strangling you. Tears streamed down your face, and your hands clawed at the air as you whimpered words no one could quite make out.
“No—please—don’t take him—don’t—!”
Bob dropped to his knees beside you. He didn’t try to wake you — remembered Bucky’s warning — but he said your name softly, voice like pattering rain on glass.
“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re not alone.”
Eventually, your screams died into sobs. Still asleep, you curled toward him, burying your face in his shoulders. Bob let you cry against him.
He didn’t know if you’d remember any of it.
John had stood nearby the whole time, sleepy when he was woken up by the noise. When Bob looked up at him with tired eyes, he invited John to sit next to you both.
He did, because perhaps he thought he could help keep you both safe.
—
The third night was deceptively calm.
You seemed better. You’d eaten half a piece of toast that morning. You’d even made a small joke at Alexei’s expense, and everyone had taken that as a good sign.
Still, the team took care of you closely.
That night, after the motion sensors in the living room went off because you started sleepwalking, Alexei, Ava, and John took the unofficial nightwatch duty— all of them too alert to sleep anyway. You shuffled into the hallway around 1 a.m., eyes half-lidded. You looked straight through Alexei, who had been sitting on the floor playing chess against himself.
He didn’t say a word, just stood up and followed you at a distance.
You wandered into the kitchen and opened the same drawer four times in a row. Flipped the light switch on and off, on and off. Then you just… stood there, staring at the fridge.
John found you a little while later, drifting into the laundry room. He didn’t panic.
“Hey,” he said, blocking the doorway, “this isn’t your bedroom.”
You blinked slowly with foggy eyes, but didn’t respond.
“Come on, let’s go back,” he said, not touching you, just using the calm voice he’d been practicing since Bucky left.
“Couch sounds better than tile, right?”
You followed him without protest, your feet shuffling over the floor. He guided you gently to the common room and helped you sit on the couch, draping a blanket over your shoulders.
Ava came to relieve him an hour later.
No one told the others to watch you. No one needed to. It had simply become understood — an agreement among people who’d known isolation too well to let anyone else suffer it.
You were never left alone for long.
—
The fourth night, things only got worse.
Bucky's message came in just past midday — the mission was running longer than planned. What was supposed to be three days had stretched to four, maybe more. They were holed up in a safe house, radio silent except for brief check-ins. Your already-bad anxiety only spiked.
So, of course, it manifested in your sleeping habits.
You were beyond exhausted, though. Somewhere between 2 and 4 a.m., your body gave out before your mind could. And that's when the sleepwalking started again.
Yelena noticed first when the motion sensor on the jet landing pad pinged, lighting up the communicator on her bedside table. Her eyes snapped open in panic.
One glance at the screen by her bed and—
Oh.
Oh no.
“Blyat,” she cursed, already half out of bed.
The security feed showed you barefoot and draped in one of Bucky’s shirts that hung past your thighs, drifting forward in a dreamy gait.
You were headed straight for the edge of the roof.
“Ava!” Yelena barked into the intercom by her door. “She’s up—she’s on the roof!”
Ava didn’t even answer. She was already phasing halfway through her bedroom door before the words had finished transmitting.
Her molecules blurred as she sprinted through walls and the glass doors leading to the edge.
She found you on the rooftop, barely more than a silhouette, the wind tugging at your hair and the cold bit at your bare feet.
You were standing at the edge. Right at the ledge.
The skyline sparkled as your fingers trembled to reach for something invisible in the air in front of you.
“He’s gone,” you mumbled into the wind. “I have to find him…”
Ava didn’t shout your name. She didn’t touch you too fast. She knew better.
She forced herself to become solid again and circled herself around your torso from behind.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
You didn’t react — not really. Your muscles twitched, but you didn’t pull away.
John was next, thundering up the stairs with bare feet and wide eyes, stopping short the moment he saw you on the ledge.
His instincts wanted him to act, to tackle you into safety, but he didn’t. Not when he saw how still you were. Not when he saw how gently Ava held you. He lifted both hands, palms out, staying back, like he might catch you if anything went wrong.
“Easy…” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
Alexei arrived just after. One look at the scene stopped him in his tracks. “Bozhe moi…” he whispered. He took a cautious step forward and dropped to his knees, trying to be less threatening.
“Druga,” he said gently, kneeling just to your side. “You’re dreaming, okay? Just a dream. We’re here. No need to find anyone — you’re already home.”
Bob drifted up moments later. He didn’t say a word. He just hovered nearby.
And then Yelena burst through the door, breath hitching as her eyes scanned the perimeter.
“Is she—?”
“She’s okay,” Bob answered quietly, “We’ve got her.”
Yelena let out a shaky breath and moved closer.
You whimpered softly, your whole body trembling in Ava’s arms. Your hands curled into fists, then relaxed again. Tears slid down your cheeks even as your eyes stayed closed. Even asleep, you were breaking.
You were inching closer to the ledge, your toes just brushing the edge of now.
“I have to find him,” you mumbled again, voice cracking. “He’s not safe. I have to find him.”
Alexei looked at Ava. At Yelena.
“She’s not coming out of it,” Yelena whispered. “She’s too far under.”
“Do it,” John said, tense. “Now. Before she—”
Alexei nodded once, then reached forward, placing one palm on your shoulders. It was him who finally made the call. “Time to wake up now. You’re safe. You’re dreaming.”
Your body stiffened immediately. The moment your nervous system registered something was wrong, your fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.
And they kicked hard.
Coming back into consciousness in panic, you bolted— or tried to.
Ava held you still, even as your eyes snapped open, and you screamed.
“No! No, no, no! Let go of me! Let go—“
“It’s okay, it’s okay—” Ava said, tightening her grip, keeping you away from the ledge.
You thrashed. Alexei backed off, hands up, trying not to crowd you.
Yelena stepped forward and crouched, her voice firmer than the others. “Look at me. You’re here. You’re home. We have you.”
But your body didn’t believe her. Your eyes were darting wildly, trying to make sense of noise and faces, adrenaline pumping so hard it made your vision blur.
John, who managed to grab a blanket, wrapped it over your shoulders while muttering, “It’s okay, you’re okay,” on repeat like a prayer, even though your eyes weren’t processing him yet.
Bob moved in slowly, hoping just being there would help.
Eventually—eventually—your eyes found something familiar.
The logo on the roof.
The view on the edge.
The ledge.
Your legs buckled the moment your body remembered gravity.
Ava and Alexei caught you instantly — Ava’s arms looping under your shoulders, Alexei scooping beneath your knees, reminding yourself he was a man who once threw tanks for fun.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” your voice broke, and you curled in on yourself, clutching the sides of Bucky’s shirt like it could protect you from your own confusion. “I don’t remember what I was dreaming. I didn’t mean to come up here. I didn’t mean—”
“We know,” Yelena said firmly. “It’s okay.”
“No one’s mad,” John reassured, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You swallowed, and with a shaky breath, nodded once.
You weren’t fully okay — not even close — but you were with them.
“Let’s get you out of the cold, druga,” Alexei said.
You didn’t fight the suggestion.
The rooftop door swung behind you as Bob pushed it open.
All of you managed to walk back in.
No one said the obvious — how close you’d come to falling.
No one had to.
You reached the common room without question, because none of them wanted to put you back in your room alone. You wouldn’t sleep, and none of them would, either.
They laid you gently down on the oversized couch in the center of the room. You blinked up at the ceiling, eyes still dazed, until Bob appeared beside you with a warm cup of tea. He placed it in your hands.
You didn’t drink it. You just held it, palms wrapped tight around the mug, as if the warmth alone was enough to anchor you.
“I’m sorry,” you said, finally
“You don’t have to be,” Ava replied immediately, sitting beside you on the couches.
John sat on the floor in front of you, back against the coffee table, hands dangling over his knees. “We’ve all had bad nights. This just happened to be one of yours.”
Alexei brought in two more pillows and tossed one over your legs. He tucked the second by Yelena, who tried to wave him off before giving up with a sigh and letting him fuss.
Bob curled into an armchair nearby. “We’ll keep watch,” he said. “We always do.”
And then, something remarkable happened.
The exhaustion hit all of you at once.
One by one, you all stopped pretending you weren’t tired.
Yelena curled up beside you, legs tangled with yours, chin resting on the pillow between you.
John slid down to lie on the carpet, arms crossed over his chest like a soldier who could still sleep with one eye open.
Ava stretched out beside the couch, back against it as she put a hand over yours.
Alexei lowered himself onto the other couch with a dramatic groan, mumbling something about “too old for this” as he tucked a pillow behind his head.
Bob’s head tilted back and his breathing evened out.
And just like that, the common room became a patchwork nest of sleep. And it was some of the best sleep every one of you have had in a while.
—
An hour, maybe two, slipped by. Then, the elevator dinged.
You stirred, still in a haze, but some part of you registered the familiar sound of heavy boots followed by a duffel bag hitting the floor with a gentle thump, carefully placed rather than dropped.
“Hey, sweetheart,” came Bucky’s voice.
Your eyes blinked open, just enough to catch a glimpse of him standing in the spill of hallway light. His hair was damp, rain clinging to the ends. His jacket bore flecks of concrete dust and char near the seams.
He looked like a man who hadn’t stopped running home since he left.
“Bucky…” you whispered, the name tangled in a yawn. “Baby… you came back…”
Your words were fragile, barely more than breath, and already fading into the fog of dreams again.
Bucky stepped over John — who was still passed out on the floor, snoring like a freight train — and made his way to you without a sound. He crouched down by the couch and wrapped his hands around yours — the one not held by Ava— and brought it to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice cracking at the seam. “I’m so sorry I left.”
You made a nonsensical sound in response — half a word, maybe a memory. Something about rooftops, tea, jerky, his shirt. Nothing coherent, just the drift of half-dreams spilling from your lips. He knew you wouldn’t remember any of this come morning.
But still, Bucky leaned in and kissed your forehead, letting his lips linger there. For the first time in days, he let himself breathe.
Then he looked up — and finally took the full picture in.
They were all there. The whole team, scattered in sleep around the living room like an improvised fortress. His girl — you — nestled safely in the center of it, wrapped in the arms of friends who had clearly refused to leave your side.
They looked worn down, but peaceful and content. Like being here, with each other, was exactly where they wanted to be.
So he moved quietly around the tower, opting for a quick shower and change of clothes. Then he walked to the hallway closet and gathered every spare blanket he could find.
One by one, he tucked them in.
He threw a thick crocheted navy blue throw over John, who mumbled something but didn’t wake. A quilt draped gently across Yelena and Ava. One across Alexei’s legs, already half off the couch,
Bob didn’t even stir — just sighed, as Bucky knelt, and carefully tugged a fluffy yellow blanket under his chin. It was like Bob somehow knew Bucky was there.
On the coffee table, Bucky found a scrap of paper and scrawled a quick note, placing it where they would see it in the morning.
Thank you for taking care of my girl. – J.B.B
Then he returned to you.
He stood there for a moment, watching you sleep — curled up in the middle of everyone who had held the line while he was gone.
He was so in love with you — god help him — because all he could think about after the long mission was taking you back, holding you close, and not sharing you with anyone tonight.
So he picked you up in his arms effortlessly, like you belonged there, like he’d done it a thousand times and could do it a thousand more.
You stirred just a little, your cheek pressing into his chest.
“You’re home…” you murmured again, barely awake.
“I am,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
He carried you back to your shared room, the weight of the world finally lifting from his shoulders.
There, he laid you down and pulled the covers up over you both, sliding in with one arm around your waist, the other across your chest like a shield.
You were finally asleep in his arms, and he wasn’t about to give the world a single piece of you until morning.
-end.
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Ok ok smut. I keep thinking about how the BAU is often gone on longer cases and a Spencer who missed his girlfriend on a long case and just wants to be really close to her so like clingy...maybe some cockwarming...umm yeah imma see myself out byyyeeeee
-🌞
a/n: i’m literally so sorry that this took me six months to post 😭 i literally have no words omg. but i totally loved!!!! this request and it was so much fun to write and i really hope that i did it justice 💕🧚♀️ (even though i feel like the ending might be a teensy bit rushed 😭) also also also: today is mgg’s birthday! omg! i love me a pisces man 🧎♀️➡️
well, without further ado
You feel like Home
Spencer Reid x fem!reader
nsfw, 18+ MDNI
cw: no use of y/n, Spencer calls reader Angel, smut, cockwarming, dry humping (barely though), words to describe the female genitalia, unprotected p in v sex, mentioned rough sex, Spencer is described as “pussy-whipped” (he is), kissing, some light making out ig, and umm maybe softdom!Spence (?) idrk tho, also english is not my first language so im sorry if this isn’t grammatically pristine
• Before he met you, Spencer had no real qualms about his work schedule
• Sure, it was a bit of a hassle to travel for work so much, but let’s face it, he didn’t really have anything better to do
• While the rest of the team complained when they had little to no free time between cases, he was secretly happy for the distraction from his mostly uneventful life
• After he met you, though…
• To put it simply, Spencer was obsessed with you
• He fell fast and he fell hard, and now every second thought in that big brain of his was about you
• He most definitely would’ve spent every waking moment with you if that was possible
• Or inside you
• Pussy-whipped was one of the best ways to describe him
• But could you really blame him? You were beautiful, and alluring, and your skin was so soft under his touch, and you always smelled and tasted divine…
• Yeah, it was safe to say that you had him completely wrapped around your finger
• And now he suddenly understood why it was such a nuisance to have to travel across the country on a random thursday afternoon, for an unforeseeable amount of days
• He tried to call you as often as possible, but most of the time he was either too busy or your schedules just simply didn’t align
• It was no different on this case, and to make matters even worse, this time he had to go five whole days without seeing you, and three without getting to hear your voice
• So when he finally arrived home to your shared apartment, seeing you in one of his oversized sweaters, looking so inviting and cozy on the couch, smiling at him so sweetly as you greeted him…
“Spence,” you giggled softly, tilting your head to the side to grant him easier access, as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck. You were seated in his lap, your arms around his neck, and his hands on your thighs on either sides of his hips. He has refused to let go of you ever since he came home almost an hour ago, his hands and lips not leaving your skin for even a second, as if he was afraid that you would disappear like a mirage.
“Hm?” He hummed against your neck, his lips focusing on your pulse point. He nipped and sucked on your pristine skin, covering it with small love bites. They would fade by the morning, but for now, he relished in getting to decorate you with his marks, like a physical reminder that you were his.
Your breath hitched, only letting out the shuddering breath that you sucked in, when his hands finally moved under your –his– sweater. You very quickly forgot what you were about to say, your hips rolling against his with a small, needy sound.
“Angel.” Spencer’s voice was soft, if a bit choked, his hands quickly sliding down to hold your hips. “I want to take my time with you tonight. Will you let me?”
You bit down on your lower lip, feeling your lower regions ache with desire from how he wound you up with his casual, gentle kisses and touches. At the same time though, you were feeling just as clingy as he was. You didn’t want this to end for a long time, didn’t want to rush into an orgasm.
So you just nodded, cupping Spencer’s cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him languidly. Your lips moved in sync, in a familiar, well-practiced dance, while you raised your hips to allow him to pull off your shorts and panties.
You reached down to the hem of your sweater, but he caught your wrists, stopping you from taking it off.
“Leave it on. Please,” he said, adding the adverb almost as an afterthought. “I like making you mine in my own clothes.”
And oh, that just simply wasn’t fair. He couldn’t seriously say stuff like that and expect you not to drag you needy, wet cunt against the noticeable bulge in his pants. You both moaned at the same time from the friction, and this time he didn’t have it in him to tell you to stop.
You kissed him deeply, moving your hands to unbuckle his belt, while he unzipped his pants –a combined effort, to get his poor, aching hardness out of the confines of his slacks as fast as possible.
There were very little words exchanged, lips parting as you both sighed into eachother’s mouths, once you finally sank down on his length.
“Jesus Christ, Angel. I missed you so much,” he whispered hotly against your lips, before dipping his head down, to press his lips to your throat.
It was hard to stay still at first. As much as you wanted to drag this out, his tip was nudging your cervix so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him tightly. You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt him twitch inside you in response, while he whined against your skin.
But after a few minutes, you finally settled. It felt incredible, being connected with him so intimately, bodies and souls entwined on your couch. You kissed him lazily, before asking him about his day, his time away, letting him talk to you about the case –well, as much as he was allowed to tell you about it.
You talked and cuddled and just stayed in eachother’s embrace. Because after so long, you were finally reunited, and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of it.
And if a while later, after you’ve already discussed everything and caught up with eachother, he finally pounded you into the couch, well… You definitely weren’t one to complain about that either.
I love jealousy fics
pretty boy
summary - the team is out for drinks and people can’t stop hitting on your boyfriend
pairing - spencer reid x bau!gf
word count - +1k
“He’s so hot.”
“Ugh that hair!”
“He is so kissable.”
You had only been at the bar for an hour and you’d already hit your limit for the amount of women that have hit on your boyfriend.
The worst thing about it, is that Spencer is so oblivious to it that you feel silly for being even a little bit jealous.
You were currently at the bar ordering some drinks and were listening to a group of girls lust after your boyfriend, who was currently sitting with the rest of the team in a booth.
“I mean seriously… he looks like he’d know how to please a woman.” One of them said.
You gave the girls a brief look to make sure you weren’t making things up in your head and to your dismay they were all looking Spencer’s way. Curse him for sitting at the end of the booth.
You then looked back to Spencer who was listening intensely to something Rossi was saying.
He did look good. Like, really good.
He’d recently had a haircut that made him look that little bit older, whilst also keeping that youth. Hotch had told him he looked like he was part of a boy-band, which in a way he did. The hot one, if he was.
You loved his new hair. It was so fluffy and soft. Perfect to run your hands through.
It just irked you that other people were thinking the same thing. And so openly.
He was even extra handsome tonight with his work clothes on. It was hot so he had taken off his waistcoat, so it was just his shirt - which he had rolled the sleeves up on - his loose tie and his fitted trousers.
“I’m going to go talk to him.” One of them said, making you tense up.
You wished the bartender would hurry up so you could go back and sit next to Spencer already. You trust Spencer more than anything - but it was these girls you didn’t trust.
“Oh my God. Never mind. He’s coming over here. How’s my hair?”
You thanked the bartender as he placed the drinks on a circular tray in front of you.
The girls were all nervously excited next to you.
Until they weren’t.
Because you felt Spencer slide up behind you, resting one of his hands at the bottom of your spine and the other placed on the bar edge.
“You okay?” He asked, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as you swayed your body into his.
Spencer was standing perpendicular to you so it gave you the opportunity to rest the side of your head on his chest. It allowed you to just breathe him in as if it were just you and him in the room.
You nodded slowly, not really knowing how else to answer.
“Need help with these?” He asked, tapping the tray.
“Please.”
“M’kay. I’ll get these. You grab some straws.”
You were sad when his hand left your back to reach for the tray of drinks. You also really wanted to take Spencer away from these girls though.
Before you could both go back, one of the girls touched Spencer on his forearm and questioned him.
“Excuse me, are you two together?” She asked, only looking at Spencer for the answer. It was almost as if you were invisible.
“Uh, yeah. We are.” Spencer gave a polite smile.
“Oh.” She said, surprised.
Spencer didn’t respond and neither did you. He just smiled before nudging you to keep walking.
Once you were out of their earshot he asked, “That was weird right?”
“Yeah.” It was your turn to give him a small smile this time, keeping your head down as you returned to the booth.
<.><.><.>
The atmosphere had changed.
You had felt good at the start of the night - an hour ago - but now everything felt a little different.
It no doubt had everything to do with the girls that had been surprised that Spencer was dating you. Also it didn’t help that Spencer still looked great and was gaining more and more hungry eyes.
You sipped your drink even though you weren’t interested in having a good time any more. You wanted to be alert in case you needed to be for Spencer’s sake.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” Spencer said.
He was still sat on the end of the booth, but he had one arm tucker over the back of the booth and down around your shoulder to keep you pressed close to him. For someone who was okay with not fully understanding social interactions, he had always done a perfect job of being with you.
The rest of the team were talking and laughing over drinks.
“It’s okay.” You shook your head.
“It’s not if it’s bothering you.” Spencer argued.
“It’s silly.”
You looked from the team to the rest of the bar where people were still looking Spencer’s way.
Damn, why did he have to be so attractive?
You weren’t sure how to approach the subject with Spencer though. He was too sweet to take his gaze off you for even a second to notice how many gazes were on him. It wasn’t even a him problem. Good for him for looking so pretty, but it was just difficult trying to be okay with the extra attention that him being pretty came with.
It sounded so stupid and it didn’t even make sense to you, so it was impossible trying to think of how to bring it up to Spencer.
“Is it the case?” Spencer asked.
You sighed, “No.”
“Did I do something? I feel like that’s quite likely.”
You shook your head, feeling yourself getting worked up about this.
Spencer’s arm pulled you further into his body and his other arm detached from his drink so he could rest his palm on your thigh.
“I’m sorry for ruining your night.”
“You’re not ruining my night. I just don’t like seeing you upset.”
“I know.”
“Well, you tell me when you want to leave and we’ll go okay?”
“Okay.”
<.><.><.>
Spencer was brushing his teeth when you blurted out those three words.
“Sorry if I was weird tonight.” You apologised, finishing off your nighttime routine in Spencer’s apartment.
He mumbled something along the lines of ‘it doesn’t matter’, but it was hard to tell when he had a mouth full of toothpaste.
Your chest heaved heavy breaths as you watched him with adoration.
He looked so soft and homely standing in his bathroom, brushing his teeth in his pyjamas with you. He was just so damn perfect and it was because of that that you had to tell him.
“It was your hair!” You blurted out before you could control yourself.
“Huh?” He questioned with a mouthful of toothpaste still. He took a brief glance to the mirror to check his hair before turning back to you.
“Your hair! I think it’s made you really hot. N-not that you weren’t hot before Spence but- oh my god, what am I saying?” You let out a shaky breath before continuing, “I was jealous okay? Really jealous because everyone at that bar was staring at you like they wanted you and I-I know you and me are— and you would never— and I — but I just…
Spencer spat out his toothpaste.
“Y/N…”
“I couldn’t stop thinking that like you’re mine and what right did they have to chat you up, let alone look at you that way? I mean—.”
“Babe…”
“I love you, okay?!” You proclaimed. You stood there in shock for a moment, not knowing where to take this now that you’d announced that.
“Y/N…”
“I do.” You nodded rapidly, “I do, I really do love you a-and I think it really hit me tonight when I saw you being loved on by all those other women.”
Spencer dropped his toothbrush and took a step towards you.
“All of that tonight was because you love me?” He questioned, trying to wrap his head around this.
“I think so, yeah.”
You pulled the sleeves of your jumper down over your hands as something to fidget with. You were growing nervous now for Spencer to say something.
“Well that makes sense.” He nodded, “I.. I think that means I love you too.”
“Really?” You asked, eyes wide as you watched him figure things out for himself.
“Yeah. I mean… I was frustrated as you sounded at all those men looking at you all night. It was driving me crazy.”
“People looking at me?” You frowned.
“You were the prettiest person in the room.”
“Spence…” You pouted, feeling your eyes tear with happy emotions.
You can’t believe that he had been feeling the exact same as you all this time. All it would have taken was a conversation earlier to talk things through and you both wouldn’t have been feeling so vulnerable.
“I love you, Y/N, even though I’m telling you in the most un-romantic setting.”
“You’re wrong. This is like the most romantic it could be for me.” You smiled and looped your arms around his neck. You felt his come around your waist.
“This?”
“Yeah. You, me and a little bit of toothpaste. That’s all I need to know that I love you.”
“And my hair.”
“Huh?”
“I distinctly remember you talking about how hot my hair was before…” He chuckled and you thumped your forehead down on his chest to escape the embarrassment.
“Stop.”
“No, never. Just like I’m never getting another haircut.”
You lifted your head at that, resting your chin on his chest as you looked up at him with heart eyes.
“I could live with that.” You smiled.
Spencer stayed looking at you for a few moments.
You could tell he was taking a minute to process everything as well as continue to study every little feature on your face. You prompted him to say something when he stared a little too long though.
“Just like seeing you smile. That’s all.” He said.
It was as simple as that.
You both loved each other. You both loved seeing each other smile. To keep that a forever kind of thing you would have to promise communication and accept there’ll be moments of jealousy. Those moments will be made better though when you remind each other that it’s each other you’re going home to.
jealousy, jealousy / aaron hotchner
here’s my masterlist! pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader / shy!reader word count: 2.4k genre & cw: fluff, a little jealousy and pining angst if u squint, mentions of made-up case, different use of cm character a/n: thank u so much for all the support i've been getting on my fics!! hope you love this one as much as i do, i really enjoyed writing this one the most!
Today was a bad day. That much was clear. From the moment you woke up to the minute you arrived at the BAU– you’re convinced that the universe has simply gone the extra mile to make your life a little harder.
You slept through your alarm and a few phone calls from Garcia, making your morning stressful and complete chaos. You didn’t have time to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, and apparently you also didn’t have time to remove the colorful pimple patches that adorned your face.
Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garcia’s help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through.
That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought.
There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? I’m…wearing pants, right?
Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.
Strauss was in Hotch’s office, along with Rossi and a woman you don’t recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman… is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh.
You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day.
But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldn’t figure out why.
You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derek’s desk as you whisper under your breath, “What’s happening there?”
Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, “I don’t know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesn’t have a clue either.” Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something.
Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if they’d only met in passing.
“Do you know anything, Spence?” But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that he’s thought about it hard but is coming up empty.
Shaking his head, he soberly replies, “No..I don’t think so. I– I’ve never seen her before. Sorry.”
Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotch’s office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch.
-
You’re approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch who’s already looking at you.
He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely.
Now, you’ve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all days– you couldn’t help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse.
You don’t even notice that you’re frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought you’ve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, “You’ll need claws not paws, baby girl.” Winking at you as you separate.
You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it weren’t for the clenching of his jaw that’s his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something that’s causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file.
As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. It’s through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!
If it weren’t for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have done– …still absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss.
And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there… but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and that’s just a universal truth.
-
After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.’s, you’re all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsub’s on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short.
Reid’s been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morgan’s pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, “This is impossible. We just don’t have enough.” He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud.
To the left of Morgan, you’re also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that he’s right, you guys don’t have enough…bodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile.
You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. “Reid?” The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites don’t say much about the unsub’s comfort zones or hunting ground.
You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you haven’t seen any of them, “Where are the others?”
Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, “Hmm. I think what you’re really asking is: Where’s Hotch and is he with Seaver?” He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious he’s only teasing.
The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, “Shut up,” hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand.
While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, “Seaver wanted to turn in early since she’s also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.”
You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the marker’s cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding “And I’m pretty sure Rossi’s getting us coffee from the diner around the block.”
You want to blame it on your exhaustion– your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds you’re making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob.
Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud.
“It’s not funny!” There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldn’t tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia.
He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, “Baby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss man’s heart.” Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face.
Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of “That’s not true!” that came out more as “Daffs noft thwu!”
When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, you’re surprised to see Reid’s moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you.
Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, “Kid. Be real with me for a sec… are you blind?” That was not the question you were expecting.
You must have looked so lost because he continues, “Hotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. You’ve gotta have felt that, kid.” Funny, you are starting to feel like a kid– the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience.
“That’s just not–” you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stop–
“Did you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the right– the way you need it to be– in case the night janitors move any out of place?”
“Or that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?”
“Or do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?”
Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, “I mean I was genuinely dying then.”
Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow “Did you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.”
You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off “And I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.”
The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really?
As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, “Look, there’s so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.” He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, “That just can’t be true.”
With all three of your backs to the door, you don’t notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, “Coffee, anyone?”
As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, you’re still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didn’t even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted “Thanks.”
Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, “So… what can’t be true?”
Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the table– Morgan spouts, “That she’s Hotch’s girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaver– who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.”
-
Now– all of your backs are to the door except Rossi’s. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.
Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldn’t have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.
Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behind– leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.
Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous?
In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didn’t hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish.
-
You gasp loudly at his bluntness– and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, “You little– I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT Hotch’s–”
Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasn’t been actively paying attention until now.
The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you.
You’re all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirt–
Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as you’re about to mentally curse him in your head, you’re broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice,
“You don’t think you’re my girl?”
The guilt that comes with grieving.
I lost my grandfather about a month ago, and now all I can think about every day is that I should have listened to his stories more. I should have spent more time with him. I should have cared more. I hate my younger self for not showing him how much I loved and appreciated him. I was only a kid, but I still feel so much guilt.
He had dementia and yet his face would light up whenever we saw him. He knew who we were up until his last day's and the way he reacted showed us how much he loved us but I don't think I'll get over the fact that I didn't love him enough until it was too late.
For the past couple of years, he has been my favourite person. I learnt more about him within three years than I did my whole life and the things I learnt about his childhood made me hate myself even more. He went through so much and dedicated his adulthood to making sure his children and grandchildren had better parental figures than he did.
I love him so much, but I will always be afraid that I loved him too late.
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.
This makes me want a baby
You write fluff and flangst absolutely amazingly and I’m in awe every dang time!
Buuut since you’ve got spring break coming up, a little fic idea that’s in my head that I’ll never do justice! (If you’re interested)
Fem!reader finding out an adorable way to tell Spencer she’s pregnant. I don’t care if they’re dating or married or what - but like she puts together a crossword, or a puzzle and he just doesn’t get it. (If you wanna throw angst in, he leaves without getting it for a case and then realizes it in the middle of the night.)
puzzling | S.R.
trying to tell Spencer you're pregnant, but he's too concerned with your well-being to fill out your custom crossword puzzle
who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: pregnancy and misc. symptoms., talk of fainting and blood tests. word count: 1.69k a/n: welcome back to the spencer reid dilf agenda! i hope this does your request justice and thank you for entrusting me with this idea!!!! <3
you
It was your pride and joy, the collection of folded papers that sat on the kitchen counter, next to a cup of coffee that you had already filled for him.
On your fake newspaper, you had created a custom crossword puzzle. With four very important clues.
Across: “Early stage of life”
Across: “American actress Frances _”
Down: “Must be finished by”
Down: “Veteran’s Day month”
You smiled softly to yourself as you heard Spencer’s footsteps coming down the staircase. Padding over to the kitchen counter, you sat on one of the stools, a cup of tea in front of you.
Before he even looked at the newspaper, Spencer leaned over to kiss you good morning, “You look tired,” he whispered, hooking a finger under your chin as if he were investigating the dark circles underneath your eyes.
“Way to make a girl feel good about herself,” you teased lightly, even though you knew he was right. At least you felt tired.
He rolled his eyes, “You know that’s not what I meant.” Turning to grab his mug of coffee off of the counter, he observed you again, “Are you sure your doctor said nothing was wrong?”
Smiling, you gave him a brief nod. You had gone to see your doctor a few days ago for nausea and fatigue, and Spencer would’ve gone with you had he not been on the other side of the country on a case. “They’re running some tests, but they didn’t see anything blatantly wrong,” the doctor was running a few blood tests, checking your iron levels and HCG.
Using his free hand, Spencer reached over and moved a lock of hair out of your face, “They said your blood pressure was low?”
Low blood pressure, as it turned out, was a pregnancy symptom that was most common in the first trimester. “You’re freaking out over nothing, Spence,” you told him. Really, it was something. A rather large something – or small, depending on how you wanted to look at it. “Come on, it’s crossword time,” you told him, using the end of the pen to tap on the newspaper.
“I worry about you when I’m away. You do know that low blood pressure can cause syncope, right? Did they prescribe you anything for it?” He asked, ignoring your wishes to move on and do the crossword.
There was a small part of you that just wanted to tell him, but frankly, you had worked too hard on the crossword puzzle to give yourself away like that. You couldn’t tell him that they didn’t prescribe you anything because they didn’t know how far along you were. A larger part of you knew that if you just got him to work on the puzzle, he would have his answers in about seven minutes.
Then his phone rang, he pulled the device out of his pocket, and the Caller ID on the screen caused you to slump your shoulders forward. It was Garcia. “Hey Garcia,” he greeted on the phone, “at the tarmac?”
You set your head on the counter and sighed in defeat as Spencer hung up the phone.
“Are you alright?” He asked you softly, tenderly wrapping an arm around your torso.
Humming, you sat back up, ignoring the stars in your field of vision as you did so. “I’m fine, you should go,” you insisted.
Spencer shook his head, “No, you’re sick. I’ll call Garcia back and tell her I have to stay back.” Acting bewildered at the idea that he had been so remiss as to agree to do his job while you were unwell.
You reached out and set a hand on his, “It’s alright, love. I can take care of myself,” you reminded him. Besides the fact that you were wholly self-sufficient, the only reason why Spencer would be asked to meet the team at the tarmac was if they were headed toward a particularly gnarly case – they needed all hands on deck.
“Promise me you’ll check in? Call your mom if you need any help, please,” he requested, pleading eyes following you as you got up to hug him.
Nodding, you wrapped your arms around him, “You should take the crossword with you.” Pulling away, you haphazardly refolded the newspaper and handed it to him.
Furrowing his brow, Spencer inspected the paper that you had given him. “We always do the crossword together on Saturdays,” he found you incredibly helpful on the pop culture clues. “We could save this one and then have two for next week,” he offered.
God. No. Your eyes widened at the idea of having to keep your secret for another week, shaking your head, you shrugged, “No, you should take it. It’ll make me look forward to next week even more,” you insisted.
He folded, and with a sweet kiss to the forehead, he was off to go save lives, remaining entirely unaware of the one growing inside of you.
him
The judgmental Italian behind him was proving to be a distraction, “Did you find something?” Spencer asked, eyeing the evidence board with frustration. Something bugged him about the case, and he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
“Not right now, but it’s three in the morning,” Rossi said, joining Spencer by the evidence board. “Why don’t you give that big brain of yours a break?”
Shaking his head, Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, “I tried. I can’t stop thinking about the case.” Men were popping up dead in a small Missouri town at an alarming rate, and he felt so close to a breakthrough.
Dave nodded like he understood the feeling, that was probably why he had emerged from his hotel room so early, returning to the precinct before the sun peeked over the horizon. “What do you usually do to wind your brain down?”
Raising his eyebrows, Spencer shrugged, “Crossword puzzles,” he admitted, any word puzzle would do the trick.
The chuckle from the older man next to him startled Spencer, “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rossi looked around the precinct, “I’m sure we can find one around here somewhere.”
“No,” Spencer said, “I have one in my bag, actually.” He refrained from including the detail that you had given him the crossword puzzle, or else he’d never hear the end of it.
Clapping him on the back, Rossi lifted his coffee cup, “Then I suggest you go take the thirty seconds to fill out that puzzle and then get some rest.”
Once he was back in his hotel room, he changed before pulling out the pile of papers that you had sent him off with. Sitting on top of the bed, he filled out the puzzle in approximately six minutes and forty-three seconds. Once the letters were filled in, he skimmed the puzzle – just to check it over.
The only one that might’ve given him trouble was about an American actress – usually he had you to help him with pop culture, but he recalled having the same last name as an actress in Days of Our Lives.
It was interesting that the words “Baby” and “Reid” were right next to each other.
Wait.
Quickly, he calculated the odds that the words “Baby” “Reid” “Due” and “November” were all in the puzzle and when the numbers were put together, they made your anniversary. Spencer just as quickly called you, listening to the phone ringing.
His heart was racing as he waited to see if you answered the phone. “Hey,” your groggy voice came through the receiver.
“Where did you get this crossword puzzle?” He asked you, flipping through the rest of the newspaper for the first time.
You hummed softly, “You’re doing it right now?”
Looking at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he dropped his face into his hands. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t even think about the time,” it was just past four in the morning now, making it just past five in the morning in Virginia. “I just thought that…” his voice trailed off. What if it was just a coincidence?
There was silence on your end of the call, and he wondered if you had fallen asleep. You hadn’t been feeling well, and he’d woken you up with his phone call. “You thought what, Spence?”
The teasing lilt in your voice had given you away to him immediately. He knew. Every one of his suspicions were confirmed, “Y/N Reid,” he breathed.
“Spencer Reid,” you countered.
He took a deep breath, “Are you pregnant?”
“Yeah,” you answered simply, with about as much enthusiasm as he expected from you at five in the morning.
It all started to make sense to him. The low blood pressure, the drowsiness, and even the slight caginess when it came to him asking about your doctor’s visit. He swiped away a few stray tears, “I don’t know what to say.” It wasn’t a feeling he was overly used to.
You cleared your throat, “Are you happy?” Nerves clouded your voice, and he could hear you becoming more awake – more alert.
“I am,” he searched aimlessly. Elated. Thrilled. Ecstatic. “I’m so happy,” he told you, at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to say, I just… God, are you okay?” Dread washed over him, you were alone, sick, and pregnant at home and he was halfway across the country.
Sighing, he heard a ruffling on the other end of the call. “I’m great. I’m exhausted, I had no idea being pregnant was so tiring. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t know.” You sighed again, “I’m not making any sense.”
He laughed lightly at your rambling, “You’re making perfect sense. Chances are your energy will return during the second trimester.”
“Don’t get my hopes up.” You paused again for just a moment, “I’m sorry if I scared you. With the whole doctor’s appointment thing. They really are keeping an eye on my blood pressure and whole slew of other things, but they know the root cause.”
A giddy smile grew on his face, “It’s because you’re pregnant.”
A soft hum came through the phone, “It’s because I’m pregnant,” you concurred.
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