appledressing

[appledressing]

The sickest. I hate when they go that.

Like the ingredients are the whole point of placing the order

guys do you think it’s kinda sick that they didn’t tell me my grocery order was cancelled until just now!! like :( I was gonna make butter chicken!!!! so frustrating

[appledressing]

What we thinking about spencer x ditzy!reader HUH HUH

[appledressing]

😭😭

Personal Space

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~1,600

Tone: Flirty, fluffy, slow-burn with teasing

Warnings: suggestiveness (tinsy tiny), one brain cell shared between Spencer and the reader when it comes to feelings

a/n: spencer Reid fic from the polee (I was hoping it was George Weasley😖) but I still love me some reid

Your desk faces forward. Spencer’s desk is directly behind yours, parallel in that perfect, FBI-efficient way. Which means you spend approximately 62% of your time slowly spinning in your chair to talk to him.

It started innocently—questions about reports, inside jokes during late nights, coffee refills delivered with a dramatic swivel. But now, it’s become a habit. You lean over his desk without thinking, draping across his space, nudging papers, stealing pens, “borrowing” candy.

And the most fascinating part?

He never tells you to stop.

Hotch once walked by and you were halfway sitting on Spencer’s desk, poking at his notes with your pen, and Spencer didn’t even blink. But when Morgan tried to leave his coffee cup on Spencer’s stack of files?

Spencer swatted it off like a fly and snapped, “Please don’t clutter my workspace.”

That’s when Morgan noticed.

“Yo, Pretty Boy,” Morgan says one morning, leaning on the edge of your desk with a too-wide grin. “How come when I so much as breathe near your books, you act like I’ve threatened national security, but she—” he nods toward you, where you’re perched backward in your chair, full torso leaning into Spencer’s space “—basically lives in your lap and you don’t say a damn word?”

Spencer glances up from his files, ears already pink. “I don’t—she’s not—”

You spin fully around, chin in your hand. “I’m charming. It’s a well-documented immunity.”

Morgan chuckles, folding his arms. “So that’s how it is?”

“Could be,” you say sweetly. “Unless someone else wants to let me take over their desk space and steal their snacks.”

Morgan holds up his hands. “Nah, nah. I like my boundaries.”

Spencer murmurs something into his folder, barely audible.

“What was that?” you ask, turning to him again with a teasing glint in your eyes.

“I said you can keep stealing my snacks,” he mumbles, not meeting your gaze.

Morgan gives you both the most dramatic side-eye ever recorded in Quantico history. “Mm-hmm.”

You test it later, just to see.

You drape yourself across Spencer’s desk with zero purpose—just your elbows propped up and your chin in your palms, watching him work.

“You're gonna get a paper cut to the face one day,” Emily says as she walks by, smirking.

“I’m conducting important psychological field research,” you reply. “Studying the Reid in his natural habitat.”

Spencer glances at you. “That implies I’m some kind of… lab rat.”

You grin. “A cute lab rat.”

Spencer stares for a second too long, then blinks and returns to his files. His ears? Pink.

Two days later, you wear something a little… new. Not scandalous. Just a fitted wrap top with a neckline that dips a little lower than usual. It hugs your waist. Shows just a hint more. You don't plan it for Spencer.Okay. Maybe you do. A little.

You barely sit down before you turn in your chair again, arms draped over the back as you rest your chin near Spencer’s stack of books.

“Morning,” you say softly.

His head snaps up. His eyes flick to your face—and then, instinctively, lower.

Just for a second. Barely a blink.

But you catch it.

He looks away immediately, pretending to read a chart. His posture is too straight. His jaw clenched.

You smirk. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, not looking up.

You lean just a little closer. “You seem tense.”

Morgan, passing by, drops his coffee right into a trash can because he’s not subtle. “Well, well, well. Interesting outfit choice, sunshine.”

“Thanks!” you chirp, fully unbothered. “Spencer didn’t say anything, but he looked.”

Spencer chokes.

Emily stops mid-step. “Reid. Did you stare at cleavage on government property?”

“I didn’t stare,” he sputters, burying his face in a case file. “I glanced. There’s a difference. It’s neurological.”

“Dude,” Morgan says, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. “You are down bad.”

You laugh, and Spencer gives you a helpless, side-eyed glance. It’s adorable.

Later, when the bullpen empties out for lunch, you linger. He’s still sitting at his desk, scribbling in his notebook, pretending nothing happened.

You perch yourself on the corner of his desk. “You really didn’t mind?”

Spencer looks up at you slowly, expression softer now. “When you’re here?”

He shrugs, offering a half-smile. “It actually makes the day better.”

Your chest flutters, but you stay cool. “Even when I mess up your system?”

“I built a new system,” he admits.

“Around you”

You blink.

“Oh.”

He clears his throat, going back to his notes. “Anyway.”

You hop off the desk and lean in close, lips near his ear. “In that case… I’m never sitting straight again.”

Spencer swallows hard. “Please don’t.”

You grin. “Told you. I’m charming.”

As you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know he’s watching.

And for once, you’re the one who doesn’t say a word…

[appledressing]

No bc this is so sweet they couldn’t help themselves

They fel back into rhythm

With each other. I love that so much like safe space alert

Morgan leave the poor baby alone 😭😭 I love how he hypes him up at the end too cute

LIKE NO TIME PASSED ➵ spencer reid

A challenging case reunites Spencer with an old college “friend,” resulting in relentless teasing from the team.

➵ Based on this request here

cw: spencer reid x fem!reader. fluff (idk, it doesn't really have a genre). lots of teasing!!! silly oblivious people a/n: i love silly stupid people!!!!! i love derek morgan!!!!!!! if you want to submit a request of your own, you can use this link here :) w/c: 3k

During his second year of college, someone once asked Spencer if you were just a friend.

He said yes.

That wasn’t entirely true.

Because from the moment he met you – surrounded by the dusty, neglected shelves of the east wing library in the early hours of the morning – something had shifted. Something internal. Subtle, but seismic. You were there in an oversized hoodie, notes spread into carefully chaotic piles. And Spencer, who lived more in his head than in the world, had found himself suddenly grounded in the present.

There was something about you.

Something quiet, but not small. You offered gentleness and attention. You listened to him like listening was an artform. Like every tangled thought he offered was something beautiful. You nodded at the right moments, smiled at his obscure facts, laughed like you meant it – like he was funny. Like he mattered.

Maybe it was the way you never interrupted him. Or the way you’d pause your own train of thought just to make space for his.

Maybe it was even simpler than that: maybe it was the way life felt a little less difficult when you smiled at him.

You were friends.

Study partners. Midnight coffee co-dependents. Occupants of the same, forgotten library alcove. And in that quiet space, something grew.

It was never declared. Never defined. But there were moments – fleeting and silent – when it felt like you both knew.

He felt it. Physically. In his chest and his lungs, in the way his hands would tremble slightly when you brushed past to reach for a book.

He felt it when you brought him coffee without asking, just how he liked it.

He felt it when you saved him a seat during finals week, surrounded by books that created a fortress just for the two of you.

He felt it in the way you looked at each other: a split-second pause, an almost-confession hovering on your lips before it faded into something safer. Something certain.

He came up with excuses for never saying the words. Timing. Fear. Realness – because real things have edges, and real things can break.

And then life, as it tend to do, moved forward.

He graduated early, caught up in accelerated programs and ambition. You chased opportunities – internships and research grants, followed by a fellowship that took you across the ocean.

There was no dramatic farewell. No final moment when the truth spilled out. Just a slow, quiet drifting. The inevitable fading of something unnamed.

You still talked. Occasionally.

He knew when you moved: first to Nice, then Berlin, then Prague. You knew when he joined the FBI, even sent him a card when he earned his badge.

There were letters and long-distance calls filled with laughter and static.

And then the calls grew less frequent, the letters reduced to birthdays and Christmases. And then nothing. Only the nights when he thought of you, the still moments when he wondered what could’ve been if something had been said.

Until even those thoughts ceased too.

And then life, as it does, brought you back. Years and years later.

Not through a phone call or a letter or a carefully planned reunion, but through a case.

The BAU had a problem One that even Spencer Reid, with all his degrees and carefully curated brilliance, couldn’t solve.

A string of engrupted messages. Dozens of them. Each more convoluted than the last. There were codes layered in linguistic inconsistencies and cultural references, scattered across multiple languages and dialects. The meaning lay just out of reach.

Hotch made the call for outside help – someone wth a background in linguistic analysis and decoding systems used by foreign operatives. Spencer didn’t ask who. He was tired, too deep in the data, too frustrated with himself for not seeing the answers already. He expected someone from Rockport. Or maybe an overly confident private contractor with too much ego.

What he did not expect was you.

You were stood in the lobby of the precinct, visitor badge clipped to the lapel of your coat and a manila folder tucked neatly beneath your arm. The wind had caught your hair on the way in, causing it to fall just like it used to after sprinting through the rain from the library to your dorm.

Spencer was frozen in his seat.

His breath caught, all thoughts in his mind ceasing. He blinked, twice, as if expecting you to suddenly vanish. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hands remained rigid over the files like the case had fallen out of focus and you had taken centre stage instead.

Then you turned. And your eyes found his.

There was a moment of confusion. Then recognition. And you smiled. Slow and familiar, time slotting back into place.

You made the first move – just as you had all those years ago in the library – crossing the precinct and coming to a halt in front of him.

‘Hi,’ you said, breathless from the wind, and most likely the shock of seeing him there.

Spencer stood so quickly he nearly knocked his chair into the wall behind him. His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out at first. Just a wide-eyed, stunned silence.

‘Hi,’ he finally managed.

And then, without hesitation, he hugged you.

Spencer Reid hugged you.

Not politely. Not professionally. Not the kind of hug that said it’s nice to see you again.

No, this was something else entirely – a full-body, arms-wrapped-tight, press-your-face-into-his-shoulder, stay-there-for-a-second-too-long kind of hug. He took a deep breath, one hand gently curling into the fabric of your coat like he didn’t want to let you go.

Across the room, Derek Morgan visibly choked on his coffee. The loud splutter was enough to make JJ flinch.

‘What the hell—’ Derek wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, eyes wide as he stared.

JJ turned slowly, eyebrows high, amusement playing on her features. ‘Are his eyes closed?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Morgan nodded, looking mildly scandalized.

Emily rounded the corner with a file in her hand, only to be roped into the impromptu watch party when Morgan grabbed her arm. She looked between her fellow agents, before her eyes fell on Spencer.

‘What are we watching?’ she whispered, glancing between him and the mystery woman he was still hugging.

‘Reid. Hugging someone. Voluntarily,’ JJ said.

‘He’s gone, I tell you,’ Derek said, gesturing toward the two of you with the hand still holding his coffee. ‘Gone.’

Spencer finally – finally – pulled away. Reluctantly, and just barely. His hands hovered at your arms like he wasn’t quite ready to let you. He scanned your face like he was memorizing it again, like he still wasn’t quite sure you were real.

‘You—how are you—? I didn’t know you were coming,’ he said, releasing a stunned laugh. ‘I had no idea it was you they brought in to consult.’

You pulled back a step, tipping your head as if to get a better look at him.

‘I didn’t know this was your team either. I didn’t know you were based here.’

‘I—I mean, technically I’m not. The team travels. Quantico is home base, but we get dispatched on—uh— a case-by-case basis. This came in the day before yesterday, and we—well, we flew in yesterday, but I didn’t—’

‘Still talk too fast when you’re flustered, huh?’ you teased, voice warm.

‘I’m not flustered,’ he replied automatically.

‘Sure you’re not.’

Behind him, Morgan looked about five seconds from combusting.

And that only seemed to worsen when, without even thinking, you reached forward and straightened Spencer’s tie – crooked from the sudden hug. You didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. It was instinct.

Derek just about lost it, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing his coffee at the two of you with the other in stunned silence. This was the man who recoiled at high-fives and fist-bumps. And now he was letting you adjust his tie like it was an everyday occurrence. He then proceeded to gently smack JJ’s arm like are you seeing this.

Spencer’s smile softened further.

‘How have you been?’ he asked. ‘You were in Berlin for a while, right? Then Prague?’

‘Yeah. Then Budapest for a bit. And now Texas, apparently.’

He let out a short laugh.

‘You look exactly the same.’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘I mean—not exactly. You look… good. Great, actually. Not that you didn’t look good before—’

‘You look good too, Spencer. Really good.’

The years seemed to fold in on themselves. The air between you was suddenly thick with something that had never quite faded. Library corners, late-night coffees, unsaid words – they were all right there, shared in a single breath between you.

It looked like you might say something more when Hotch stepped into the room, calling your name and cutting through the peace.

‘Can I see you for a moment?’

You lifted the file in your hand and smiled sheepishly at Spencer. ‘Duty calls.’

‘Right. Yeah. I’ll be here…’ he said, nodding quickly.

He watched as you turned and disappeared don the hallway, your figure swallowed up by the curve of the corridor.

The second you were out of sight, Morgan spun around with wide eyes.

‘Okay,’ he said, practically vibrating as he stepped into Spencer’s path. ‘What was that?’

Spencer looked slightly dazed. Blinked once. ‘What was what?’

‘That whole reunion scene that looked like it was ripped straight from a Hallmark movie.’

‘We were just saying hello,’ Spencer frowned.

Morgan���s mouth dropped open. He looked around at the others as if to confirm he wasn’t the only one who’d witnessed the scene.

‘Reid, you hugged her.’

‘So?’

‘So?’ Morgan echoed, incredulous. ‘You don’t hug people.’

‘I hug people,’ Spencer said, looking mildly offended at the accusation, crossing his arms.

‘You absolutely do not.’

‘I’ve hugged people before.’

‘Name one,’ Derek challenged, crossing his arms right back.

Spencer opened his mouth. Hesitated. Thought for a beat.

‘…I’m sure I’ve hugged JJ at some point,’ he said, glancing toward her with hopeful eyes.

‘You actively recoiled when I hugged you at my baby shower,’ she said, stifling a small laugh.

Spencer opened his mouth again. Nothing.

Morgan continued to grin, relentless. ‘Since when have you had a girlfriend, man?’

‘Girlfriend?’ Spencer said, physically reeling back. His voice had raised at least two octaves. ‘She’s not—what? No! We went to college together. We were friends.’

‘Just friends?’ Emily asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously as she leaned in. ‘Because you let her fix your tie. That’s a big thing for you.’

‘That doesn’t make it romantic,’ Spencer insisted. ‘It’s just… a familiarity thing. We knew each other really well back then.’

‘You know us really well,’ Morgan pointed out, still gesturing wildly like he was presenting evidence to a jury. JJ and Emily seemed convinced, at least. ‘And you would rather look at a double homicide than let one of us touch your neck. She walks in and starts adjusting your clothes like its nothing.’

That had Spencer looking mildly horrified. His eyes darted between JJ and Emily, desperate for a lifeline.

‘We’re just friends! From college!’

‘And you were grinning like an idiot,’ JJ added beneath her breath. Not helpful.

‘I was not.’

‘You were,’ Derek and Emily said in unison.

‘And so was she,’ JJ added. More helpful. ‘You were both looking at each other like…’

‘Like a couple of college sweethearts,’ Emily supplied.

‘I was gonna say “like a Nicholas Sparks montage,” but sure, lets go with Emily’s thing,’ Morgan said, nodding.

Spencer opened his mouth to argue again – flustered, red-faced, completely overwhelmed – but the sound died in his throat as you reappeared. His posture straightened instantly.

Morgan coughed pointedly and stepped back with a knowing grin.

File in hand and eyes bright with focus, you made a direct beeline toward Spencer. It was like he held his own gravitational pull.

‘Agent Hotchner briefed me on the case details so far,’ you said, glancing up to offer him a quick smile. ‘He said you’d be able to walk me through what’s already been decoded?’

Spencer nodded a little too enthusiastically, smile wide and boyish. (Far too wide, if Morgan’s exaggerated hand gestures in the background were anything to go by.)

‘Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. I—uh—I’ll get th notes,’ he said, turning in a quick, almost tripping circle to locate the correct files.

It was only then that you turned to the rest of the team, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes warm.

‘Sorry—hi—I should’ve introduced myself,’ you said, accompanied with an apologetic laugh. You supplied them with your name before continuing, ‘I’m the linguistics consultant. It’s really nice to meet you all.’

JJ smiled back instantly. ‘You too.’

Morgan grinned innocently, nodding in agreement. ‘Yeah. Real nice to finally meet Spencer’s girlfriend.’

You blinked, caught off guard. ‘I’m sorry—what?’

Morgan kept his smile angelic.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘Girlfriend. Partner. Sweetheart. That whole thing.’

Spencer looked like he wanted to die and crawl into a hole.

You laughed awkwardly, eyes darting to Spencer, then back to Morgan. ‘Oh, no. We’re just friends.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Emily murmured.

JJ tilted her head, speaking to Emily behind her hand, ‘Just friends who stare at each other like they hung the moon…’

Before either of you could mount a defense, the door swung open. Rossi strolled in, brows furrowed as he scanned the room.

‘Did we pick up a consultant?’ he asked casually, eyes landing on you.

Morgan didn’t miss a beat, still not letting up. ‘Yeah. Spencer’s girlfriend.’

Simultaneously, you and Spencer blurted: ‘No!’

Rossi stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene: Spencer’s tie was slightly askew, his ears were crimson, your file folder was tilted in your arms, and you were standing too close for it to mean nothing.

‘You sure?’

Spencer turned and looked at you helplessly.

‘I swear, this is not what working here is usually like,’ he insisted.

‘No, the soap-opera commentary doesn’t exactly scream FBI professionalism,’ you teased. The gentle laugh behind your words caused a warmth to spread through his chest.

‘Come on,’ he said, leading you toward the small conference room at the end of the hall. ‘I’ll walk you through the code so far. Fair warning – it’s mess.’

‘That’s fine,’ you said, smiling. ‘You know I enjoy puzzles.’

The two of you fell into a quick and easy rhythm.

Whiteboards filled with scribbled notes. Coffee cups stacked beside discarded wrappers. The low hum of some piano music coming faintly from your laptop. You debated theories, challenged the syntax logic, bounced ideas off one another like you used to in late-night study sessions.

At some point, he forgot to feel self-conscious. You were just… there. Like no time had passed.

And then, as naturally as you'd appeared, you’d stood to go check in with Hotch with what you had so far. The room felt colder when you left.

Spencer found himself glancing at the door.

More than once.

Which is exactly what Morgan noticed when he casually strolled into the room minutes later, sipping from a fresh cup of coffee, holding another one out wordlessly.

Spencer accepted it with a way glance.

‘I wanted to say sorry,’ Derek added, his voice more subdued than earlier. ‘For the teasing. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.’

Spencer took a long sip. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yeah, okay – maybe it was too much. We just don’t see you like that very often. And… I guess it kind of surprised us.’

‘Like what?’

‘Smiling like an idiot,’ Morgan said, sitting down in the chair beside him. ‘Staring longingly at the door, waiting for her to come back... Look – I’ll put the teasing aside for a minute: you want talk about it?’

Spencer paused. Took another sip. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. She’s just a friend. And she has interesting insights.’

‘She could tell you the sky was purple and you’d write a thesis defending it.’

‘That sounds like teasing,’ Spencer pointed out, before continuing, ‘and I wouldn’t defend her on that. But it doesn’t take away from the fact she’s incredibly intelligent and her work on linguistic systems is genuinely—’

Morgan held up a hand. ‘Stop. Before you start spiralling. Let me ask you something simple: do you like her?’ he asked, leaning in slightly.

‘I’ve always liked her,’ Spencer responded. ‘She’s my friend.’

‘No. Do you like like her?’

‘What are we, twelve?’ Spencer asked, brows furrowing.

‘Just answer the question.’

Spencer hesitated and shifted awkwardly.

‘We were close in college,’ he began. ‘I don’t—nothing ever happened. And then we both went separate ways. Lost touch.’

‘Reid,’ Morgan said, gently now. ‘You’re avoiding the question.’

Spencer inhaled through his nose. Exhaled sharply. His fingers tapped against the lid of his coffee.

‘I just… I don’t know.’

Morgan nodded slowly. ‘Okay, tell me this, then: when you saw her today, how did it feel?’

That question didn’t require much thought.

‘Good. Like old times. Like everything was back in place.’

‘Exactly,’ Morgan grinned.

There was a very long pause. Spencer blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth parted slightly and a dawning look of horror crept across his face.

‘There it is,’ Morgan continued. ‘You like like her.’

‘No—I mean—I don’t—do I?’

Morgan just sat back, letting the truth settle in.

‘Oh no,’ Spencer mumbled, rubbing a hand across his face.

Morgan, smugger than he’d ever been before, nodded vehemently, ‘Oh yes.’

Spencer dropped his head back, letting out a sigh and staring up at the ceiling like it might provide him with the answers.

‘Was it really that obvious?’ he asked.

‘Yeah… I mean, the way you hugged her – you practically melted into her.’

‘In front of everyone,’ Spencer mumbled. ‘That's so humiliating.’

‘Spencer, it’s not humiliating. Look, I teased you, sure – but it’s completely human.’

There was a brief silence as Spencer fiddled with his coffee lid again, mind clearly racing. Morgan gave it a beat, then leaned forward.

‘Here’s the part you’re not going to overthink—’

‘There’s a part I’m not going to overthink?’ Spencer questioned warily.

‘—you’re going to ask her out.’

‘What?’

‘Come on. You’re a genius, Pretty Boy. You can figure out how to ask her on a date... She’d say yes, by the way.’

‘You think so?’ Spencer said quietly.

‘I know so,’ Morgan responded, clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Go get your girl.’

[appledressing]

Nah come back here we need to see what they talk about . Slinking away like they don’t have an audience. ME!!! Silly billies

Pretty Boy

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff content/warnings: use of y/n, lots of flirting because it's morgan and garcia, spencer gets a tiny bit defensive about his title, derek is a lil condescending to spence at one point, reader's wearing a dress summary: your best friend takes you out to meet her friends from work and one of them catches your eye a/n: I half wrote this for spencer, half for penelope lol. she's so bestie coded. also this was written with early seasons spence in mind.

"You'll love them, I promise," Penelope insisted, leading the way towards the front of the bar. "And wait until you meet Morgan. When I tell you this man looks like a chocolate god."

She gave me a look over the tops of her glasses, earning a laugh from me.

"Although I must say," she started. "you are one foxy lady tonight. I might have some competition."

"As if!" I protested. "We both look so hot he's gonna lose his mind from just one glance."

"That's my girl!" she cheered, pushing open the bar door. "Let's head to the bar. They'll find us."

I nodded in agreement, following her to the long polished bar at the far end of the room. Shortly after we'd taken our seats a bartender came up, shaking a drink as he spoke.

"What can I get for you ladies?"

"A tequila sunrise for me," Penelope stated.

"And for you?" he asked, turning to me.

I cast a glance down the bar, my eyes landing on a tall fancy glass, filled with a cherry red drink and an assortment of fruit.

"I'll have whatever that is."

"Alright," he laughed. "One tequila sunrise, one that."

Before long our drinks were in front of us, and Penelope had already managed to tell me half the BAU's secrets—which I'm sure they wouldn't have been fond of—when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She spun around to warmly greet the man behind her. Derek Morgan, I assumed. He was tall, handsome, and his tight shirt showed off his muscles perfectly. But I was more interested in the person next to him.

"You must be Y/N," Morgan began. "I'm Derek Morgan, FBI Supervisory Special Agent, and devilishly handsome."

He flashed me a cheeky smile, earning a 'keep it in your pants' from Penelope.

"Pleasure to meet such a stunning—" His eyes flicked up and down my tight dress before coming back to meet my gaze. "—woman such as your self. Garcia never told me she had friends as hot as her."

"We're like kindred spirits," Penelope boasted. "Two sexy intelligent women, donating their precious time to peasants such as yourselves."

Derek gave a mock bow at her comment, which earned a slight chuckle from his companion.

I allowed myself to turn my attention back to him, finally having the opportunity to really look at him. He was young—definitely younger than Morgan—tall and skinny, his hair a little long, but meticulously neat. He was in a sweater, the collar of his shirt peeking out from underneath it.

Derek's mystery friend hadn't spoken since they'd walked over here, and stood slightly off to one side, mindlessly fumbling with the club soda in his hands.

Not a drinker, I noted, turning on my stool to face him.

"And what about you, pretty boy?" I asked, leaning towards him.

His eyes quickly snapped to mine, seemingly a little startled by being addressed. Derek raised his eyebrows, most likely in response to my choice of nickname, looking expectedly between the two of us. When his friend didn't respond—staring at me like a deer in headlights—Morgan nudged him with his elbow.

"Well?" he urged.

"Oh—Uh," he stumbled, casting a frantic glance around the group before finding my eyes again. "Doctor Spencer Reid."

I raised my eyebrows. "A doctor?"

Before I could continue he started again. "Three Ph.D.s. Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering." He stared at me, seemingly waiting for another question.

"Reid," Derek began. "She didn't ask."

Spencer's shoulders slumped a little, his eyes glanceing at Morgan before falling to the bar top behind me.

"No, no. He's fine," I quickly corrected with a laugh. "I'm sure you get that question a lot."

"Force of habit," he explained. "Sort of like Pavlov. Even without the direct questioning of my intelligence present, I've learned to exhibit the behavior of listing off my credentials when my title is under any form of scrutiny."

Penelope and Derek stared blankly at him, but I couldn't help but smile.

"You're adorable," I stated with a laugh. I turned towards Penelope, who was now looking at me shocked. "How did you fail to mention the super smart cute one?"

"I—" she tried, but words seemed to fail her. I hopped off my chair, picking up my drink as I looped my arm through Spencer's.

"Let's leave these two to their flirting, shall we?"

"Sure," he mumbled, following as I led him out into the crowd again.

[appledressing]

Awww babbbbbyyyyyy!!!!!!!

Not each of them giggling and kicking their feet at the other

BY THE COFFEE MACHINE

Hotch pretends to fire you for being in the way of the coffee machine. At least he remembers your order. (blurb, 688 words)

꩜ can be read as a continuation of my assistant!reader series which you can find here and here.

"You're fired," Hotch says casually as he approaches the coffee machine, plain white mug in hand. If this was a normal situation, you'd have started full-on sobbing by now, snot and all. Fortunately for you, it's just a bit the two of you have started doing ever since that night at the bar, where he accuses you of an offense so miniscule it normally wouldn't even invite comment.

"Let me guess," you quip. "The sound of my kitten heels clicking against the floor is driving you insane." It's a good guess, you think; you catch him glancing at them sometimes in passing when you walk by (even though you're not sure why).

"Wrong," he says with a barely-there smirk. "You're hogging up all the kitchen space. I can't refill my cup with you in the way." He's really grasping at straws today, you think. Last week, he accused you of 'looking too beautiful to be working.' ("It's like you're forcing me to give you the day off," he'd said, and you'd blushed so hard you had to hide in a storage closet for ten minutes before you could get back to work.)

At times, he likes to fluster you and at others, it's like he's trying to figure out which buttons he can push and which ones he can't. You appreciate how sensitive he is about all of it, especially due to the fact that your current situation would be best described as kind-of-dating-but-also-not-really. (You could also call it I-think-the-both-of-us-might-have-commitment-issues.)

"My sincerest apologies, Agent Hotchner." You drop your voice an octave or two before you continue, "I'll make sure this never happens again." A wide, sardonic smile and a wink is all it takes for him to feel his self-control slip.

Even though he would never admit to it, he knows this situation is as close to flirting at work as he can get with you. It's the only way he can cope with how he feels a little out of breath every time he sees you in the office. He knows he should've asked you to dinner that night, but he didn't and now he's forced to wait for the right moment, which he's starting to suspect will never come.

"Here," he puts his hand out and motions to your cup, filled to the brim with black coffee. "Two sugars and a cream, right?"

"Uh, yeah," you reply, a little stunned. Since when does he know exactly how you like your coffee? It's not like you make a cup every morning. You usually tend to drink some when you need to get a lot of work done. He's been paying attention, you think. The butterflies resume their usual acrobatic routine in your stomach, full force.

"Hotch, I hear you're taking coffee orders now?" Derek appears behind you, out of nowhere. He's been paying attention, too, wondering when the both of you will finally give up these weird games you've been playing.

"You can make your own coffee, Agent Morgan." His hand makes brief contact with yours as he hands you the ladybug-themed mug you've claimed as your own. A small jolt of electricity passes between you, awakening each and every nerve ending in your body. That's the third time that's happened this week. (You've been keeping count.)

You feel his warm, wide hand on the small of your back as he slides past you, one-hundred-percent certain he did it on purpose. That's part of the game, too, you've realized. Him finding small ways to touch you for no apparent reason. If it was any other person, you'd chalk it up to coincidence. But you know Aaron doesn't like public displays of affection and you suspect this is his way of satiating his near-constant need to touch you at all times, to be sure you're real and not just a figment of his torturous imagination.

Once Hotch is gone, Derek gives you a look; raised eyebrows and disbelief written all over his eyes. You shrug and walk away, a small smile on your face as you glance at the coffee in your hand. He really does like you.

[appledressing]

🥰

Heart flutters or whatever

say it again

pairing: aaron hotchner x gn!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: drunk texting your new(ish) boyfriend while out with friends :)

includes: no use of y/n, no gender specific description of reader, reader is drunk/mentions of alcohol and drinking, fluff. just cute wholesome fluff

It was supposed to be a casual Friday–a few drinks with friends, stories swapped over bar food and music too loud to really talk through. But you hadn’t realized how tired you were. How little you’d eaten today. Or how fast whiskey sours hit when you aren’t paying attention.

You don’t mean to get that drunk.

You had meant to just check in. To send a cute text to your boyfriend of a few months–the man you’d worked with for years, who had somehow gone from boss to friend to something infinitely more terrifying: someone you could see yourself falling for.

Your messages start out… maybe a little embarrassing, but at least coherent..

“miss u. u would hate this place lol so loud”

“why do guys named brad always yell”

“ur tie looked good today. tell it i said hi”

And then someone had ordered a round of shots. And then another. And suddenly, your thumbs stopped obeying your brain–which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders either.

“emergency: i need cheese fries n maybe a hug. or both at once”

“hotsh hotc hotdch ur eyes are SO BROWN”

“ty for ur face and ur arms n ur … exist???”

You’ll be mortified by all of it tomorrow morning, but currently, you can’t find yourself caring about much, other than the fact he hasn’t answered.

You frown down at your screen, chin tucked into your hand, your other arm lazily draped around a half-finished drink in a sweating glass.

“What’s wrong with your face?” your friend asks, half-laughing at the childish pout on your lips.

“He left me on read,” you mumble, wiggling the phone at her as though it’s Exhibit A. “Aaron. He read it. Didn’t respond. He read it.”

She squints at your screen, then snorts. “How is he supposed to reply to ‘you’re the best jawline in the whole FBI’?”

You pout harder. “I dunno. Say thanks?”

Your friend just laughs at you, shaking her head. But you don’t think it’s funny.

Because even though you know you’re being ridiculous, even though the room is warm and the night is young, your chest hurts a little. Just a pinch. A flicker of doubt where certainty usually lives. 

You haven’t been together long–just a few months–and it’s all new, still fragile. You’re not used to this part yet. The missing him in public. Needing him without permission. The strange, quiet way his absence can leave you feeling a little off-kilter.

You stare at your phone.

“Fine,” you whisper. “Leave me on read. Rude.”

You sigh and drop your head onto the table, face smooshed against your arm. “I’m going to die here. I’m going to become a ghost in this Chili’s-adjacent bar and haunt the bathroom.”

Your friend pats your head. “You’ll be a beautiful ghost.”

You groan.

And then–

He’s just there.

You blink, lifting your head too fast–definitely too fast, based on the way the room tilts. But it doesn’t matter, because your heart is already thudding, even before your brain catches up with your eyes.

Aaron stands by the door, scanning the room, his tie slightly undone, his expression unreadable in the dim bar light. His eyes find yours, and his whole posture shifts–like something softens behind his stern exterior. Relief, maybe. Familiarity. 

Your mouth drops open. “Hotch?”

He’s already moving toward you, steady and sure.

“You stopped making sense,” he says calmly as he reaches you, slipping a hand under your elbow to help you out of the booth. “Figured I’d come get you after the third text you shortened ‘your’ to ‘ur’.”

“You read my texts,” you accuse softly, tilting your head back to look at him.

“I did,” he says as though it’s obvious, guiding you through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times. 

“You didn’t answer.”

“I figured showing up would say more.”

You blink.

Oh.

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just him, but your chest folds in on itself. You let him guide you out into the night, warm and solid at your side, and suddenly the rest of the world feels quieter.

A little less lonely.

The car smells like him. Clean, calm, a little like cologne and a lot like comfort. You curl into the passenger seat, his jacket draped over your legs, your shoes on the floor, bare feet propped on the dash despite his protests.

The window is cracked. The scent of pine and rain float in on the wind. The road curves gently away from the city, trees rising up like shadows on either side.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” you mumble.

Aaron hums. “You sent me a voice memo where you just repeated the word ‘eyebrows’ for thirty seconds.”

You groan, covering your face. “That’s not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was. But it was… concerning.”

You peek at him—his profile bathed in the dim light of the dashboard, jawline sharp, mouth soft. That little tug of a smile plays at the corner, the one that always makes your heart do strange things.

You’ve known him for years. Shared cases. Late nights. Quiet grief. It took months to earn that smile, and when you finally did, you made it a mission to chase it every chance you got. And then—somewhere between burnt coffee and unexpected laughter—everything changed.

A kiss, in the kitchen after an especially tough case. A breathless “what are we doing?” followed by that smile and the softest, realest “I don’t know. But I want to keep doing it.”

It’s still new. Still precious.

But you can’t deny it already feels like home. 

Outside, stars scatter across the sky. You tilt your head, watching them. A few drift–too slow to be shooting stars, too steady to be anything magical. Satellites, maybe. You squint, tipsy and thoughtful.

“Do they ever crash?” you ask, voice quiet. “The stars and satellites. Do they ever just–” you mimic an explosion with your fingers. “Boom?”

Aaron glances at you, like he’s deciding whether you’re serious. Eventually, he says, “No. They keep their distance.”

“That’s kind of lonely,” you say. “All that space between things. Nothing touching.”

He’s quiet again for a second, eyes back on the road. Then: “Or maybe it’s safe.”

You let that settle. Then smile, a little sad. “I think it’s sad.”

He glances over at you again. “You think everything is sad when you’re drunk.”

You pout. “Not true.”

He reaches over, hand brushing yours where it rests on your knee. “Alright. What’s not sad?”

You turn your head, taking him in. The clean line of his jaw, the focus in his eyes even as he drives, the quiet steadiness of his presence. Your heart softens, like it always does with him. 

“You,” you say, a little too easily. “You’re the opposite of sad.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives your hand a quiet squeeze.

“When you’re like this,” he murmurs, “you forget to hold back.”

You smile, sleepy and honest. “I know. But you love me.”

A beat.

“I do.”

You blink.

The words hang in the air like mist, weightless and heavy at the same time. The quiet hum of the tires on asphalt, the wind brushing through the cracked window, the rustle of leaves as the road curves–all of it fades beneath two words spoken so simply that they almost don’t register. 

You sit with it for a second. Like you’re not sure you even heard him right. 

Almost.

But then they do.

“...You do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper, a fragile thing in the dark of the car. You’re staring at him now–more sober in this moment than you’ve been all night. Not just because the alcohol is wearing off, but because nothing snaps you into clarity like him.

Aaron’s hand is still on yours, thumb moving once, slow across your skin.

He doesn’t look over at first. Just exhales, the smallest lift of his brow, like he’s thinking back through the last thirty seconds and only now realizing what slipped out.

He gives a quiet, dry sort of laugh. “Suppose that’s not how I meant to say it.”

You just stare at him. “So… you did say it?”

His mouth twists–not regretful, just wry. That little pinch between his brows appears, the one you’ve come to learn means he’s sifting through something careful and important. “I did. Wasn’t planning to. Not like this. Not while driving you home after you sent me a bunch of texts about how brown my eyes are.”

You let out a tiny wheeze. “They’re very brown. Deeply brown.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s quiet. Focused elsewhere.

“I mean it, though.”

You don’t breath.

He clears his throat, almost awkward. “I do love you. I was going to say it eventually. Preferably when you were sober. Maybe cook something. Say it over dinner. Something better than… a carfessional.”

You gasp. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t say it again.”

“A carfessional.” You bite your lip, barely holding in your smile. 

He groans, but you can see it—his smile, finally unguarded. Like he’s letting himself have this.

And something about that makes your eyes sting. It's a shaky little moment, full of that strange, sacred feeling that only comes around a few times in life.

You turn back toward the window, toward the trees passing by like silhouettes, the stars still scattered like someone spilled silver across the sky. You’re quiet for a while. Letting your heart settle. Letting the words breathe.

Then, softly: “I love you too.”

Aaron doesn’t flinch but you see it–the way his hand pauses slightly against yours. The way his shoulders shift, like something’s unfulring inside him. He doesnt say anything, but you don’t need him too.

He brings your hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You smile down at your lap, at the warmth tucked beneath his jacket, at the world outside that suddenly feels a little softer. 

After a few moments, you sigh.

“... Still want cheese fries, though.”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I’ll find you some,” he says. “But only because I love you.”

Your smile curls wide. Warm. Dizzy with the weight of it.

“Gross,” you whisper. “Say it again.”

He glances over, flashes another smile back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, like it’s easy now.

Like it was always meant to be.

divider by strangergraphics

[appledressing]

[appledressing]

Love seeing women with bare faces, short fingernails, practical shoes, comfortable clothing, a full plate, a toothy grin, a relaxed posture. Love love love seeing women comfortable and happy and unselfconscious.

[appledressing]

😭🥰

the delivery - s.r

♡ summary: spencer anxiously waits on you to decide when to go to the hospital pairing: husband!spencer reid x pregnant!wife!reader warnings: basically just that episode of the office (S6 E17), reader is pregnant, descriptions of pregnancy, contractions wc: 3.3k from the results of this poll

Nine months. Nine months you'd suffered nausea, fatigue, back pain, swollen ankles, swollen breasts, and mood swings. And nine months your husband had tended to you hand and foot, getting you everything you needed, making sure you were as comfortable as possible.

You had continued going to work, staying out of the field but needing the fulfillment of doing something during the day. Spencer had protested but ultimately lost the debate. You just had to promise to be careful, stay off your feet as much as you could, and let him know immediately if something went wrong. He didn't care if he was halfway across the country, he'd hitchhike his way back if you had so much as a foot cramp.

Rossi and you had gotten closer during your pregnancy, him bringing in home cooked meals, whatever you had been craving lately, and eating it with you at lunch while explaining how he made it and what went into it. He was very precise with how his dishes were made and the fact that you were hungry a lot more often meant he could try out some of his new recipes on you.

You were sitting in the kitchenette with him now, trying his new spin on pesto pasta.

"I was thinking, maybe we should do something special before you go on maternity leave. One last perfect meal."

"Mmm, that sounds great, what are you thinking?"

"I think it should be a surprise." You suddenly feel a tightening pain in your stomach and your eyes close, lips pressing together as you let out a groan of pain.

"Ooh. Getting close, huh?" Emily asked, shutting the fridge door and leaning against it, looking at you with a grimace.

"No no. I still have time." You waved her off. You planned on waiting until midnight to go to the hospital so you could have a full extra day there, surrounded by doctors. It just pained Spencer to see you having to push through the pain.

You were standing by the copier when you got another contraction. You reminded yourself, they're irregular and far apart, so you'll be fine. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as your hand found your back where the pain was the worst.

Spencer's head snapped up watching you carefully as Derek came around the corner, Penelope in tow.

"You're having contractions? That means you're in labor right? You should go to the hospital." Derek suggested, sending you a sympathetic glance.

"We're not going to the hospital yet, we're going to wait until midnight." You said, your voice tight as you shuffled back to your chair, Derek following close behind.

"Oh, why?" He asked, leaning against your desk as Emily and JJ lifted their heads to listen in.

"Because the insurance company only covers two nights." Spencer explained.

"Everything's fine. We have plenty of time." You assured them all.

"Did you know that labor can last weeks? Then they take your insides out, and they just plop them on the table, and sometimes epidurals don't work, and-"

"Okay, okay, thanks Pen, that's really good to know. Thank you."

You let out a breath as your contraction ended. Spencer, who'd been watching from the copy machine, rushed over.

"That's seven minutes. Here we go. This is happening."

"Hold on, hold on. You chuckled, cutting him off as he bent down, trying to help you stand from your chair. "It isn't midnight yet." His excited smile dropped.

"Are you serious? Angel..."

"No, the doctor said every five to seven minutes."

"I-"

"I'm gonna be okay, we should really try to make it to midnight."

"Honey, please."

"Yeah, you really should try to make it because if your baby's born tomorrow, he'll have the same birthday as the late great Johnny Hodges. The greatest saxophonist of all time."

"Did you hear that? Johnny Hodges." Spencer scoffs with a smile and stands up.

"Okay, but we are leaving at five minutes apart."

"Five minutes." You nodded as he backed away to his own desk.

You sank into your chair, eyes closed, as the pain slowly subsided.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay..." You whispered breathily. Spencer's eyes were locked on you, worry clear in his face. Your eyes open and you catch his stare. "Okay, stop watching me."

"Okay, crazy. I think I have some better things to do with my day than worry about you, like figuring out dinner." He said sarcastically.

"Mm hmm."

"Steak is 20% off, well now till Friday, that's a big deal, while we're on the subject, why don't I just run you down to the hospital and just do a quick check?" You click your tongue, shoulders still tense.

"Not till midnight." He purses his lips defeatedly.

"So have you guys thought about names yet?" JJ asks, standing beside your desk, a warm mug of coffee in her hand. God, you missed coffee. The sweet dark taste of it, warming your mouth- alright, stop thinking about it.

"We actually have them picked out already." You said, smiling at Spencer.

"Uh, Diana Lily Reid if it's a girl, and Jude Gideon Reid if it's a boy."

"Oh, those are so cute." JJ gushed. You chatted for a couple minutes before your next contraction came on, jolting through you. Your hand found your stomach as your face scrunched in pain. JJ squeezed your shoulder in support as Spencer ran a hand through his hair.

"Angel, we really should-"

"Spencer." Your tone was scolding and he quickly shut his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. The contraction passed and you took a few deep breaths.

"I think this is a bad idea." Spencer mrumurs.

"I know, honey, why don't you practice diapering again?" You suggested to get his mind off of it.

"I've already done that, I'm down to 21.3 seconds." He mutters, his leg bouncing. He'd been practicing changing diapers on anything he could find, a fake doll he'd brought in, a football from Derek's desk, he'd even practiced on one of Penelope's large cat figurines.

You were on your way back to your desk from the bathroom when you felt another contraction, the worst of them, shooting through your abdomen. You stopped in your tracks, changing course to one of the couches near the door. The cushions provided you with little relief, though, Spencer noticed immediately and rushed over, sitting next to you and taking your hand.

Your eyes shut tight, you squeezed his hand hard with your other hand over your stomach, groaning in pain.

"Oh! Oh, alright." He shifted on the couch, grabbing your clasped hands in his other one as you threatened to break his bones in your fist. "That's a good one." Spencer winced.

"Ow... okay." You breathed out, letting go of Spencer's hand. He bent, his elbows on his thighs as he put his mouth in his hand, deeply considering his life choices.

"Honey, maybe we should-"

"Don't even suggest it Spencer. We're waiting."

"I know." He sighs. He sits with you, rubbing you back soothingly and around six minutes later, another contraction comes on.

"That's every six minutes." Emily chimes in, checking her watch.

"Okay, you know what?" Spencer shifts restlessly in his seat, moving to stand. "I'm gonna go give the doctor a quick call, he'll probably know-"

"Spence, please." He sits back down next to you, glancing at the ceiling for a moment before looking down. "Happy thoughts here? Happy times."

"Why don't you just figure out the ways to induce labor and do the opposite of those?" Morgan suggested.

"You know what? Great idea, Derek, let's do that." You agreed, reaching out to take your husbands hand. Derek turned, looking up a list.

"Alright, number one, stimulate her nipples."

"Easy, no one's doing that, move to the next one." Penelope said and Derek scrolled down. Spencer bent, putting his hand in his hands, elbows on his thighs as he bounced his leg and tugged at his hair.

"Uh, walk around. Great she's already doing the opposite of that."

"Number three. Having sex. Well what's the opposite of having sex?" Penelope said and Spencer shot up from his seat, shaking his head.

"Nope, nope, come on, let's go to the hospital,"

"Spence,"

"Let's go to the hospital now."

"Spencer, honey, I love you,"

"Mhm." He said tensely, putting his hands on his hips.

"But you're really distracting me from my distractions."

"Okay, well, I'm sorry."

"Why don't you go do some work?" You gestured to his desk and he ran a hand through his unruly hair.

"Great. I will do that. Sorry, I just feel a little bit frazzled and you know how very rarely I use that word."

"I know. You don't like to be frazzled."

"No, I don't." He said, sounding a bit like a grumpy child as he walked back to his desk. He stops to grab a stack of books on pregnancy that he's kept close just in case before walking out. Hotch, having come out of his office to watch the amusing spectacle, followed him out, a bit worried about his anxious protegee.

~

"I know her better than anyone in this office, and obviously she's gone crazy but everybody wants to say that I'm crazy. But I'm not crazy, she's crazy. I'm not crazy, she's crazy." Spencer repeated, pacing the hallway, his hair tousled from constantly running his hands through it.

"Reid." Hotch says gently.

"No, no, she's not crazy, I shouldn't say that. She's just pregnant. But she needs to be at the hospital and she's not listening to me."

"Reid." Aaron repeats but Spencer sinks to the floor, grabbing a book as his legs stretch out into the middle of the hallway, his back against the wall as he quickly finds the page he's looking for.

"Five to seven minutes." He points to the line in the page, grabbing another book to find the same information. "Five to seven minutes." It's almost as if he's talking to himself as he grabs a third book, searching for the information again. "Six minutes- different, but not really." He picks up the fourth book as Aaron watches on silently. "Five to seven minutes."

Spencer's head falls back against the wall as he looks at the ceiling. His gaze falls down on Hotch across from him.

"Reid, take a break. You're stressing yourself out here. She knows herself and she knows her body. She'll come to you when she's ready."

"You're right." Spencer mumbles, getting to his feet. "I think I'm gonna go sit in the car for a bit. I need some fresh air." Aaron nods, watching him leave, a hand threading through his hair and tugging slightly.

Spencer is sitting in your car in the parking garage, staring off into space when he hears a gentle knock on the window. He sees you giving him a soft smile and rolls the window down, leaning closer to you.

"Hey."

"Hey." You gave him a small wave. "I'm not gonna get in the car, because I know if I do you'll try to drive me to the hospital."

"You know me too well." He chuckles anxiously, the smile quickly falling, replaced with a tense expression.

"Okay, Spence?"

"Yeah?"

"Everything is fine,"

"Totally." He mumbles.

"You don't have to worry, try not to think about it. She's not coming out for a while, okay?" You chuckled a bit, trying to reassure him. He smiles but it quickly drops when he registers what you said.

"Did you say she?" You smile falls as well.

"I called the doctor, like, a week ago. I couldn't wait." His eyes go hazy as he stares at the spot next to you. You can't gauge how he's feeling and a pit forms in your stomach. "Oh, go, don't be mad." You breathed.

"Mad?" His eyes are teary as he looks up at you. "How could I be mad? We're having a little girl."

"Mhm." You let a small, hesitant smile form, still unsure of what he's feeling.

"We're having a little girl. Oh, wow." He sighs and you giggled a bit in relief.

"I know."

"All right. Well I definitely feel better."

"Good." You grinned, leaning down to kiss him through the window opening. He turns to watch you as you head back inside but he notices something.

"Hey, did you change?" You turn back around.

"Oh, yeah. My water broke." You giggled.

"Oh." He chuckles and you turn, walking away and his smile quickly falls. "Oh."

You walk back inside, shedding your coat but you quickly pause as pain shoots through you.

"Oh! Woah..." You pause to lean against the wall and Derek gets up, rushing to you. Hotch looks up, coming out of his office to survey from the balcony. "Haa!" You breathe out, Derek steadying you.

"Okay, alright, it's time, time to go to the hospital, somebody get Reid."

"No, not yet Derek, it's not midnight yet. And I still need to try Rossi's dish, where is he?" You head to the kitchen as Derek looks on helplessly. He shoots a text to Spencer who comes up quickly, though, he knows he won't be able to convince you to go to the hospital.

You sit down with Rossi in the kitchenette as he prepares the meal. Spencer paces nearby, his thumb and pointer finger working at his temple, his other hand stuffed in his pocket, clenched into a fist.

"Alright it's essentially a three course meal. First, we have Bistecca alla Fiorentina, a steak that was grilled to rare perfection, and then we have-" He cuts himself off when he notices that your face is all scrunched up and your hunching over slightly. "Are you okay?" He asks, reaching out to put a hand on your arm.

"Mhm." Your voice is tight and in a higher pitch from the pain. "Yes, I'm fine. Um..."

"Are you sure?" He asks gently.

"Yeah, the doctor said it's still considered a minor contraction as long as I can talk through it!" Your voice breaks at the end, raising louder as the pain sharpens.

"Okay, Spencer-" Derek, who'd been sitting by, watching with worry, called to his friend who rushed over, immediately looking down at you. "I think it's time to go to the hospital.

"Alright, time to go? Let's do this."

"No, no it's better." Your voice was a wavering whine as you tried to breathe through it. "That wasn't even the worst of 'em- I'm fine." Spencer bends slightly, his hand on your back.

"Hey, come on, let go to the hospital."

"They're not that bad still, Spence." He says your name in a firm voice. "No, it's passing, it's fine."

"Honey, it's time. Let's go to the hospital."

"It's okay." You whined in protest.

"I really think we should go to the hospital."

"No it passed now, it's fine."

"You know what, I'm not asking anymore." He reaches down, one hand at your back, the other grabbing your arm as he tried to pull you to your feet. Rossi's hand was at your other arm, more hesitant in trying to help you up. "We got to go."

"No, I'm not going."

"We need to go." He changed his positioning as you resisted his attempts.

"No, no come on, I'm not going, okay?!" You shouted, making all three men back off in surprise but you were staring directly at Spencer, your eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not going today, because I can't do it, I don't think I can do it." Your voice broke as tears sprung to your eyes and Spencer immediately crouched down in front of you, his hand on your knee as his voice soffented.

"Hey, hey, are you kidding me? If anyone can do this, you can do this. If you can take down two unsubs on your own with no back up, you can do this. Angel, I'm scared. But the best news is, we're having a baby today. So let's have it at the hospital." His gentle voice successfully soothed you and he turned his head slightly to address Derek. "How are we doing on contractions?"

"Two minutes apart."

"Two min-" Spencer froze, tightening his lips.

"Oh god." You said as you realized what that meant. "Oh no." Spencer stood, turning to face Derek.

"Morgan I told you to warn me at five minutes."

"Spence, we waited too long." Your voice was filled with worry.

"We waited too long. Two minutes doesn't do us any good-"

"I know." Derek tried to calm him.

"Well, what happened to four and three?" Your breathing sped up as tears started forming again. He sighed sharply, running a hand through his hair and turning back to you.

"I don't wanna have my baby here." You whimpered.

"You're not going to, you know where we're going?"

"The hospital."

"Yes and we're going to have a baby, okay?" You nodded and Spencer gently helped you out of your seat but, internally, he was freaking out, forcing himself to put a brave face on for you. He ran to get your bags from the desk before rushing back, putting an arm around your back to lead you out of the precinct.

"Oh, good luck, guys!" Penelope called to you, the team gathering in the middle of the bullpen to wish you goodbye.

"Bye, good luck!" JJ smiled brightly, as the two of you hurried out the door.

After nineteen long hard hours of labor, she was out, cleaned up and swaddled, in your arms. Spencer was laying in the bed beside you, his arms gently around you as he stared at your baby in awe. She was beautiful, the perfect mix of both of you. Diana Lily Reid, named after Spencer's mother and your favorite flower, had Spencer's eyes and bone structure, and your nose and lips.

"She's perfect." You whispered, brushing your pinky down her tiny nose, barely grazing her skin, not wanting to wake her.

"I know." Spencer agreed. You turned to look at him. "How are you feeling?" He asked softly.

"Better. Still a little sore." He hums, kissing your temple.

"Good." The door opened slowly and Penelope poked her head in.

"Is this the little baby Reid?" She asked quietly, coming into the room. The rest of the team was behind her with various gifts, Derek carrying balloons, Aaron holding a teddy bear with a bow around its neck. "Oh, she's gorgeous!" Penelope gushed.

"I made you a bunch of easy meals that you can heat up, I dropped them off in your fridge on the way here." JJ told you and you gave her a grateful look, grabbing her arm.

"You're a savior, JJ, thank you." She smiled.

"And we're all offering babysitting and cleaning help whenever you need it." Hotch gave you a smile and you felt tears pricking behind your eyes and the immense display of kindness.

"You guys are so sweet." Your voice wobbled and they all smiled. Spencer reached over, wiping the tears that slipped out and ran down your cheek. Spencer let you hand him your daughter as you composed yourself.

"If you guys want to hold her, there's hand sanitizer on the table over there." Spencer nodded to the nightstand. Emily was first, sanitizing before carefully taking the baby into her arms.

"Hi, baby. Hi." She cooked, smiling down at her. Diana yawned and everyone gushed as her. You knew right away that this baby would be loved by everyone in her life. She'd be close with all her aunts and uncles, closer with her parents. You'd give this baby the best life imaginable, showering her in love and care, knowing she deserved every bit of it.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni, @pixie-verse

[appledressing]

No I read this so fast like a drug. It hits every single spot on my fav trope lists? Awkward? Yes, accidental meet cute? Misunderstanding? Side characters knowingly watching it unfold? All absolutely stunning. Mwahs all round

✧ cold cut — ❪ part five ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . in which one compliment, one coat, and one very stupid scalpel cut send you spiraling back into jack abbot’s orbit—bleeding, babbling, and absolutely not prepared for what he says next . ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! graphic injury ( scalpel cut, blood ), medical imagery ( stitches, not graphic, er setting ), mild medical anxiety, emotional spiral / anxious overthinking, self-deprecating inner monologue, implied crush / unrequited feelings ( perceived ), power imbalance ( attending physician x hospital staff ), flirting in a professional setting, profanity

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES . dont look at me! the jacket is my way of edging them before we get to the actual edging 😏😅 the jacket has earned its way to the castlist. it is a main character now

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT . ~ 2.3k

JOIN THE JACKSABBOTTS 1K EXTRAVAGANZA

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist

the coat was back where it didn’t belong—on your desk, draped like a memory you couldn’t fold shut.

you didn’t put it back on ( even though he told you to wear it ). you’d thought about it, thought maybe the extra warmth would keep your brain from spiraling—but the weight of it on your shoulders made it worse. you couldn’t breathe with it on. so you'd placed it carefully in the corner of your desk, hoping it would stop staring.

it didn’t.

you had a body on the table. male, late fifties, post-op complications. nothing traumatic. nothing you hadn’t seen a hundred times before. you went through the motions : pulled the cart into place, adjusted the overhead light, unzipped the bag. the hum of the cooler, the click of your pen, the rustle of latex gloves—routine, familiar, grounding.

still, you kept glancing back.

'don’t look at me like that,' you muttered, tugging the sheet down to expose the man's torso. 'not you. him.' your eyes flicked to the desk. 'the coat. it’s staring again.'

you sighed and looked back at the body. 'you ever have a doctor who ruined your entire emotional equilibrium with one compliment and a jacket? no? lucky you.”

the corpse didn’t answer.

'not that i think it was a real compliment,' you added, setting up your scale and camera. 'i’m not delusional. he was just being polite. a guilt offering. like a sorry for making you feel like a walking pathology specimen last week kind of thing.'

you adjusted the camera. 'still. he didn’t have to say it. it suits you.' you rolled your eyes and shook your head. 'that’s the kind of thing that short-circuits a girl’s brain, you know?'

click. photo taken.

'i’ve been thinking about it for two days,' you continued. 'you know what that means? i haven’t watched any tv. i haven’t listened to my podcasts. i—' you hesitated. '—i forgot to label the scalpels last night. me. the scalpel-labeling queen. not my idea, im not that self-absorbed.'

you peeled back the id band on the corpse’s wrist, checked it against the log.

'i’m pathetic,' you mumbled.

the body, to his credit, said nothing.

'anyway, let’s get your sample. then i’ll stop rambling and let you enjoy your eternal rest in peace and silence and climate-controlled perfection.'

you reached for the scalpel.

and you weren’t looking. not at your hand. not at the angle.

you were thinking about his hands. the way they’d stitched your palm last week. the way he’d said your name—well, okay, nickname. still. his voice had dipped when he said it.

and that was when it happened.

a sharp slip. a hiss of pain. the blade biting in—clean, fast, too deep.

you dropped it with a gasp.

blood bloomed through the glove almost instantly.

'oh, come on,' you groaned, grabbing a wad of gauze with your good hand. you applied pressure, but it wasn’t enough. the blood was already dripping onto the floor, your shoe, the tray of sterile tools.

you turned to the body again, holding up your bleeding hand. 'well, congratulations. you’re the first dead guy to see me have a full-on medical spiral in real time.'

still no reply. obviously.

'don't look so smug. this is your fault, you know.' you pressed the gauze tighter. 'if you’d just let me stay distracted without bleeding about it, we wouldn’t be in this mess.'

the corpse was unmoved.

you looked down at your hand. it was a mess.

you were going to need stitches.

which meant only one thing.

you were going to have to go upstairs.

the elevator ride to the er felt like ascending to your own personal hell.

you kept your hand cradled close to your chest, gauze pressed tight, blood still seeping through the layers. the pain was manageable. the shame? not so much.

you should’ve waited. should’ve radioed someone. should’ve done literally anything else but walk yourself, in your oversized morgue scrubs and haunted raccoon eyes, up to the one place you’d been aggressively avoiding since the beginning of your shift. since he told you it suited you. since your entire brain short-circuited and your hand decided to follow.

the er doors slid open with their usual groan, and you stepped into the chaos like a deer crossing a freeway at rush hour.

don’t panic, you told yourself. just get someone other than jack abbot. anyone. a resident. a nurse. a vending machine with first-aid supplies.

you made it five steps before you heard your name.

'hey—morgue girl?'

she, dana, appeared at your elbow like a horror movie jump scare, coffee in one hand, chart in the other. her eyes scanned you—then dropped to the soaked gauze in your hand.

her whole expression shifted.

'what the hell did you do?' she asked, half-concerned, half-amused.

'i—uh—i had a moment,' you mumbled. 'it’s fine. i’m fine. just need some stitches.'

dana’s brows lifted. 'sure looks like more than ‘just’—wait, you walked up here like that?'

you nodded. she blinked. 'jesus,' she muttered, then turned and called over her shoulder. 'hey, jack!'

'dana!'

but it was too late.

jack appeared from bay two, chart in hand, brow furrowed—until he saw you. everything in his expression changed. his shoulders straightened. his steps quickened.

you wanted to sink into the linoleum.

'what happened?' he asked, voice low, serious, and somehow ten times louder than anything else in the room.

'i—' you lifted the gauze. 'it’s not that bad.'

he didn’t answer. just reached out and gently took your wrist in his hand, tilting it so he could see. the pressure was feather-light. his fingers were warm.

he pulled the gauze back.

blood bloomed. fast. too fast. you felt light headed. his jaw flexed. 'bay three,' he said, already steering you toward it. 'i really don’t need—'

'bay. three.'

you opened your mouth to protest—too late. he’d already turned, barking over his shoulder to dana, 'get one of the kids to cover four and five. i’m taking care of this one.'

dana blinked. 'uh, i could grab shen? he’s—'

'no.' jack’s voice sliced clean through the noise. final. '’ll do it.'

you flinched.

dana raised an eyebrow but backed off with a knowing smirk, already halfway down the hall.

you didn’t move.

jack turned to you, hands already gloved. 'go.'

you followed because your legs didn’t have the spine to disobey. the curtain swished closed behind you, and you found yourself once again in the crash room. the scene of the crime. the battlefield of coats and compliments and feelings.

he gestured to the bed.

you hesitated.

'up.'

you climbed onto the gurney like you were being sent to the gallows.

you watched him gather the suture kit. watched the ease in his movements, the confidence in his hands. prepped a tray of supplies with practiced ease. you stared at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact like your life depended on it.

'you—you don’t have to,' you said, voice shaking as you stared at your shoes. 'i mean, you could ask one of your residents. i’m sure they’re—'

'i trained them,' jack said flatly. 'doesn’t mean i trust them.'

you blinked. 'but—'

he stepped closer. took your injured hand with such deliberate gentleness you nearly forgot to breathe. 'they’re still learning,' he said. 'you’re not a practice body.'

your heart stuttered at that.

his fingers were careful. gentle, even—but his eyes? still sharp. still on you.

the sterile silence stretched while he prepped the stitches. you watched his hands work, the burn in your palm nothing compared to the burn in your face.

he didn’t speak again until the needle was in his grip.

'so, how’d it happen?'

you tensed. 'it’s—uh, it’s nothing, really. just a—uh—a stupid slip. happens all the time, you know, just one of those days and the scalpel was, um, sharp—obviously—and it just—'

'try again,' he said, without looking up.

you swallowed.

'tell me the truth,' he added, quieter this time. 'you’ve done this job for how long? three years?' your heart stuttered because that? there was no reason he'd know that. and that meant that he'd asked about you. he'd purposely tried to find out information about you.

'four.'

'exactly. so i doubt you just forgot how to handle a scalpel overnight.' he glanced up, brow raised. 'what really happened?'

you shriveled under his stare. your mouth opened. closed. opened again. and then it all came out at once.

'i—okay—i was distracted, alright? i was cleaning the table and i just—i wasn’t thinking straight because someone told me to keep their stupid coat and then they told me it—it suits me—and i couldn’t stop thinking about it which is ridiculous because i know you were just being polite and trying to be nice and maybe like, not feel guilty for yelling at me which is fine by the way, i wasn’t mad or anything but it just got in my head and—and—then i knocked the tray over and i grabbed the blade without looking and now we’re here—so.'

silence.

utter silence.

you didn’t breathe.

your eyes were huge.

because, oh god, what had you just said? why had you said that?

and jack abbot was fucking grinning. not smirking. not smoldering. grinning. like a goddamn kid. like someone just handed him the sun.

'jesus christ,' he muttered, shaking his head. 'you’re unbelievable.'

you buried your face in your uninjured hand. 'i know, i know, i didn’t mean to say all of that, just—forget it—'

'no way.' he was beaming now. 'you think I gave you my coat because I felt guilty?'

you looked at him like he’d just accused you of grand larceny. 'well—yeah?' you squeaked. he huffed out a laugh—soft, warm, real. 'morgue girl…'

'what?'

he bent forward slightly, still holding your hand with one of his own, the needle paused in the other. you blinked up at him, still reeling, still red, still trying to play catch-up while he tugged the last stitch tight.

he cut the thread with a flick of surgical scissors.

then he looked at you. really looked.

and he said, voice low, not flirty, not teasing—earnest. 'yeah, okay. the first time i gave you the coat… that was guilt. i’ll admit it.”

you froze. 'but the second time?'

he leaned back on his stool, hands braced loosely on his knees, head tilted like he was debating how honest to be.'that wasn’t about guilt,' he said.

he glanced away for half a second—then back. 'that was because i didn’t like the thought of you freezing half to death down there. not when i could do something about it.'

your lips parted. no words came.

'i’ve worked in this hospital for years,' he went on, almost to himself. 'plenty of people down in the morgue. most of ‘em i barely remember. but you?' his eyes caught yours again.

'you’re the first one i’ve ever gone downstairs for.'

you felt your breath stick in your throat. your fingers twitched. your skin felt too warm under the er lights.

'i didn’t mean to mess with your head,' he added, softer now. 'but i’m not sorry for noticing you. not sorry for the coat. and i’m definitely not sorry for wanting to make sure you’re warm.'

you whispered, 'why?'

his smile curved slow and dangerous.

'because i like you cold,' he said, standing. 'but i like you warm a hell of a lot more.'

then he brushed his knuckles—very gently—down your cheek. just once. he chuckled again, shaking his head as he went back to stitching you up—like he hadn’t just said the most unhinged thing in the world.

and then he walked out like he hadn’t just wrecked your soul and left your brain in seventeen different emotional pieces on a hospital gurney.

your brain fizzled out.

your brain short-fucking-circuited. completely. full system shutdown. he left the room like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just said those words, hadn’t just looked at you like that, hadn’t just touched your face like you were something gentle.

and you were still sitting on the damn gurney with your hand bandaged and your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest like it was auditioning for a medical emergency of its own.

what.

the actual fuck.

was that.

you replayed it. again. and again. and again.

because I like you cold. but I like you warm a hell of a lot more.

who says that?? who says that and then leaves?? who says that to you, the awkward morgue tech who talks to corpses and can’t look a resident in the eye without breaking into hives?

your ears were ringing. your skin felt like it had been dipped in lava. you could still feel the ghost of his knuckles on your cheek. like it had been branded into your nervous system.

you kicked your feet a little off the side of the gurney.

you wanted to scream into your hands. or crawl into the nearest biohazard bin and never return. or maybe pass away quietly in the trauma bay because that would be less humiliating than what just happened.

you glanced down at your bandaged hand. still there. still throbbing. still very much stitched up by the man who just emotionally detonated you like a code blue in your chest cavity.

you whispered to no one :

'…what the fuck.'

and then immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, because oh my god, that had come out aloud.

you peeked toward the hallway. no one. thank god. except—was that dana? you scrambled off the gurney like it had caught fire.

you needed to get out. away. back to the cold, back to the dead, back to your lane.

because this?

this was too warm. too dangerous. too much. and the worst part?

the worst part was how badly—how embarrassingly badly—you wanted him to say something like that again.

🔖  .   @Princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @Imherefordeanandbones  @Arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @I-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @britt217  @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore  @chuiisi  @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @Imightbeinsanebutwtv  @Shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @Justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @twiddledeedumsworld  @dlljdhsh  @jetless  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @Topnerd03  @misshoneypaper  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040 @Sabi127  @Coleground  @sevenberry   @idontcarenoughtonamethis  @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3

[appledressing]

Great job PENNY!!

sugar and spice - s.r

♡ summary: penelope sets up spencer and her baker friend on a blind date pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: fluff dialed up to the max, reader wears a dress, just two lovesick cuties wc: 1.8k based on this request

Penelope was a matchmaker at heart. She loved to see her friends happy and if pairing them up with someone else she knew made them happy, she would do it in a heartbeat.

Penelope frequented a bakery called 'Crimson Confections' and the nice baker woman she met behind the counter had become a close friend of hers. The two of you went out for lunch often, walks in the park occasionally, and sometimes you went to the movie theater together. You'd like to call Penelope your best friend and you hoped she thought the same of you.

Penelope considered many people her 'best friend'. Her and Derek were the close flirty best friends, her and Spencer were like two peas in a pod, her and JJ were girl talking, shopping date best friends... she could go on and on.

You, Garcia thought, shared some similarities with Spencer. You were both dorky, adorable people, you both loved Star Trek, and you both were... a bit awkward. Maybe a little more than 'a bit'.

She made her usual trip to the bakery, excited at the prospect of seeing her friend coupled with the discounted sweets you always gave her. The bell rang as she walked through the door, a cloud of fruity perfume and colorful accessories.

"Hello!" She greeted you in front of the counter, smiling brightly.

"Penelope! I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow." Your eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"I decided to come today. I want to talk to you about something."

"I already told you, I don't know how to make a cupcake with your dogs face on it-"

'No, it's not about that, even though I know you could figure out how to do it if you just tried-" She saw your glare and quickly switched subjects. "It's about your love life." You rolled your eyes with a sigh.

"Pen-"

"Just listen. I know a cute guy, he'd be perfect for you, I can set you up on a date this weekend."

"Penelope, I'm don't really want-"

"Come on, please? One date. And if you don't like him, you'll never have to talk to him again." You thought it over. It couldn't be that bad. There's no way your friend would set you up on a date with someone she knows is an asshole or anything like that.

"Fine." You sighed and she squealed, bouncing up and down in excitement.

"I can already picture it! The two of you are going to get married and have adorable little babies together and-"

"Penelope! I don't even know who he is yet. And who says I want kids?"

"Oh just you wait." You chuckled, getting her usual order for her. A blueberry scone for her breakfast, a pink frosted cupcake that she puts in the fridge for later, and a chocolate sprinkled donut for someone else.

You handed her the pastries and she was on her way, leaving you wondering just who this mystery man was. You hadn't been on a date in ages, your last three having been with immature mommy's boys or arrogant mansplaining dicks. But you trusted your friend and you knew she wouldn't set you up with someone so clearly wrong for you.

~

"Come on, Spencer, she's perfect for you!"

"Garcia, I just don't know if I'm in the mood for another bad date." Spencer sighed as Penelope followed him back to his desk.

"That's the thing! It won't be a bad date. She's my friend, I know her and I know you, and I know you'll have a good time. Please? For me?" She begged, giving him puppy dog eyes from behind her bright blue glasses.

"Fine." He sighed and she grinned brightly. She was already thinking about what dress she would wear as a bridesmaid at your wedding.

You strolled up to the front of the restaurant. Penelope had made the reservations, texted you the info, and gave you a small description of who you would be looking for. You wouldn't be surprised if you spotted her sitting at the bar, watching the two of you.

You wore a simple outfit, jeans and a nice fuzzy sweater, your hair tied half up in a matching bow. You didn't normally get the chance to dress up, always covered in flour in your apron at the bakery and when you got home, you immediately changed into sweats to lounge on your couch.

The restaurant was one big room, a bar along the right wall, warmly lit with vintage hanging lamps. You scanned the room, searching for the man described to you. Spencer. Short brown hair, probably wearing a sweater vest, adorably nervous.

You spotted him. No doubt in your mind it was him. He was in fact wearing a sweater vest, a cute brown and blue one and he was fiddling with his fork, taking an anxious sip of his water as he looked around the restaurant.

He made eye contact with you and his shoulder deflated slightly in relief as he gave you a small smile. You returned it, carefully making your way through the tables to him.

"Hi, are you Spencer?" You asked.

"Yeah, you're Penelope's friend?" You nodded, telling him your name as you sat down across from him.

"Nice to meet you. I've heard good things."

"Oh, really?" You chuckled.

"Yeah, every time Penelope gives me a donut in the morning she raves about your baking skills."

"I was wondering who those donuts were going to. I'm glad you like them."

"I really do." You took a sip of the water he'd ordered for you, hoping this date goes as well as it's started.

"So you work with Penelope, are you an agent?"

"Yes, I'm a profiler." He explains his job to you and your eyes widen. You hadn't dove deep into Penelope's job all that much, not realizing her and her team caught serial killers. All she said was she was in the FBI and maybe it was on you for not putting two and two together.

"Wow, that sounds... insane."

"You kind of get used to it." He mutters and you both fall into that first-date-awkward-silence before he speaks again. "So you're a baker, right? Tell me about that."

"There's not much to tell. I'm usually coated in batter by the end of the day and go home smelling like sugar."

"That doesn't sound too bad." You laughed. The two of you had an instant connection, the awkwardness quickly disappearing as your conversation flowed easily.

Turns out, you both had many things in common. You both liked the same shows (you made a mental note to schedule another date to show him all the ones you brought up that he hadn't seen, case in point: Dexter, The Good Place, Severance, you could go on), and a couple of the same books (he was already making a mental list of all the books he wanted you to read or, rather, him to read to you if you got that far).

You chatted about your interest, hobbies, all things classic first-date talk. And when you finish dinner, after splitting a chocolate lava cake for dessert and then Spencer covering the bill all gentleman-like, you exit the restaurant. Instead of heading for the parking lot, you turn the opposite way, deciding to keep the date going with a walk in the park. Your hands brushed against each others as you walked side by side.

"I'm really glad Penelope set us up." You glanced at him, smiling affectionately.

"Me too. This was really fun." You fall into a silence, different this time, not awkward but, comfortable. His pinky gently wraps around yours and you glanced at him, noticing the blush on his cheek and the way he avoided looking at you. You took the leap, taking his hand fully in yours.

"You wanna do this again sometime?" You asked, stopping on the path and turning to face him.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

♡ BONUS:

You stood in front of the mirror, inspecting yourself. All day, your bridesmaids had said you looked perfect, that they wouldn't change a thing. But something felt off to you.

Not your dress, the color and the length were exactly what you wanted. The veil, lacy and pretty, was not the problem either. You sighed, frustrated at not knowing what was causing your disquiet. There was a knock on the door behind you and you heard your fiance's voice.

"Angel? Are you okay in there? Penelope said you were feeling off."

"I-" You sighed, turning to face the door, wringing your hands in front of you. "Can you come in here?"

"Are- are you sure?" He asked warily.

"Yeah, I don't give a shit about superstition, I need to see you." He opens the door, quickly shutting it behind him so that only he can bask in your radiance.

"Are you alright?" His expression was filled with worry before he took in your appearance. "Oh... you look so pretty." He said, enamored by you. You chuckled as he stepped closer. "Really, I mean, seriously, you're gorgeous."

"Thank you, Spencer. You look very handsome too." You said, reaching up to smooth down his lapels when he reached you. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Is something wrong? Are you getting cold feet? Cause we don't have to do this-"

"No, no, it's not that." His arms snaked around your waist. "I actually feel a lot better now."

"Really?" You nod, leaning up to press a kiss to the closest place you can reach, his jaw. "What changed?" Spencer asks, his eyebrows furrowed. You turn around, looking in the mirror again. You'd realized what was wrong, what was missing. It was Spencer. What was missing was your fiance on your arm.

Now that you had Spencer, everything felt right. Not even just today, but in your life. It felt like once Penelope had introduced the two of you, everything had fallen into place.

"Do you remember our first date?" You asked, leaning back into his chest.

"Of course I do. Look who you're talking to." He grins and you affectionately roll your eyes.

"I've been thinking about that night lately. Where I would be right now if that night hadn't happened."

"Look, I could sit here and tell you everything I know about how the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state, but... all I'm gonna say is that, right here, right now, I love you. And you love me. And we're getting married. We don't need to think about anything else." You smiled, catching his eye in the mirror.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, careful not to mess up your makeup, and rested his chin on your shoulder. You thought over his words, knowing he was right. It didn't matter what could have happened in this past because you had this now, and you weren't letting it go.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni

[appledressing]

Oh please I’m so glad he took the risk/ that’s all life is fr

𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 ⊹ . ݁. ݁જ⁀➴ ♡. ݁₊ ⊹

Spencer Reid finds himself with an irregular heart rate… and not because of his injury

cw: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader, reader has hair long enough to tuck behind ears i guess, it’s really just fluffy i think!! idk i’ve never posted my writing on here nor have i ever written x reader so please give me constructive feedback and let me know if you liked it!!!

Spencer Reid had spent his fair share of time in the hospital.

Working in the BAU alone had yielded him to countless injuries. He had been shot, caught on fire, beaten, tortured, even exposed to anthrax. All of which usually landed him in the hospital, or at least receiving a very thorough once-over from the local EMS.

This recent go around was the result of a near-fatal shot to the neck during a shootout with an unsub. But this time felt different.

Because when he blinked awake, you were there.

His whole body still felt asleep, his tongue dry. He felt a faint throbbing register in his neck, but he couldn’t focus on it. The fluorescent lights framed you like a halo as you bent down, fiddling with something on the side of the bed.

He didn’t have the energy for anything except to follow you with his eyes. He watched as you continued to work, a focused glint in your eye, your scrubs rustling slightly the only sound besides his heart monitor beeping.

When you stood again, your eyes drifted up, and he quickly realized he was staring. His first instinct was to apologize, oddly enough, but you just broke into a grin, and he swore that beeping noise was getting faster.

“Hey, Dr. Reid! You’re awake!” You smiled, leaning over to check the vitals on the screen over his shoulder. “You’re in the ICU. Do you remember what happened?”

His voice came out in a sort of croak he was immediately embarrassed by. “I was shot.”

You nodded, your smile dropping to a slightly more solemn expression. “You were. But you pulled through. I heard you made it through that surgery like a champ. Do you mind if I take a look at that incision?”

Spencer nodded weakly. When you leaned forward, your eyes focused on his neck, he allowed himself to really look at you, just for a second.

You were pretty. He honestly tried not to classify women like that— pretty and not pretty— but his brain was running low on energy with all the healing his body was doing. And he couldn’t help but notice you. It wasn’t just your appearance— it was the care in the way you moved the protective cuff off his stitches, the concentration behind your eyes, the genuine warmth in the smile you had given him when you realized he was awake.

As your gloved fingers grazed his neck, he sucked in a breath, which in turn allowed whatever sweet perfume you were wearing to make him dizzy. You withdrew your fingers, replacing the cuff with a sympathetic smile.

“Sorry,” you apologized, “It’s normal for it to be tender. Just trying to check for any bleeding or damage to the stitches, but you look great!”

You started removing your gloves, still speaking in that soft, cheery tone. “You sound hoarse. I’m gonna grab you some water. Do you need anything else?”

You turned as you finished speaking again, your eyes meeting his. He urged himself to speak.

“Do you guys have jello?” He rasped. “I love jello.”

You broke into another radiant smile, and he felt a little like he was melting. “Of course. I’ll be right back with that, okay?”

With that, you whisked out of his room, taking the light with you. He settled a little, beginning to let his mind wander now that you weren’t taking up so much of his focus. Had his team managed to apprehend the unsub? How long had he been knocked out? He knew that the typical anaesthetic wore off following surgery after a couple hours, but the body also tended to be incredibly fatigued following a severe injury, and he could have simply been resting for hours and hours and—

A knock at the door sounded, and it creaked open. You stepped inside, holding a cup of jello, a little plastic-wrapped spoon, and a styrofoam cup of water.

“Here you go!” You chirped, setting the jello on the side table and helping bring the water to his lips. He swallowed, the moisture in his mouth finally returning. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Thank you.” he murmured softly.

“Of course.” You responded, lifting up the head of his bed as you handed him the jello. “You get the royal treatment. It’s not every day we get an FBI agent in here, you know. Let alone a doctor.”

He felt his lips curl into an involuntary smile as he shakily pulled the paper lid off his jello. “Well, I hate that you have to see me like this. I’m usually a lot more put together.”

“Oh, stop it.” You waved him off, unwrapping his spoon for him. “I think you look great. You’ll be home in no time.��

Before he knew it, nearly twenty minutes had passed with you at his bedside. The jello cup sat empty on his bedside table, and his hands moved animatedly as you smiled and nodded, listening to him ramble about the effects of dopamine on the brain and body.

He winced as he looked up at the clock. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you have other patients.”

You stood, waving him off. “You’re fine, I’ve been keeping an eye on their monitors. I’ve liked talking to you. You’re definitely my most interesting patient.”

He fought back a smile at the compliment. You turned over your shoulder as you made your way to the door. “I’ll see you soon, Dr. Reid.”

He shook his head. “You can call me Spencer.”

“Well, I’ll be back, Spencer.” You shut the door behind you.

Over the next day or two, he rested, ate more than a healthy amount of jello, and talked to you as much as he possibly could. Each morning when you came back, you greeted him with familiarity, and he fought the urge to ask for extra things just so he could get you in his room more often. He knew, logically, that you had other patients, and that your kindness to him was probably job-related. But he couldn’t deny the way his pulse was always a little faster when you were in the room, and that he looked forward to your hourly rounds.

On his last day, you came in at 7:15, grinning. “Good morning, Spencer! And I say good morning because you have gotten the all-clear from the doctor to go home!”

Inexplicably, his heart sank a little. As happy as he was to have survived his injury and healed well (he knew four days was probably a short stay for this kind of wound), he hated the idea of not seeing you anymore.

You didn’t seem to notice his shift in mood. You kept talking, hooking him up to the vitals cart. “I just need to get one last set of vitals on you and I’ll get you your paperwork. Is there anyone you need to call to come get you?”

“I’ll, uh, I can call Penelope.” He cleared his throat.

“Oh, Penelope!” You unhooked the cuff as the machine beeped. “She was so sweet. Is she your girlfriend?”

Spencer nearly choked on air. “No! No.” he responded, probably a little too quickly. “We work together. And she’s a really great friend.”

You raised your eyebrows slightly. “Well, alright then. She seems like a really good friend to have.” You wheeled the cart towards the door. “I’ll be back with your paperwork soon. Hang in there just a little longer!”

Spencer shook his head, trying to clear whatever negative feeling seemed to be stuck in his throat. He dialed Penelope’s number, and she answered quickly. Soon enough, she was at the hospital, helping pack his things.

You helped him with his discharge paperwork and gave him pamphlets about how to take care of his incision. Even after several days, he was enamored with the way you did your job with so much care. You didn’t seem like you rushed through his paperwork to get him out the door. You even brought him another cup of jello for the road.

You smiled warmly at him and Penelope as you wrapped up. “Well, I’ve really enjoyed having you! I’m so glad you’re doing better. Be careful in the field, okay? Keep saving the world.”

He smiled back at you through the ache in his chest that knew he was saying goodbye. “Thank you for everything.”

“It was no problem.” You waved as you stepped out of the room, going back to your job and your life and wherever you were that he wasn’t.

He swallowed, standing up and gathering his things. His mind was racing, and he wished silently that he could turn it off. It was time to go back, to cases and unsubs and stressors and triggers and no you no you no you—

“You totally have a crush on your nurse!” Penelope giggled, breaking the silence. “Why didn’t you ask her out?”

“What? I— well—“ Spencer spluttered. “She was just nice. Also, it would have been wildly inappropriate.”

“So you wanted to.” She retorted.

“I never said that.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, walking out of the room.

“You didn’t deny it.” Penelope teased as they walked past the nurse’s station towards the elevators. He craned his neck as they passed, his eyes scanning the staff, but he didn’t see you. He sighed, imagining you waving bye to him in front of your coworkers.

Wow, snap out of it, Reid, he reprimanded himself. You barely know her. Don’t be weird.

However, even after he was settled at home, Garcia making sure he had everything he needed before he was finally alone, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. About your jokes, your kindness. That smile.

He paced his apartment. He made tea. He read three books before he realized he wasn’t retaining any of it. He tried and tried and tried to distract himself, and none of it was working.

So, at the risk of being wildly inappropriate, he ended up outside the hospital at 6:30.

Spencer tapped his foot against the concrete as he sat on the bench, the air cooling as the sun was setting. Every time he heard the electronic whir of the sliding doors, he looked up, both hopeful and terrified that it was you. He gripped in a nervous fist a bouquet of flowers that he had picked up on the way there.

He chided himself as his watch ticked closer and closer to 7. How could he even know you would walk out this door? He didn’t know your routine. He hardly knew you. In fact, this whole thing was absurd. He probably looked like some sort of stalker, standing out here, waiting for a staff member whose job it was to be nice to him and he was probably imagining the whole—

His mind stopped. Because then, he saw you.

You looked tired. Your badge clipped to your jacket, your hair a little mussed. You were shoving your stethoscope into your shoulder bag, but he felt like he was seeing something ethereal. Beautiful. Human.

He was on his feet before he realized. When you looked up, and your eyes landed on him, he swore his heart stopped beating.

“Spencer?” You half-laughed, walking over to him. You glanced down at the flowers in his hands before looking back up at him, your face a mix between confusion and pleasant surprise. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

He suddenly felt like his tongue was tied. He had spent the past hour and a half reciting in his head what he was going to say to you, and yet in this moment, he was terrified.

He settled on extending the flowers. “I, uh, I brought these for you.”

Your brows knit together as your face softened, reaching tentatively to take them from him.

“Wow, Spencer. You really didn’t have to do that.” Your eyes were a little shiny. He realized, arbitrarily, that he hadn’t seen you while standing up yet. He was used to being beneath you, smiling up at you while you checked on him or talked to him about your day. Now, you looked… smaller. More fragile. More real.

“I just… really appreciated the way you took care of me these past few days.” He replied, rocking slightly on his feet.

“You really came all this way just to give me flowers?” You asked, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

He took a steadying breath, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Well, actually, I… I came here to ask you on a date.”

There it was. Your eyes widened, and it seemed that now you were the one at a loss for words.

“Maybe there’s a textbook somewhere saying it’s a case of transference or Florence Nightingale syndrome or some other complicated psychological term I could ramble about, but the truth is…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ve been thinking about you since I left. A lot. And I didn’t want to leave things at just ‘thank you.’ And if you don’t feel the same way, I completely understand, and I will never come back here again, I promise—“

“Spencer.” You cut off his rapid train of speech, and he exhaled, his heart thudding out of his chest.

“Yeah?”

“I would love to.”

Oh. Fireworks were erupting somewhere behind his sternum, and he laughed a little in disbelief. “Really?”

You beamed. “Of course.” You reached into your bag, pulling out a crumpled up sticky note. You smoothed it out, passing it over with a shy smile. “I wrote this to give to you this morning and chickened out.”

His eyes scanned over it. Your handwriting scribbled on that wrinkled yellow paper, saying: “Spencer, if you ever need a follow-up, or just want to talk” followed by your phone number and a smiley face.

He was sure his cheeks were going to split open. He couldn’t figure out how to express the joy he was feeling, so he settled on: “How’s Friday?”

“Friday sounds amazing.” You zipped your bag back up, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “See you soon, Dr. Reid.”

And with that, you walked toward your car, shooting one last glance over your shoulder. And Spencer watched you, reminded of all the dopamine flooding his nervous system.

A/N: HEYYYY if you read this thank you so much i am terrified to put this on here. please let me know what you think i LOVE nurse!reader !!!! also this is so self-indulgent and i can’t bring myself to care so

[appledressing]

Love the b99 reference too 🥰

request for spenceeeee (literally my boyfriend)

bau!reader and spencer are dating now, and they're just like talking about how they met and stuff casually and he's like you know i sorta tried to ask you out when we met? she's like what? you're telling me we could've started dating years ago??? he's like hey it's no big deal, ig you just weren't really into me back then and she's like not into you??? my brother in christ i stuttered and rambled for 3 entire minutes when we met what made you think i didn't like you

a whole lot of fluff badically thanks x

helloooo <3333 thank you so much for the request!!!! i had a WIP with sort of a similar theme as the ask so decided to combine them, i really hope you like it xo

Um, actually

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader words: 2.0k summary: A flashback to when you first met spencer helps you realize just how oblivious you were. But so was he, so it's all good. warnings: fluffffffff, possibly incorrect etymology facts, Spencer being a horrible cook for funsies, minor Brooklyn 99 reference (if you caught it i love you so much), glasses spencer !!!!! (not really all that relevant to the plot but i am a sucker for glasses!spence <3), established relationship

"Beeves? Really? Come on, that cannot be a real word."

Dinner conversations were always lively with Spencer. More often than not, it involved facts about the recipe, the origins, the historical significance, different interpretations of the same dish in other cultures, and whatnot. Today, it was etymology.

"It is!" he exclaimed, pointing towards you with his fork, way too excited about beef etymology in the most endearing way possible.

"You see, in the context of 'meat from cows', the plural of beef would just be beef. If we're talking about fights, disagreements, that kind of beef? It would be beefs. But beef also refers to an adult cow, steer or bull. So in this case, the plural would be—"

"Beeves?"

"Bingo."

"Huh, the more you know. You got more weird plurals?"

"Well,"

"Of course you do."

"There's moose, whose plural is actually—"

"Meese, obviously."

"Oh, no."

Eventually, dinner was done, dishes were put away, and you were now cuddled on the couch, his arm around your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing circles on your bicep over the sleeve of your sweater.

It was quiet. Silent. But not the kind of silence that came with warnings and omens. It wasn't the kind of silence filled with premonition that you had so gotten used to with your job. It wasn't uncomfortable, and it wasn't foreboding. It was the kind of stillness that settled like morning fog over a quiet lake. Gentle, unmoving, and content to simply exist. The air bore a sort of warmth and hope that neither of you had been familiar with in years. Ever, if you're being honest. Beautiful thing, domesticity. Naturally, you were reminiscing.

"Spence?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Remember how we met?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully, lips pressing together as though deep in concentration. “Hmm… you know, I have an eidetic memory, but I can’t say I do—”

You smacked him with the throw pillow. He laughed, pulling you a little closer. “Of course I do. It's one of my favourite memories of us," he admitted, kissing your forehead. He smiled into your hair. “Crazy how much has changed, huh?”

You nodded, eyes still on the soft knit of his sweater sleeve. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“You know,” he said, suddenly bashful, “I tried to ask you out that day.”

Wait, what? Your head snapped toward him. “You did not.”

"Oh yeah. Crashed and burned splendidly."

"Spencer, honey, I feel like I would remember that."

“Um, actually,” he said, adjusting his glasses with mock seriousness, “that’s literally the first thing I did.”

You stared at him, slack-jawed. “Wh— what do you mean? We… we could have started dating ages ago?”

He chuckled lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean, maybe? I thought I was pretty obvious about it. But you didn’t seem interested, so I figured—”

“No, no,” you interrupted, practically sitting up. “Believe me, I was interested, alright? Spencer, I stuttered and— and rambled for like three entire minutes when I met you. I forgot to tell you my name. I—I asked you if you wanted the extra ticket to—"

His eyes widened as he realized where this was going. “Wait, wait. That was supposed to be flirting?”

"Yeah!?" you exclaimed, so exasperated it almost sounded like a question. "Honey, what else did you think it was?"

"I thought you were being polite! And I— I definitely flirted back," he promised, clearly going through that memory inside his head as he spoke.

"Sweetie, when?"

"You know, when I said there was someone I'd like to go with?" He stressed on the word someone far too much, waiting, hoping you would catch his drift. You finally did, after 10 really long seconds.

"Me? You meant you'd want to go with me?" you asked, still incredulous at what he had implied.

"Uh-huh!? Honey, who else—"

"Spencer, Oh my god, I thought you were telling me you had a girlfriend."

"...Oh."

You both sat there for a moment, letting that truth settle between you like dust in late-afternoon light. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Wow. Can’t believe we missed out on years.”

“I know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, eyes trained on the space between you, like he was watching the shape of time itself. “We're idiots, aren't we?”

"Possibly, but at least we're idiots together now," you responded, leaning further into him, leaving no more space between you, if that was even possible with how close you were sitting in the first place.

"Agreed. If anything, I think our love makes me a better person. Remember when I boiled that egg last week?"

"That was really big. I'm proud of you," you affirmed, your voice sincere.

"Crazy how much hasn't changed, though."

"What do you mean?" you asked, head tilting to look at him. His eyes were already on you, fond, like he was enamoured with you. Like he was going to tell you he loved you, and even after you had already heard it a hundred times by then, it still made you nervous.

"You still don't double-check the mail, even after I specifically—"

Another throw pillow found him, this time directly across his face, muffling the rest of his declaration. He laughed in response to that yet again, smug bastard that he is. You feigned offence at that and attempted to push him off of you, and sat a couple of feet away from him, hands crossed across your chest, face neutral.

But he knew what you were expecting to hear. He also knew that he didn't have to say it loud for you to know. It went without saying how much you loved each other. With every word you ever exchanged, every sentence ever spoken, the unspoken part? The subtext? It was always there. I love you.

He sensed that he had to make it up to you now. He also knew that you weren't really mad, probably loving the banter just as much as he was. Still, he always enjoyed making it up to you way more than he'd ever care to admit, so if it meant he had to come up with an elaborate ruse to rile you up first and then pretend to ask for your forgiveness, then so be it. His arms were around you in record time.

Bonus— a flashback: how our idiots actually met

You were grasping the tickets tight. There had been an oversight. On your part, mostly (entirely, if we're being honest), but you had to fix it as soon as you can, nonetheless. The tickets in your hand did not belong to you. And the longer you were holding them, the more it started to feel like they were burning a hole in your hand. You had to give it to the whoever was expecting it, apologize, and get out of their face before you started sensing their judgement. The tickets belonged to one Spencer Reid. Who the hell was Spencer Reid?

A small part of you wanted to get to know him immediately. You don’t find a lot of federal agents who take Halloween seriously, let alone someone willing to spend Halloween weekend at Phantasmagoria. Someone with that good of a taste? Sign me up, you thought.

Your eyes scanned the bullpen of the BAU, searching for any face that might look like it belonged to a “Spencer Reid.” You didn’t know what he looked like. But there was a tall, lanky guy— glasses, brown hair, cardigan layered over a dress shirt, tie slightly askew, gun holster hanging off his waist like it had no business being there. (Is that even allowed?) He was holding a cup of coffee and making his way toward a desk.

Unfortunately, the first thought your caveman brain was able to come up with was— cute. Nope. You were on a mission. You had to focus. Focus, damn it. You figured, if this nice, fine (really fine) and distinguished gentleman, whoever he was, wasn't Spencer Reid, at the very least, he looked approachable and helpful enough to point you in the right direction. Personally, you didn't want haphazard gun holster guy to be Spencer Reid. Hell of a first impression you'd be making, if that were the case.

“Hi! Sorry— um, where can I find Spencer Reid?”

He paused, blinking. “Hmm? That would be me.”

Well, shit.

“Oh? That—It, uh. You?” Brilliant. Very eloquent today, evidently.

“Uh-huh,” he nodded, a little amused.

You nodded like that would help shake your embarrassment off. Be normal, you thought. You're a normal person. Words are easy. Speak. Say things.

“Right. Cool. Hi. I’m Sex Crimes. I mean— I work Sex Crimes. The division. Of the FBI. I don’t— I don’t go around committing sex crimes around town. You already knew that. Obviously. Why am I explaining this?” Oh, sweet Jesus.

He was staring politely now, wide-eyed and politely stunned.

“Anyway!” you barreled on, desperate to claw back whatever dignity you had left, if any. “Lester, the mail guy, yeah, he came in today with this orange envelope? With the pumpkins on it? I assumed they were my Phantasmagoria tickets, so I just took them. To be fair, he tried to, um, stop me, but I was sort of way too excited to listen, and it wasn’t until I got back that I remembered I’d asked for mine to be delivered to my house, not here. So then I looked at the envelope— which, yeah, is what I probably should’ve done in the first place—and surprise surprise, they didn’t have my name on them. They had yours.”

You shoved the envelope into his hands like it might bite you if you held onto it any longer. “So yeah. Sorry. These are yours, is what I am trying to say with way too many words than necessary. I took them by accident. Please take them away from me. Thank you.”

You were looking down at the ground, waiting for it to open up and swallow you whole. The seconds of silence that followed your very passionate ramble were not helping. Any time now, ground. His voice snapped you right back into reality.

“Firstly,” he said, smiling, “thank you. Seriously. And secondly, you don’t get a lot of FBI crowd at Phantasmagoria.”

He glanced down at the envelope. “You said tickets? Plural?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I booked them in August, thinking I’d go with my boyfriend. And, well, come October… I am yet to find him. August me was a little too optimistic.” Exactly why you trauma dumped about your love life to this stranger, you may never know. But he didn't seem to mind all too much, so yeah, what do you know?

He smiled again, warmer this time. It made your stomach flip in a way you did not have time to examine. NO. Nuh-uh. You promised yourself no workplace crushes, and you meant it. Did you mean it? In retrospect, maybe you weren't all that serious. You could make an exception, right? For him? Oh, absolutely. Well, that was a quick change of heart.

“But now that you mention it,” you continued, “there’s an extra ticket. I don’t really need it. So, if you know anyone who might want to go with you…” Smooth. Real subtle. Oh, yeah. Asking him if he's single? You were so smart, you should've been an FBI agent or something. You should've gotten a raise.

“Well, actually…” he started, almost sheepish. “There is someone I’d love to go with. But I have a feeling she already has a ticket.”

Of course, Halloween Jesus wasn't single, you thought. He was too good to be true, right? Your sweet, foolishly sweet brain, interpreted his advance as— Oh, he's taken. Well, couldn't blame a girl for trying (you would later be upset about this for a while).

“Oh. Right. Okay. Well, if there’s anyone else who might need a ticket, I’m two floors down.” You offered a tight smile and turned to leave before you could make it worse. His face contorted in confusion, a hint of disappointment flickered across too, before he quickly recovered.

“Hey— Sex Crimes?”

You turned.

“You got a name?”

a/n: this is all so how i met your mother to me hence the song, in this house we stan idiot4idiot romance, we ♥️ imbeciles, hope you liked it lol<3333

[appledressing]

SAFEST THING

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: rossi drops off a drunk hotch who can't help but profess his undying love for you, based on this request. warnings: flufffff, love drunk hotch who is completely besotted with you. that's literally it. he loves you, dammit! word count: 0.9k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Rossi could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Aaron tipsy, let alone properly drunk. Steaming, wobbling, slurring his way through a love sonnet drunk. It just wasn’t a thing that happened. Ever. 

His suit jacket was abandoned somewhere in the backseat of Rossi’s car, which now smelled like a whiskey parlour. Rossi had cracked a window in hopes the breeze might air it out before the leather started soaking up the scent—and maybe, just maybe, sober Aaron up a little before you gave Rossi an earful for letting your husband get this shitfaced.

So shitfaced, in fact, that he apparently didn’t even remember taking off his tie, which was probably laying somewhere on the bar floor…right next to his left cufflink.

“She’s just—Dave, listen. Listen. She’s so smart. Like scary smart. And she makes it look easy, y’know?”

Rossi hummed in vague acknowledgment, eyes on the road.

“And she’s so pretty, and Jack loves her. Really loves her. He used to be so quiet and now he talks and laughs and he made her a macaroni necklace last week and said she was his favorite person ever, and I didn’t even mind, Dave.”

Rossi didn’t look over, mostly because he knew if he made eye contact, Aaron might cry. 

“I think—I think she healed us, Dave. Made us a little family.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Rossi replied dryly. “About six times since we left the bar.”

Aaron let out a wistful sigh and slumped back in the passenger seat. “She’s my home, y’know?” he said dreamily. “It’s not even a place anymore. It’s her. Just…her.”

“Mm,” Rossi grunted. “Poetic.”

They pulled up outside your home a few minutes later. The porch light was on, making Rossi shake his head. He could practically feel you pacing inside. Probably barefoot, probably annoyed, possibly armed.

He switched off the engine, glancing sideways. “Alright Romeo. Let’s get you to your Juliet before she kills us both.”

Aaron blinked up at the house like it had just appeared. He swayed slightly, squinting through the windshield. “She’s gonna be so pretty when she’s mad.”

Rossi let out a long-suffering groan and got out of the car. “Unreal,” he muttered, circling round to the passenger side just in time to catch Hotch attempting to stand up without using any of his core strength.

“Whoa, easy there,” Rossi huffed, grabbing his arm. “Let’s keep the dramatic swooning to a minimum.”

He was halfway through wrangling a love-drunk, six-foot-two, Unit Chief up the steps when the front door opened and you stepped outside, tying the sash of your dressing gown with the same expression you strictly reserved for when Morgan and Reid decided to start pranking each other mid-case.

“Oh, Aaron,” you sighed, hands on your hips. “Really?”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “It’s you,” he breathed, all dreamy-eyed, abandoning Rossi. “You came outside.”

“Yes,” you said flatly, stepping down to meet him. “Because you’re being very loud. We have neighbors. And Jack.” You pointed up towards the window. “He’s asleep, so hush.”

Aaron turned back to Rossi, grinning like an idiot. “Told ya she’s pretty when she’s mad,” he slurred right before he fully leaned into you with all his weight causing you to take a step back, catching him by the arms just in time. 

“You’re not even gonna help me get him inside?” you asked, glaring at Rossi over your husband's shoulder.

Rossi was already halfway down the steps, brushing his hands off. “He’s all yours, sweetheart. Goodnight and make sure he sleeps on his side. He was mixing everything Morgan ordered.”

You adjusted your grip on Aaron as Rossi disappeared down the path, mumbling something about needing a drink and a month off. Aaron meanwhile, had gone entirely pliable in your arms. Not quite dead weight, he was still trying to be helpful in that way drunks think they’re being helpful, mostly by murmuring ‘I’ve got it’ while making zero actual contribution.

“You realise I’m probably going to hold this over you for the rest of your life,” you muttered as you led him up the final step.

“I deserve that. But in my defence…you looked really good coming down the porch.”

“You want to live, don’t you?”

“Very much,” he nodded, leaning heavily against the doorframe as you flicked the light on. “Preferably in this house. With you.”

Your arms were around him again, helping him to the couch. “I mean it,” he added as he slumped on the pillows with a grunt. “You. This. You’re the safest thing in my life.”

You swallowed, your annoyance dissolving like sugar in warm water by the sincerity in his bloodshot eyes. “Let me get you something to drink before you start making me cry.”

“I know what this job does to people,” he went on, and you paused mid-step, glancing back at him. Without thinking, you abandoned your hydration mission entirely and sat down beside him. “I’ve seen it, we’ve watched it. Over and over. And you,” he continued, “you still choose me. Even on days I wouldn’t choose myself.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, your thumb gently spinning his gold wedding band. Then you brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there. “Always, baby. Now let's get you upstairs and you can carry on telling me how great I am, hm?”

That earned the faintest of smiles, crooked and sleepy. “I do have a lot more material.”

“I bet you do.”

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[appledressing]

YES

I'm at a restaurant and they turned the TV to horse and bull riding

Is the universe telling me to start writing for Rhett Abbott again?

[appledressing]

NOT SO SECRET HISTORY | a masterlist

abridgment: in which the team doesn’t know that spencer has a girlfriend, much less that she’s a history professor at the university he lectures at part-time, but a series of happenstances make it hard to hide from the smart eyes of the profilers.

i. in between history (coming soon)

ii. history needs time

iii. history reveals itself

iv. history makes mistakes

v. knowing history