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?

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.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Tags

spencer reid spencer reid x reader spencer reid fluff spencer reid criminal minds

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

HI I Have An Idea And Its Making Me Really Giddy

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it.

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas.

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly.

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature.

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.”

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

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

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spencer reid spencer reid x reader spencer reid fluff

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love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

Love, love, love 🤍

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

you do you for the rest!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You in there?”

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

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

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

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably.

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

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

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

“My face freaks you out?”

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

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

Oh. He was fucking with you.

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

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

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

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

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

For some reason, this offends you.

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

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

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

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

“Well—”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what it’s called.”

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

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

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

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

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

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

“See? How hard was that?”

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

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

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

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

“I can’t—”

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

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

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

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

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

Something aches in the pit of your stomach.

Something resembling jealousy.

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

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

You swallow and try to act like yourself.

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

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

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

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

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

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

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

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

“H—woah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up! You love it!”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

You frown.

She makes a good point.

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

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

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

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

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

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

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

Funny.

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

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spencer reid spencer reid imagine spencer reid x reader spencer reid fanfic

7K notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

3 weeks ago

Perfection

SOME THINGS STAY.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ ever since spencer gave you that delicate little flower necklace, it’s barely left your neck. even when you're getting all dressed up for a fancy night out and it doesn't quite match, you’re not taking it off. it’s his gift—it’s special—and no way are you going anywhere without a piece of him close to your heart

WARNINGS ಇ. fluff— lots and lots of it, heart-eyes!spencer, emotional!spencer

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 930

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You’re standing in front of the full-length mirror, carefully adjusting the straps of your dress as your heels click softly on the hardwood floor. It’s elegant, timeless, the kind of dress that makes you feel like you’re starring in some classic black-and-white film—only with better lighting.

The zipper is just out of reach, and so, in a soft voice tinted with playful affection, you call out, “Spence, can you zip me up?”

From down the hall, you hear the soft rustle of fabric and the quick, familiar shuffle of socked feet on hardwood. Moments later, Spencer appears behind you, looking unfairly beautiful in his suit and slightly crooked tie, his hair falling a little messily over his forehead. He has his glasses on, which always makes your heart stutter for no good reason.

“I can do that,” he says gently, already stepping closer.

His fingers brush your back as he slowly pulls the zipper upward, the motion achingly careful—as though he’s handling fine lace or some kind of sacred treasure. Which, knowing him, you’re pretty sure he thinks you are.

Once the zipper’s secured, you expect him to pull away. But instead, his hands settle lightly on your waist, and his eyes catch on the chain around your neck. His brows knit together as he leans forward to inspect the pendant more closely.

“You’re wearing the necklace I gave you,” he says softly, a surprised note in his voice.

You glance down at it in the mirror. It’s a simple silver chain, holding a small glass orb with a tiny, pressed forget-me-not encased inside. The gift he gave you months ago—after one of those long, exhausting stretches where he was gone on a case for ten days straight. He had handed it to you, sheepishly, in the middle of your shared kitchen, mumbling something about permanence and flowers and how he hoped you’d like it.

“I am,” you say, your smile soft and content.

Spencer tilts his head. “But… it doesn’t quite go with the neckline. I mean, aesthetically speaking, it interrupts the visual line of the bodice, and—” He pauses, recognizing your expression of amusement in the mirror. “Sorry, I was rambling.”

You giggle under your breath. “A little.”

He clears his throat, his fingers gently brushing against the clasp at the back of your neck. “I could take it off for you. Just for tonight. I’ll put it somewhere safe, I promise.”

But you immediately shoo his hands away, your tone light but firm. “Nope.”

He blinks. “What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“I mean no.” You turn to face him now, reaching up to fix his slightly crooked tie. “You gave it to me. It’s yours. I’m not taking it off.”

Spencer stares at you, blinking slowly, like he’s trying to process the words but his brain short-circuited somewhere in the middle.

“I…” He exhales. “But it doesn’t match—”

“Still,” you interrupt gently, smoothing your hands over his lapels. “It’s my favorite thing. You picked it out. You remembered what flower I said I liked when we watched that documentary about botanical symbolism and how they used to mean secret messages.” Your eyes meet his, full of warmth. “It’s the most you thing I own. So yeah—obviously, I’m not taking it off. Ever.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Spencer Reid absolutely melts into a puddle of goo on the bedroom floor. His eyes go glassy, his mouth opening just enough to say something—anything—but no words come out. Just a breath. A shaky, wonderstruck breath.

“You remembered I said that?” he murmurs, like he still can’t quite believe it.

“Of course I did. You’re you.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, before pulling you into a gentle hug. His arms wrap around you tightly, almost like he’s afraid if he lets go, the moment might dissolve. “You’re unbelievable,” he whispers into your hair.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He chuckles, and you feel his lips press to the top of your head. “No. It’s the best thing.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Spencer walks into the bullpen looking like a man who just witnessed actual magic.

“Someone’s glowing,” Emily teases as he drops his bag by his desk. “Did the gala have an open bar or did your girlfriend finally admit she’s secretly a time traveler?”

“She wore the necklace I gave her,” Spencer says, completely unprompted. He’s not even looking at anyone. He just says it with this dazed little smile on his face.

“Oh?” JJ glances over. “The pressed flower one?”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, adjusting his satchel strap unnecessarily. “It didn’t match her dress at all. Like, it was totally off. I offered to take it off for her, but she wouldn’t let me. She said…” He trails off for a moment, eyes unfocused, like he’s reliving it all over again. “She said it was my gift, so she’s never taking it off. Ever.”

There’s a collective pause around the bullpen.

And then—

“Awwwwwww!” comes in stereo from Garcia and JJ.

“God, that’s so disgustingly cute,” Emily says, sipping her coffee with a smirk. “How are you not married yet?”

“I love love,” Penelope declares, dramatically clutching her heart. “You’ve got the heart-eyes going so hard, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer just shrugs, a soft smile still pulling at his lips. “I guess I do.”

There’s a long pause. Then, almost absently, he adds: “I think I’m going to get her another one. One for every flower she’s ever told me about.”

And just like that, Emily squeals and Garcia nearly falls off her chair.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

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spencer reid spencer reid imagine spencer reid fluff criminalminds

897 notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

I love this with all my heart

A Bit of Lunch and Thievery - Spencer Reid

REQUESTED!

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

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

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

A Bit Of Lunch And Thievery - Spencer Reid

_______

Words: 1.3k

It was a normal day at the BAU office.

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

Of course, the peace had to end eventually.

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

Well, to him, she was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was lucky it was a nice doberman.

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

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

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

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

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

Like the stapler which she kept eyeing.

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

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

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

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

“Ignoring the point, I see,”

“Shut up,” she grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t talk sweetly to my girlfriend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tags

spencer reid bau team spencer reid criminal minds

246 notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

🤍🤍

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

it's a date

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

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

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

A low whistle exited Morgan.

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

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

"Hot date?"

"You could say that."

Aaron felt his jaw move. Clench, actually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That bad?"

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

"Do you want to talk about it?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Which one?"

"Shrek."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

All yours. He could get used to that.

"It's a date."

Tags

hotchner I adore him.

3K notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

2 weeks ago

I LOVE jealous Spencer

ummm can i request jealous spencer? like reader has a boyfriend or spencer thinks she has a boyfriend and he gets all pouty. and then ... soft confession/kisses :)

feel free to ignore if it's not your cup of tea!

btw my criminal minds themed blog is @sweetheartspence !! but alas i cannot send asks from a side blog </3

thank u in advance! hope u have a wonderful day/night

Oh! This is definitely my cup of tea I love love love jealous Spencer 😋

BYR(b4 u Reid): Jealous & mean Spencer Reid :0, teasing, and a bit of fluff toward the end, along w a cute little kiss scene hehe

Jealousy | Spencer Reid

Ummm Can I Request Jealous Spencer? Like Reader Has A Boyfriend Or Spencer Thinks She Has A Boyfriend

It had been a week. A week since Spencer started noticing the shift in your behavior.

You were… happier. Lighter. More willing to do things for your coworkers than before.

Staying late without complaint, grabbing an extra coffee for someone, taking an extra file without the usual dramatic sigh.

You used to roll your eyes when Morgan pawned off paperwork on you, now you just did it. No protest. No banter.

And then there were the little changes. The way you started painting your nails, the extra time you took with your makeup.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume someone was catching your attention, and truthfully he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Hey.” He called, catching you before you could leave the bullpen. “There’s a movie playing tonight, it’s based in the fifties, and about a serial killer who’d eat his victims. It’s supposed to be really good. Want to come with me?”

You hesitated, shifting on your feet. “Aw, Spence, that does sound fun, but I can’t. I’m busy.”

“Oh.” His fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening. “No, that’s fine. What are you doing?” He asked, curiosity getting the best of him.

“Just… something with a friend.” You said vaguely, offering him a small smile.

A friend.

He nodded, forcing a smile. “Nice. Okay. Maybe next time.”

“Yeah.” You agreed before walking away, leaving him standing there.

And it wasn’t just him noticing the change anymore, it was the whole team.

The way you were always texting, checking your phone like you were waiting for something. For someone.

Morgan noticed first, of course.

“Someone seems pretty occupied.” His voice was laced with amusement as he watched your fingers fly over your screen.

You glanced up, blinking. “Yeah, sorry.” You muttered, locking your phone and setting it down.

“Important stuff?” Spencer asks, trying to sound casual.

You shook your head. “No not important at all.”

Morgan snorted. “Right.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.” He said, smirking as he leaned back in his seat.

You didn’t buy it, but you let it go, getting up from your spot on the jet and heading toward the restroom.

The second you were gone, Morgan turned toward Spencer, grinning. “That girl is definitely hiding something.”

Spencer’s head snapped to Derek. “Yeah? Like what?” His brows raised, eyes wide.

Morgan’s smirk only grew more. “Woah. Eager, aren’t you, pretty boy?”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I’m just curious. Does it seem like she’s acting different? Like… someone is causing her to be like this?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re worried.”

“Worried?” Spencer scoffed. “About what?”

“That she might be seeing someone.”

Spencer sat up straighter. “I’m not worried.” He said quickly, too quickly. “Just curious. She’s my friend. Don’t you want to know?”

“Yeah, but only because I’m nosey. You, on the other hand…” Morgan tilted his head. “You want to know because you’re scared of losing her.”

Spencer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Losing her? How would I lose her?”

Morgan shrugged, still grinning. “No more movie nights, no more friendly dinners, and definitely no more sleepovers. Your girl is gonna be busy with someone else.”

Spencer exhaled sharply, looking away. “She’s just my friend.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle. “Sure, pretty boy. Keep telling yourself that.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Lunch with Spencer had become a routine, quiet escape from the chaos of the BAU. Your usual spot, the same table by the window. Everything felt the same, except Spencer.

He was distracted. Off.

He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut, the one that told him something was going on with you. Something you weren’t telling him. The past week had been filled with too many smiles at your phone, to many whispered conversations with the girls, and too many times you’d turn him down.

So he had to pry a little bit.

“So, uh…how’s everything been?” He tried to keep his voice even, but there was a nervous edge to it.

You furrowed your brows. “How’s what been?”

“Uh, life?”

You smiled, stirring your drink absentmindedly. “Oh, good. Nothing much outside of work. Just busy.” You paused. “Why?”

Spencer shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just wondering if anything has changed in your life.”

You eyed him for a second, suspicious. “Oh…okay. Well no. Not really. You?”

“No. The same. Work and home. That’s about it.”

“Nice.” You said simply

There was a beat of silence before Spencer tried again. “Can I come over tonight? I’ve been wanting to play this new game I got.”

You hesitated, glancing away. “Oh, my house? It’s kind of a mess. Maybe we can do it at yours instead?”

His grip on his fork tightened. A mess? That was the excuse? Since when did you care if he saw your place like that? Unless… you were hiding something? Someone?

Had the person you were seeing already moved in?

The thought sent a sharp, unwelcoming sting through his chest.

“Yes.” He said, a little too quickly. “My house is good. Is eight okay with you?”

You nodded, smiling. “Perfect.”

Then your phone buzzed, and before he could say anything else, you grabbed it. You didn’t just check it, you smiled at it. A real, genuine smile.

Spencer bit the inside of his cheek.

Something burned in his stomach. Jealously.

It was stupid. Irrational. He had not right to be upset. You weren’t his.

But he was upset.

“We should go back now.” He said abruptly.

You glanced at the time. “We still have some time, though.”

He clears his throat. “I’m not really feeling good.”

Your brows knit tighter in concern. “Oh. Okay.”

You don’t question it. And that made him feel worse.

Back at the office, he watched as you practically sprinted to JJ, Emily, and Penelope. The four of you huddled together, whispering, giggling.

Spencer tried to listen, straining to hear past the office noise, but all he caught were Penelope’s dramatic gasps and high-pitched “oh my gods.”

And then-

“We need to meet him.” JJ says.

Spencer could’ve fainted right there.

Meet who?

Why did they get to know, and he didn’t? He thought you were closer than that.

“Maybe Friday night?” You suggested. “We can all get together. He’d love to meet the team.”

Spencer’s stomach twisted. He.

Who the hell was he?

He felt sick.

But no one noticed the way his face fell, the way his fingers dug into his palm as he clenched his fists.

“Yes, Friday!” Penelope clapped her hands excitedly. “I’ll tell the guys! Derek loves a night out at the bar.”

“Alright, I’ll let him know.” You said, smiling at the girls before heading back to your desk.

Spencer, however, turned on his heel and walked straight to the restroom, locking himself in a stall to breathe.

By the end of the workday, he’d barely spoken to you. He wasn’t even sure he could without his feelings slipping out in some pathetic, embarrassing way.

But then you ran into him on your way out.

“Hey.” You greeted, smiling up at him. “Still up for that game?”

Spencer hesitated, shifting on his feet. His emotions were too raw, too tangled. The thought of sitting alone with you tonight, knowing Friday he was probably going to have to come face to face with that guy, made him want to crawl out of his skin.

“I, umm…” he scratched the back of his neck. “I’m still not feeling good. Maybe next time.”

Your face fell slightly, and it made his chest ache. “I can still come over and make you some soup? Or we can watch a movie?”

For a brief second, he melted. Your voice was so soft, so you. Sincere. You cared about him. But then reality him, maybe you were like this with him, too. Maybe you were sending him sweet messages, making him laugh, offering him soup when he wasn’t feeling well.

The thought made his stomach turn.

“Uh, no.” He said, voice flat. “I want to be alone.”

Something flickered across your face, something confused and a little hurt. “Oh. Okay. Well… get better. Let me know if you do want my company. I’d love to stop by.”

Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah.”

Then he turned and walked away before you could see just how much he hated this.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

By Friday everyone had noticed, Spencer was off.

His usual, quiet, awkward charm had been replaced by something sharper, something angry. He was short with everyone, but mostly with you.

“Are you okay, Spencer?” You finally asked, cautiously approaching his desk.

His eyes lifted from the case file in front of him, sharp and unreadable. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You frowned. “You’ve just been…I don’t know. Different.”

Spencer let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Me? Different?” His voice was laced with sarcasm. “Right. I’m different.”

Your brows knit together. “Did I do something?”

“Look, I have a lot of work to do. I need to focus.” His tone was clipped, dismissive.

Morgan appeared behind you, catching enough of the conversation to raise an eyebrow. “Hey man. just chill.”

“I am chill.” Spencer snapped, jaw tight. “Just both of you. Go.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re acting like a child, but fine. I’ll go.”

Morgan watched you walk off before turning back to Spencer with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Man, you’re scaring her off.”

“Why should I care?” Spencer muttered, flipping a page in his file like it didn’t matter. “She’s taken.”

Morgan scoffed. “Because she’s your friend, and she cares about you. You’re treating her like garbage.”

Spencer didn’t answer. Just clenched his jaw and stared at the file like it could somehow fix what was wrong with him.

Morgan sighed. “You’re gonna regret this, kid.” Then he walked off, leaving Spencer alone with the gnawing, unbearable feeling twisting in his gut.

Later, in the break room, Emily found you pouring yourself a coffee.

“Hey! Have you asked Spencer if he’s coming tonight?”

You sighed. “No. Honestly, I’m kind of scared to talk to him right now. He seems off.”

Emily’s lips pressed together. “Yeah, I’ve noticed too.”

“I’ll try again.” You said, exhaling “maybe he just needs time to cool off.”

Emily nodded. “Hope it goes well.”

With your coffee in hand, you made your way back through the bullpen. You passed Spencer’s desk, and once again, found the same hard expression on his face. He didn’t even look at you.

But you weren’t giving up on him.

Two hours later, you decided to try again.

You walked over and casually perched yourself on his desk, something you’d done a hundred times before. But this time, Spencer tensed. Like he wanted you off.

“Hey,” you greeted softly.

His eyes flicked up. “Hey.”

“Are you coming to the bar tonight? I’d love it if you came.”

Spencer swallowed. “I—I don’t know. Bars aren’t really my thing. You know that.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know, but someone really important is coming, and I’d love for you to meet him.”

Spencer inhaled sharply.

Important. You had to say it like that? Right to his face?

His fingers twitched against his desk. “Yeah, I-I don’t think so.”

You pouted. “Spencer, please. He’s so funny, so cool. The girls already love him, and I know you guys would. He’s such a good guy, you need to meet him.”

His entire body went rigid.

He wanted to snap. He wanted to yell. But instead, he just clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“No.” His voice was sharp, and final.

You gave him those wide, pleading eyes. “Please?”

He shook his head.

“Alright.” You sighed, standing up. “Well, if you change your mind, it’s at Rudy’s. I really want you there.”

Before leaving, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

His breath hitched.

“I’m here if you need to talk.” You murmured. Then you walked away.

And Spencer ?

He dropped his head into his hands, exhaling sharply.

He felt awful.

Why was he like this? He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t control his jealousy, the anger, the way his emotions spiraled out of control every time he thought about you with someone else.

And worst of all?

He knew he was hurting you.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The bar was packed, the energy high. Everyone laughed, letting loose after a long exhausting week.

You were happy, smiling, surrounded by your team. But still, you couldn’t help but miss the one person who wasn’t there.

“He’s not coming.” JJ said gently, watching the way your smile faltered.

You sighed. “He hates me. And I don’t even know why.”

JJ shook her head. “He could never hate you. That boy practically worships the ground you walk on.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Then why does it feel like there’s nothing left for us? I should've made a move when things were good. Now it’s like… he's a different person. And I'm scared he doesn't want me.”

“Just give him time.” JJ said, squeezing your shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

You gave her a small smile before heading to the bar, sipping your drink.

Then.

“Can I sit?”

Your head snapped up. And there he was.

Spencer.

Your heart leapt. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming.”

He shrugged, slipping into the seat beside you. “I changed my mind, I guess.”

“Good.” You beamed. “I’m so happy.”

His eyes softened. “Uh, so where’s that guy?”

“Oh, Brian? He’s running a bit late, should be here soon through.”

Spencer exhaled, forcing a nod.

“Come on, let’s sit with the group.”

Before he could process it, you grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the booth where the team sat. His pulse kicked up at the contact.

As soon as the team saw him, a cheer erupted.

“Look who finally decided to have a life!” Penelope teased.

Spencer forced a smile, sliding into the booth beside you.

For awhile, things felt normal. Drinks flowed, conversations bounced between cases, childhood memories, and ridiculous office gossip. It was the kind of night that made you all feel less like FBI agents and more like lifelong friends.

Until.

“So, this guy we’re meeting…” Rossi drawled sipping his whiskey with an amused smile.

Spencer tensed.

You lit up. “Yes! His name is Brian! I’ve told him all about you guys, and he cannot wait to meet all of you.”

Spencer swallowed hard.

“He’s amazing.”

Spencer rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice his reaction.

Then, your name was called.

Spencer’s stomach dropped, this was the moment he had to come face to face with his fears.

You turned, your entire face brightening as you ran into the arms of some guy. You hugged him tightly. Held on to him like he was the best part of your night.

Spencer was sick.

“Guys, this is Brian, my best friend.” You introduced him, glancing around the group. But when your eyes landed on Spencer’s empty seat, your heart sank. He was gone. A knot formed in your chest, but you pushed it aside.

The team greeted Brian warmly, and soon, conversation flowed easily. It didn’t take long for everyone to love him, he was energetic, kind, and full of the craziest stories that had the group laughing.

“So, Brian, what made you want to move here?” Emily asked, taking a sip of her drink.

“Well,” Brian grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “This girl right here told me there was a lot of cute guys out here, so I figured, why not? Hot guys and my best friend? Seemed like a no-brainer.”

He smirked, blatantly eyeing Hotch and Derek.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Derek had managed to slip away from the group, and go with Spencer who was at the bar, nursing a drink that seemed like it hadn’t been sipped on.

“Alright, pretty boy. What’s your deal?”

Spencer didn’t even look at him. “I can’t watch her be with him.”

Derek let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. “Look, man, you’re spiraling. You need to go talk to your girl. Seriously.”

“She isn’t my girl, she has a boyfriend.”

Derek rubbed his face like Spencer was exhausting him. “Quit your pouting and go talk to her. Before the night ends.”

Spencer didn’t respond.

Derek groaned and walked off, leaving Spencer with his own miserable thoughts.

He turned toward the booth again, watching you.

You were smiling and having fun but he knew when it was genuine and when it wasn’t, and right now it wasn’t.

A weight settled in his chest.

So he made his choice.

Pushing off the bar, he crossed the room, weaving through the crowd until he was in front of you.

You looked up, surprised, but your expression softened. “Spencer, you’re back.”

His voice was low. “Can we talk?”

You studied his face, concern flickering across your features before you nodded.

Without another word, he took your hand and led you somewhere quieter, somewhere just for the two of you.

You both sat down, the buzz of the teams laughter and music muffled by the distance. There was a silencer between you, not uncomfortable. You didn't say anything. You were waiting... For him.

Spencer was thinking. If the man had steam coming out of his ears, you wouldn't even be surprised.

Finally, his eyes met yours. “I’m sorry.” he said softly.

He gave your hand that was still in his a gentle squeeze, you should've pulled away because truthfully, he didn't deserve to hold it, but you couldn't.

“I’m sorry I was being a-”

“An ass?” you filled in, no hesitation.

His jaw dropped slightly at your bluntness before he sighed in surrender. “Yeah… I deserved that.”

You nodded. “You did.”

Then your voice lowered, a little more vulnerable. “What did I do, Spencer?”

His shoulders sank under the weight of your words, he couldn’t believe he made you feel like it was all your fault. “Nothing. God, you didn’t do anything.” He said. He couldn’t even look at you.

You followed his gaze and it was on Brian, so it all clicked together for you.

“Be honest.” You urged gently.

His eyes flicked to you, guilt written all over his face. “I was jealous.”

“By who?” You asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it from him.

“Brian.” He muttered, looking down at his shoes like they might offer an escape. You tilted your head. “Brian?”

You could’ve teased him. Let him stew a little more, just for the hell of it. But he already looked like he’d been spiraling all week, and the truth was, you didn’t want to see him in pain, not when you cared about him this much.

“Spencer, Brian’s not into me.” You said. His head snapped up. “How?” He asked, baffled. “You’re- you’re perfect.”

You chuckled, shoulders lifting in a little shrug. “I’m not his type.” You glanced toward the booth where Brian was now leaned in, laughing at something Derek was saying. “But I think Derek might be.”

Spencer tracked your gaze, eyes narrowing in that profiler way of his. One second. Two. He blinked.

“Oh.”

The air left his lungs in a rush, like someone had cut the string pulling his jealousy tight.

But then his brows furrowed again. “Then why have you been different lately? Happier. Dressing up. You stopped inviting me over…”

You smirked. “Didn’t know you were paying so much attention, Dr. Reid.”

He flushed.

“Brian and I moved in together. That’s why I’ve been in a better mood, I guess. It’s nice having my best friend from home close. And yeah, I’ve been putting more effort in… but that’s because I’ve been trying to get the attention of this one genius loser I work with.”

Spencer blinked. That trademark genius brain of his clearly went offline.

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “You, Spence. It’s you.”

His lips parted, like the words were there but stuck. “I-I just didn’t want to assume.”

You gave him a playful look. “Right.”

He looked lighter now, like the guilt and confusion he’d been carrying and finally lifted.

“I really like you.” He said, voice more confident now. He leaned in a little. “And I-I want to make everything up to you.”

You raised brow. “Oh yeah? How?”

He smiled nervously. “Can I take you to dinner?”

You nodded slowly, clearly enjoying watching him squirm. “I’d like that…and?”

He bit his lip, thinking. “Movies…and then we can go back to my place and play that game I was telling you about?”

You nodded. “Not bad. It’ll be perfect if you also take on a couple of my files for a month.”

He groaned but smiled. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Your guys eyes locked on each others, and you weren’t sure who leaned in first. It didn’t matter.

The moment your lips met, it was soft, hesitant, but warm. Then Spencer deepened the kiss, one hand rising to cup your jaw, his other still holding you hand tightly like he couldn’t let go. His tongue slid across your lips, and you let him in.

You guys moved in sync, like you were perfect for each other.

And like this is where you guys were supposed to be.

You kissed until the need for air pulled you apart. Both of you stared, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“I was supposed to be mad at you a little longer.” You teased, he grinned smug. “Can I kiss you again so you won’t?”

You giggled. “Maybe.”

He leaned in again. This kiss was sweeter and gentler like he had gotten all the desperate need for you out with the first kiss. Now, he just wanted to continue feeling your lips on his, even if it was just a peck.

“I can do this all night.” You tell him

“I can too.”

And with that, the two of you stayed wrapped in each other’s company for the rest of the night. The team didn’t interrupt or tease, they simply let you be, giving you the space to enjoy the quiet warmth between you. It was easy, comfortable, like everything had finally fallen into place…

@beeintheskies Hope you love this<3 it was so fun to write, thank you for your request!

Divider from @hyuneskkami

Tags

spencer reid spencer reid imagine spencer reid x reader

574 notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

Champion Of Flirting - Sebastian Vettel

@herdetectivetheorist prompt 5 & 20 (sorry 3 was already taken for Max but we'll make it work) - "Want to try that again?" & "You'll regret this." "I'll regret not doing it more."

Summary: Y/n is a new reporter in F1 and she is trying her best not to let a certain young world champion seduce her, but she's struggling (as anyone would)

Red Bull 2011!Sebastian x shy for only Seb!reader

Warnings/themes: Pre-smut but no actual smut

Word count: 1.3k

No one would deny Sebastian is famous for a multitude of things. From his quick jump up from Toro Rosso into Red Bull despite fight back from Mark, his continuous wins, his record setting championship win and he's no failure with women either.

So when a new reporter is brought in, specifically for getting interviews with the drivers, his attention is grabbed by the woman who tries to overcome her shyness around him but he never aims to aid her.

"Hello, y/n." Seb greets as he walks to the media pen and even pushed Lewis out of the way to get in with y/n first.

"Hello, Sebastian." Y/n smiles already looking like she's getting a little flustered from his light eyes remaining glued on her like he's attached himself to her. "Do you feel good?"

Amusement sparkles behind his eyes as he watches her wince at the way she worded that question. He'd almost think she did it on purpose if y/n knew how to handle his presence and the effect he seems to have on her.

"Want to try that again? They can cut that." Seb smirks making her sigh then readjust trying to compose herself.

"How do you feel going into this weekend?" She asks since it's only a Thursday and he hasn't been on track yet.

Seb does answer the question in a professional manner giving her something decent to work with to redeem herself over the badly wording of her question. Not that he actually thinks it was that bad at all and he would've given the same answer regardless but it's not always that simple.

"Thank you." Y/n mumbles as Seb is steered away by his media babysitter, as he likes to refer to them since that's what it feels like a lot more than anything else.

"No problem." Seb smiles shooting her a wink as he does so.

He keeps watching her out the corner of his eye as he does other interviews and watches her seem a little more at ease with other drivers. Even his own teammate which is a little annoying because he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. He really likes the young woman and he has a certain fondness that he can't shake with her.

Sebastian won the Turkish gran prix and made a point to search for y/n immediately after the post-race chaos. Finding her packing up for the day and getting ready to catch a flight home.

She doesn't get the luxury of flying anything better than economy and she is always moving quickly to get herself home because she doesn't have the back up finances to pay for another ticket out of pocket.

"Come celebrate with me." Sebastian demands catching her attention while she immediately loses her voice. "I promise you a good time."

"Sorry, I have a flight I can't miss." Y/n mumbles while Seb sighs at her.

"You can get a flight back with me tomorrow."

"My hotel."

"We'll probably be leaving straight from celebrations. I'm not celebrating without you, so you have to come with me." Sebastian states not really giving her an option but only because he knows she'd put her foot and and decline if she really didn't want to. But on the chance she's too shy to actually say no. "If you don't want to, I won't really force you."

"No-I'll come with you." Y/n rushes out then managing a smile. "It sounds fun."

"Come on then, you will be part of the Red Bull team tonight." Sebastian smiles feeling a victory. Actually a big victory. The fact that y/n accepted his invitation to the party feels a bit like a bigger achievement since he fully expected her to to just shut him down and decline with no hesitation of changing of her mind.

Going to celebrate with Sebastian definitely felt like it was the right choice. Especially as she gets a couple drinks in her. Not getting drunk but definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol.

Maybe she should've actually tried to be more resilient to Sebastian's similarly tipsy whispers and light touches. But he talked her into coming back to his hotel because unlike expected they left the night out earlier than previously discussed.

But as they find themselves alone in each other's company. Y/n gently closes the space. Her liquid courage making her usual shyness and inability to find enough words to structure a full sentence having long since disappeared from the space between them.

"You'll regret this." Sebastian comments since even being less than sober, he knows y/n's lips ghosting over his own is something she'll think about when they part from each other.

"I'll regret not doing it more." Y/n whispers practically breathless as she completely closes the space between them.

Feeling her lips on his own is like getting a hit of a drug he didn't know he was waiting for a hit of.

"Don't change your mind. I don't want to stop." Sebastian states and she certainly isn't about to be the one who pushes for them to stop. She almost feels like she's overwhelmed by how good it feels to kiss the blonde f1 champion.

But she doesn't want to stop and she's desperate for more. To the point she's pushing his lean body backwards to the bed till his legs hit the edge and he accepts his position of being pushed back onto the surface.

"I need to feel you." Sebastian grunts rolling them over so she drops beneath him and he can gain some more control over the situation which earns a moan from the young woman.

Y/n definitely feels like this is a walk of shame as she follows Sebastian onto the private jet. But at the same time Sebastian is so completely unapologetic about his actions with her and he takes her hand into his own as they do.

"Sebastian." Y/n mumbles making him hum and smile dragging those blue eyes up to look at her and he reads her unspoken thoughts without her opening her mouth.

"You are not going to break my heart now are you?" Sebastian questions with the brutal honesty that forces her to accept that she really has two options: quit her job as soon as she's off the jet and completely prevent him from pursuing her or actually let herself have something nice and just accept his advances as more than just sex.

"No." Y/n whispers earning a toothy grin before he leans over and kisses her cheek. "But you can't keep flirting-"

"People would think something is wrong if I stopped flirting with you. Anyway, now I have the best reason to flirt with you." Sebastian smirks looking very victorious even if he's a little disheveled since they had to rush from the hotel to get here in order to stop the jet from being delayed for take off.

"Fantastic." Y/n hums while Sebastian grins just happy that she isn't fighting him about it. "So it's going to get more obvious and aggressive with your flirting?"

"Oh yes." Sebastian confirms not even seeing the issue with such a thing.

Tags

f1 x reader red bull seb sebastian vettel fic

835 notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

Confidence Boost

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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Tags

smut derek morgan derek morgan x reader confidence boost derek morgan fanfic derek morgan smut

533 notes View Post

love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

This is so cute 💕

imma need some serious angst with cold!reader and spencer. Like spence gets MAJORLY injured and maybe cold!read even has to do like cpr on him, like the full angst kit and caboodle.

(love you queen 😘)

WATER WEIGHT — SPENCER REID!

spencer’s not allowed to die. not yet. you’re not ready.

s10!spencer x cold!reader 1.3k angst cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

WARNINGS | attempted drowning (by unsub of spencer), spencer’s heart stops momentarily, cpr

a/n — not the lip on lip action you guys wanted but close enough ig—

The air is sharp with the bite of winter, and the dull roar of the river accompanies every breath you take. Trees with skeletal branches loom overhead, casting long shadows in the dim light of late afternoon.

The case has been relentless—ten days of chasing a killer across state lines, culminating here, at the edge of nowhere. The unsub’s trail had gone cold this morning, but Spencer had insisted on canvassing the area near the river, claiming he’d seen something the rest of you missed.

You hadn’t agreed, but you’d let him go. He was Spencer Reid, after all. Always right, always insistent. But when the scream came over the comms—short, sharp, and unmistakably his—your heart froze in your chest.

Now you’re running. Sprinting, boots pounding against frozen earth as you follow the distant sounds of a struggle. Branches snag at your jacket, the cold air burns your lungs, but you don’t hesitate. You don’t even think.

When you burst into the clearing, the scene before you punches the air from your lungs. The unsub has Spencer pinned, his body half-submerged in the river, arms flailing weakly. Water churns as the unsub presses down with unrelenting force, trying to hold him under.

“Reid!” you scream, voice tearing through the air.

You raise your weapon, but the angle is wrong. You can’t risk hitting him. Instead, you lunge forward, but you’re too far away, and Spencer’s struggles are slowing. His hands, clawing desperately at the unsub’s arms, are slipping beneath the water.

“Spencer!”

The rest of the team crashes into the clearing behind you, shouts erupting. Morgan reaches the unsub first, tackling him away from Spencer with a force that sends both men sprawling. The unsub roars in fury, but Morgan lands a solid punch, silencing him.

You don’t care. Your focus is on Spencer, who floats face-down in the water, unmoving.

Time slows, the world narrowing to the icy river and the too-still figure within it. Without thinking, you plunge into the freezing water, the cold like knives against your skin. Your hands find Spencer, and you haul him out with a strength you didn’t know you had.

“Reid, come on,” you mutter, voice trembling as you lay him on the riverbank. His face is pale, lips tinged blue, and his chest is still.

You check for a pulse and feel nothing but your own rising terror. “No,” you whisper, the word a desperate plea. “No, no, come on.”

“Damn it, Spencer, don’t you dare do this to me,” you mutter through clenched teeth as you tear the bulletproof vest from his body, hands pressing into his sternum.

You glance up briefly, catching Morgan and Rossi watching with grim expressions. Emily is on the radio, calling for an ambulance, her voice tight with urgency.

You return to the task at hand, refusing to think about what it will mean if you can’t bring him back. Your breaths come in gasps, but you keep going. Time blurs, the world narrowing to the rise and fall of your hands against his chest.

Your arms ache, your knees dig into the rocky bottom of the bank, but you don’t stop. You can’t. You’ve seen death before, so many times, but not his. Never his.

“Come on, Spencer,” you say, your voice breaking. “Don’t do this. Not now.”

You press harder, your movements growing frantic. The tears stinging your eyes are a surprise, and you blink them away furiously.

“Reid!” you shout, slamming your hands down harder than you should, desperation overtaking reason. “Breathe!”

There’s a crack underneath the heel of you palm, but you keep going.

“One, two, three,” you count under your breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Come on, Spencer. Don’t you dare.”

You alternate between compressions and breaths, the movements mechanical, but your mind is chaos. Images flash unbidden—Spencer’s soft smile over morning coffee, the way his eyes light up when he’s unraveling a puzzle, the quiet moments when his presence is the only thing that grounds you.

“Don’t you die on me,” you mutter, voice cracking. “Not like this.”

Another round of compressions, another breath, and then—finally—a cough.

Spencer jerks beneath your hands, water spilling from his mouth as he gasps for air. Relief crashes into you with such force that you sag back on your heels, hands trembling.

Spencer blinks up at you, dazed and disoriented, his lips forming your name in a hoarse whisper.

“Reid,” you whisper, your voice shaky and thick with emotion. You reach out, your hands hovering uncertainly before they settle on his shoulders.

He blinks up at you, confusion knitting his brow. “Y-You—“

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your tone sharper than you intend. The flood of emotions crashing over you is too much—relief, anger, fear—all fighting for dominance. “Don’t you dare say anything right now.”

His gaze flickers to your face, and something in his expression shifts. He sees it then, the cracks in your cold exterior, the raw panic that lingers in your eyes.

“Do you have any idea what you just put me through?” you snap, your voice rising. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, shaking him gently as if to drive the point home. “You—You scared the hell out of me, Spencer!”

His lips part as if to respond, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You could’ve died,” you continue, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You did die! And if you ever—if you ever do something like that again, I swear—“

Your voice cracks, the anger giving way to a wave of helplessness that leaves you trembling. Without thinking, you pull him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding him tight.

His body is cold and damp against yours, but you don’t care. The steady rise and fall of his chest against yours is the only thing that matters now.

“You’re an idiot,” you snap, voice trembling with anger and something dangerously close to tears. “Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

Your voice cracks again, and you bite down on the emotion threatening to spill over.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” you murmur against his shoulder, your voice a quiet, trembling whisper.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, then his arms come up slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s unsure whether you’ll shove him away at any moment. But when his hands settle on your back, the warmth of his touch feels grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of the river.

You don’t respond. You just hold him tighter, unwilling to let go, as the rest of the team works to secure the unsub and call for medics.

The cold bites at your skin, and the weight of everything presses heavy on your chest, but none of it matters.

Tags

spencer reid criminal minds spencer reid x reader

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love-actually-is-all-around-us

1 month ago

White Lies

[Spencer Reid x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You have constantly lied to your mother about your private life, as she was one to disapprove of everything, but those "harmless lies" become a lot more serious when you forget to cancel plans with your closest friend.

WC: 3036

Category: Fluff, Fake Dating, Sassy!Reid {TW: Reader’s mom is Authoritarian}

Another drafted idea that I finally wrote up because Spencer is the definition of pookie, and you cannot change my mind. This is also a dedication to my girl, @yoursacredqueenmother, for matching my crazy delulu fantasies 🫶💖

『••✎••』

Your mom has always been a force of nature—a whirlwind of opinions, expectations, and unsolicited advice that sweeps through your life like a hurricane. She’s the kind of woman who believes she knows what’s best for you, even when you’re pretty sure she doesn’t. Ever since you turned 30 last year, her visits have become more frequent, and her nagging has reached a fever pitch.

"You’re getting old, sweetheart," she’d say, her voice dripping with concern that felt more like judgment. "You need to settle down, find a nice man, start a family. I’m not going to be around forever, you know."

The words were always delivered with a smile, but they stung like a slap. You love her, you really do, but her constant pressure makes you feel like you’re failing at some unspoken test of womanhood.

So, to get her off your back, you’d started lying. Little white lies at first—"I’m seeing someone, Mom, it’s just early stages"—but they quickly snowballed into more and more elaborate fibs. Soon, you were telling her that you were dating a doctor who wanted nothing more than to start a family with you but was waiting for the right time.

It was easier to make up a fictitious doctor than to explain the real reason you were still single.

Because the truth is that the man of your dreams is already in your life, he's been here for years, and he's always been the perfect friend. The problem is that he's a little hard to read. You have no idea how he feels about you or if he sees you as more than a friend.

You'd tried to tell him how you felt about him before, but the words had stuck in your throat. He’d seemed so confused, so shocked by the mere suggestion of romance. Maybe he just didn't see you that way. Maybe you’d ruin your friendship by even mentioning the idea.

This led to where you are now: alone, frustrated, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother from butting into your personal life. You’d thought maybe she’d drop the issue after your birthday, but she’d come by to "surprise you" last night and is now currently sitting at the kitchen table, looking around your apartment with an expression of vague disappointment.

"Honey, you’re an adult now," she says, not looking up from her coffee cup. "You can’t keep living like this."

She gestures at the living room, which is scattered with discarded letters and half-read books. The mess is a symptom of the chaos in your head as you’ve been too preoccupied with thoughts of him to worry about cleaning up after yourself.

"It’s not that bad," you mumble, though you know it is. Even he’d commented on the state of your apartment when he’d last stopped by, and his place is usually worse than yours. Messy, not dirty. He’s a bit of an organized hoarder.

"Well, maybe not for a single girl," she sighs. "But what if Doctor Whoever comes over? Don’t you want to impress him?"

You bite your lip, trying to keep your temper in check. This is the problem with your mother—she has a habit of steamrolling over your feelings, and you've never been able to stand up to her. You’d thought you were done having this argument when you turned 30. Apparently, you’d thought wrong.

"Mom," you begin, your voice firm. "I told you, he doesn't care about stuff like that. He's more concerned with things like—"

The doorbell rings, interrupting you mid-sentence. Thank God. You’re not sure what you would have said, but any excuse is better than none. You figured it was the mailman, late with that package you’d been expecting, but when you just so happen to glance at the calendar (the one your father bought you last Christmas, with pictures of cats wearing hats), your stomach drops.

March 21st, which may not seem important, and it really isn’t, unless you look closer and realize that the cat in the picture is wearing a lab coat and is holding a beaker. Because that, my friends, is not just a picture. It is a reminder.

The one thing you had not wanted to forget.

The one thing, apparently, you had forgotten.

You’d been so busy trying to avoid your mother’s questions about your non-existent boyfriend that you’d completely lost track of time. The calendar sits there, taunting you, and all you can think is:

Oh, no.

Because the person who had rang the doorbell? It was him. He and his adorable grin, hazel-like eyes, and messy brown hair. He probably even brought a bag of those terribly expensive chocolates you love.

You want to cry. Of course, it had to be that day, the day of all days, the day you'd been secretly anticipating for all month.

Chess day. It was a monthly ritual you'd started with him when he'd discovered that you, too, were a fan of the game. You were absolutely terrible at it, and he won every time, but honestly, you didn't care. Chess day was just an excuse for you to spend time with him.

Except today, you have company, and it’s not exactly the kind you want him to meet.

You were supposed to call him, but in your haste to please your mom, you completely forgot.

Your mother’s gaze shifts to the door, and her eyebrows rise as if she can sense his presence on the other side. "Well, aren’t you going to answer that?"

No.

That's what you wanted to say. Instead, you hear yourself saying:

"Yeah, just a sec."

And, like a complete idiot, you open the door.

You open the door, and he’s there, all bright-eyed, smiling, holding a box of chocolates and his perfectly polished travel chess set. You feel like the biggest jerk in the world.

"Uh, hey!" he chirps, his voice making your stomach flip. He doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air or the fact that your mother is standing right behind you, peering curiously over your shoulder. "I know I’m a little early, but I needed to pick up some things and..."

He trails off as his gaze settles on your mother. She’s eyeing him like a hawk and doing what she does when meeting a new person: leaning forward slightly, squinting her eyes, and tilting her head. You can see the wheels turning in her mind.

"Is this him?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.

Before you can stop her, she grabs your wrist and pulls you aside. You stumble into the kitchen, and she takes your place, smiling warmly at him.

"So, you’re the doctor," she says, her voice full of approval. "My daughter has told me so much about you!"

Oh, this is bad. So, so bad.

"Uh," he begins, clearly caught off-guard. His eyes dart to yours, and you were expecting his classic confused puppy look, but this time, it’s different. He looks... honored? No, that can't be right.

"She… talked about me?" he stammers, looking back at your mother.

She nods. "All the time! In fact, I was starting to think she’d made you up. It’s good to know my daughter has such a handsome young man in her life."

You want to die. Right there, on the spot. But, somehow, you manage to force a smile, even as your heart pounds with anxiety.

And your mother? She beams.

"It’s lovely to meet you finally," she gushes. She reaches out and shakes his hand, and he stares at her with a dazed expression. "My daughter has always been a bit shy, and she tends to keep things close to the vest if you know what I mean."

"Mom, please," you cut in, mortified. "Stop."

He still hasn't said a word, and the silence is killing you.

"Well, come on in, then," your mother continues, ignoring your protests. "I insist. After all, I can't wait to learn more about my future son-in-law!"

And this is when the situation goes from bad to worse.

This is when he freezes, and the box of chocolates threatens to slip from his fingers. You watched as he struggled to form a coherent sentence.

"I... Uh, that's not... we’re not..."

"Yes! Yes, we are!" you shout, desperate to cover up his stammering. He looks at you, his expression shifting from confused to shocked, and it’s like a punch in the gut. "That’s right, Mom. This is him. My boyfriend. Doctor Whoever."

"Oh, sweetie, this is so wonderful!" Your mother is so busy clapping her hands with delight that she doesn't notice his reaction.

"Doctor… Whoever?" He looks offended and a bit hurt. "What’s that supposed to mean—?"

"Shush!" You hiss, silently pleading with him to keep quiet. He must have caught your desperation because he shuts his mouth.

It allowed you a moment to process everything. Your mother is smiling widely, her face filled with delight. She doesn't even seem bothered by the fact that he’s currently dressed like a college professor with an evident love for scarves.

Meanwhile, he’s standing there, blinking stupidly, looking as if his entire world has been flipped upside-down. He seems torn between anger and elation, and honestly, it’s confusing as hell. You want to grab him and apologize and explain that this was all a mistake, but you can’t. Not with your mother right there.

So, you knew what you had to do.

"Mom! Say, would you mind doing me a huge favor and just give us like a few minutes? We have some important totally-not-boyfriend stuff to discuss."

"Sure, honey." She grins. "I'll do some unpacking. How about that?"

"Perfect!"

She practically skips into the other room, leaving the two of you alone. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.

The sigh you let out is one of relief, tinged with the faintest hint of dread.

Though, he was the first to break the silence with words.

"I didn’t realize we were dating," he says, his voice low. He's not quite glaring at you, but it's a close thing. "Last time I checked, statistically, dating requires at least two people. Which leads me to the logical conclusion that you are, in fact, a liar. Unless this is some strange, newfangled term for friendship, in which case, I think it would be more appropriate for me to refer to you as the "teller of lies" rather than a—"

"I know, I'm sorry." You blurt out, your cheeks flushing with shame. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was asking all these questions, and I couldn't tell her the truth, and then she just kept talking, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, and... I panicked. Okay? That’s all."

"What do you mean, couldn’t tell her the truth?" He narrows his eyes. "Is something wrong? Did you get yourself into trouble?"

"No! No, nothing like that."

"Then, what is it that you can't tell her?"

He steps closer, and the concern in his eyes makes you feel even guiltier.

"Look, don't worry about it, alright? It’s not important." You turn away, refusing to meet his gaze.

"If it isn’t important, then why are you so embarrassed?"

"I’m not embarrassed."

"Your cheeks are flushed," he points out. "And you tend to rub your thumb against your forefinger when you’re feeling nervous or stressed. Which, coincidentally, is also something you do when you’re lying."

Damn it. You should’ve known better than to lie to a profiler.

"You don’t know what it’s like to be interrogated by my mother," you snap, harsher than intended. You soften your voice before continuing. "It’s like she’s constantly see-sawing between disapproval and pity. She means well, but when she’s around, I feel like I'm being crushed under the weight of her expectations."

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"And I know, I know, that’s not an excuse for lying. I just... I’m sorry, okay? It was wrong and selfish and... I didn’t mean to drag you into it."

You brace yourself for the inevitable rejection, the anger, the disappointment. Instead, you hear him let out a sigh, followed by the familiar look of resolve that comes over him when he's faced with a challenging puzzle.

"You know, when we first met, you used to lie all the time." He glances at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You would say things like, 'I don't watch rom-coms,' and, 'I have a real job,' and, most infamously, 'there's no such thing as aliens.'"

"Hold on a minute—"

He ignored your protests, his smile growing wider.

"You’re not that bad of a liar. Actually, you’re pretty decent, considering your lack of social skills. So the fact that you’ve managed to fool your mother is pretty impressive."

"Hey—"

"And, honestly, it’s a little flattering."

"I— Wait… what?" You gape at him, trying to figure out what's going on. "Flattering?"

He shrugs, but you can tell he's trying not to blush.

"Liars tend to use people they know well or trust implicitly when they need a cover story because they have more information about them and are therefore more believable. So, by lying about your fake boyfriend, that being me, it suggests that you trust me enough to make a convincing cover story, and the fact that you are embarrassed about the deception implies a certain amount of fondness."

"You can't know all that from a simple lie."

"Can’t I?"

There's something in his tone, the slightest hint of a tease, that makes your heart flutter. He's always been like this, so damn perceptive. You never knew what to make of it.

"It’s actually a well-established behavioral theory," he continues. "Deceivers typically show affection toward the person they are attempting to deceive. In fact, a study in the 1970s—"

"Spencer, please." You hold up a hand. "I get it."

"I'm not so sure that you do."

There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your stomach do backflips.

"Because," he murmurs, moving a little closer, "if you did, I wouldn’t have had to spend the past three years of my life wondering why my best friend keeps avoiding my gaze."

"You noticed that?" You squeak, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

"I notice everything."

He takes a step toward you, and it’s so quick, so unexpected, that you can't help but glance up. He's actually extremely close, his face mere inches from yours, and you find yourself frozen, unable to speak, unable to think, as his eyes lock with yours.

"I notice that the color of your eyes changes depending on the lighting." He pauses, and his voice grows softer. "And I notice that your pupils dilate when I'm near. I notice the way you breathe, the way you laugh, the way you chew your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought. And I can’t help but notice that the closer I get, the faster your heart rate becomes. That could be a number of things, of course, and not just an indication of arousal, but considering the context, the likelihood that it’s due to anything other than sexual excitement is simply—"

"Spence," you breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’re not sure what to do, so you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. "Do you want to be my fake boyfriend?"

There’s a moment of silence, followed by a quiet snort.

"I thought I already was."

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but the tension between you has lessened. Now, he’s simply staring at you with a smug smile, and it's like a dam has burst. The words tumble out of your mouth, spilling out like water from a leaky faucet.

"Well, then, you should know that my boyfriend is absolutely infuriating and has a tendency to ramble about obscure facts at inappropriate moments. And he’s really, really bad at taking a hint."

His smile widens, and his voice takes on a teasing tone.

"Oh, he is, is he? Tell me, is he good at chess?"

"No, he’s terrible at it."

"Then, he sounds like a total loser."

"Yeah," you admit, biting back a smile. "He’s the biggest loser I know."

"In that case, you should know that my girlfriend is incredibly frustrating and a compulsive liar who uses her boyfriend for cover stories. She also tends to cheat her way to victory despite still losing most of the time."

"I do not cheat!" You protest, playfully punching him on the shoulder.

"No, you just make up rules on the spot in order to justify why you lose so badly."

"You’re one to talk. You’re the one who’s been letting me win all this time."

"Perhaps," he grins. "Or maybe I’ve been letting you believe that."

You narrow your eyes.

"Are you admitting to me what I think you're admitting?"

"What is it that you think I’m admitting to?"

"I think you’re admitting to me that you’ve been throwing our chess games all this time."

"That sounds like the ramblings of someone who cheats and is trying to project their own faults onto others."

"Oh, you know what—"

And that's when the bedroom door swings open, and your mother's voice cuts through the air like a knife.

"Ahem."

She's standing there, smiling, and holding a box filled with old pictures and baby toys. Your father had sent it to you last year, hoping that you’d have children soon and use it, but you’d put it in storage, intending to deal with it later. Apparently, your mother had decided now was the perfect time.

The both of you share a look, and it's clear that he’s thinking the same thing as you.

"Not interrupting, am I?" She asks, glancing from him to you and then back again. Her smile was practically glowing, and she had a strange look in her eyes as if she were a cat watching a bird. "I was just looking for a place to put these old things and thought maybe my daughter's boyfriend might be interested in seeing them."

The shared look between the two of you solidified what was going through both of your minds. This was indeed going to be a long, long afternoon.

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