#Spencer Reid gif

[reidmarieprentiss]

Don't Get In Your Own Way

Summary: You and Spencer have always been close - everyone else can see it's more than just friendship. When will you two be ready to see it as well?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: fluff, light smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: alcohol consumption, suggestive content, friends to lovers, minimal BAU case talk, mild public indecency

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: this was an olddd draft ,,, i came back to give it the ol' razzle dazzle

main masterlist

Every afternoon, like clockwork, you and Spencer retreat to the stairs outside the FBI offices, your little quiet corner away from the noise of the bullpen. The team is usually scattered—some opting for takeout at their desks, others heading out for a bite—but you and Spencer? You prefer the fresh air, the slight reprieve from case files and fluorescent lights, just the two of you.

Spencer talks—a lot. And you let him. You never interrupt when he goes off on a tangent, whether about a book he’s been reading, some obscure historical event, or even the latest behavioral theory he’s been mulling over. He’s learned, over time, that you listen—that you don’t just humor him but engage, ask questions, challenge him. It’s one of the reasons he feels safest around you, why he lets the mask slip, why he doesn’t feel the need to filter himself. Around you, he’s just Spencer. Not Dr. Reid, not the genius of the BAU. He's just a guy who loves sharing the things that make his brain light up.

Lately, he’s been growing his hair, letting the waves fall into his face while he works. He never noticed how often he pushed it back, but you did. One afternoon, after watching him shove it out of his eyes for the hundredth time while struggling through paperwork, you wordlessly slid a hair tie onto his wrist.

“For when you finally give up,” you’d said with a small smile.

Spencer had looked at the simple black band like it was some kind of sacred object before slipping it on. He never did tie his hair up, but the band stayed. Now, when he’s anxious, when his thoughts spiral too fast for even him to keep up, he rolls it between his fingers, snaps it lightly against his skin, and uses it as an anchor. He wonders if you even realize what you’ve given him and how something so small makes him feel grounded.

You are completely unaware of how much Spencer sees you and how much he feels for you. You like him—more than you should, more than is probably appropriate for two people who are just friends—but you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Spencer is brilliant and kind and so effortlessly attractive, and you? You convince yourself he’d never see you that way. It’s not self-deprecating, not really—just… reality.

Meanwhile, Spencer sits beside you every day, wondering how you don’t notice how his eyes linger, how his heart jumps every time you laugh, and how he holds onto your hair tie like a lifeline. How he wonders if you feel the same way.

—

Derek doesn’t let up. Not now, not ever.

Spencer’s been subjected to his relentless teasing for years, but ever since he started growing his hair out—and ever since you gave him that hair tie—Derek has been on a mission.

“Pretty Boy, you’re pathetic,” Derek says one afternoon, leaning against Spencer’s desk with his arms crossed, watching him roll the hair tie between his fingers like it’s some kind of lifeline.

Spencer, who has been deep in thought, barely looks up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Derek scoffs. “The hair tie? The way you light up every time she talks to you? The fact that you, the man who hates all forms of physical contact, don’t even flinch when she gets in your space? Do you even hear yourself when you talk about her?”

Spencer blinks at him, feigning ignorance. “I talk about her the same way I talk about all of my friends.”

Derek lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “That’s funny. Real funny. Because I don’t remember you getting all flustered and dreamy-eyed when you talk about me.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “I don’t get flustered.”

Derek raises a brow and mimics Spencer in a high-pitched, breathy voice. “Oh, she listens to me ramble. She actually engages with me. She’s so perceptive.” He drops the act, shaking his head. “Man, you are down bad.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and turns back to his book, a weak defense mechanism. “I really don’t think—”

“No, you don’t think,” Derek interrupts. “That’s the problem. Because if you were thinking, you’d realize that she looks at you the same way you look at her.”

That makes Spencer freeze, a book halfway in his hands.

Derek smirks, knowing he’s struck something deep. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Spencer opens his mouth, ready to protest and argue some logical counterpoint, but nothing comes out. He can’t explain away the way his heart clenches at the mere possibility that you might feel the same.

Derek slaps a hand on his shoulder, grin widening. “Any day now, Pretty Boy. Any day now.” Then he walks off, leaving Spencer to stare blankly at his book, brain absolutely wrecked.

He glances down at the hair tie around his wrist, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it sits against his skin.

Rossi is just as relentless with you as Derek is with Spencer—except he’s a little more subtle about it. He doesn’t tease in the same playful, in-your-face way that Derek does with Spencer. No, Rossi prefers to plant little seeds, make small comments, and give you just enough to get your mind churning.

He’s been keeping a close eye on you ever since you joined the team. Maybe it’s the way you love to talk about home or how you light up when someone treats you like family. So, naturally, Rossi steps in. A guiding hand, an occasional piece of advice, a warm presence when you need one.

And right now? Right now, you need someone to tell you that you’re being blind as hell.

“You know, bella, I’ve been around a long time,” Rossi says one afternoon, leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of things. A lot of things. And I’d like to think I have a pretty good read on people.”

You barely look up from your case file. “Are you about to say something wise or just something annoying?”

He smirks. “Oh, I can do both.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

Rossi takes a sip of his drink, watching you with that knowing look that makes you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. “You like him, you know.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably, but you don’t react. Not outwardly, at least. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re smarter than that.”

You exhale sharply, still keeping your eyes on your paperwork. “I don’t like Spencer.”

Rossi chuckles, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That’s cute. Now say it again like you mean it.”

You finally glance up at him, narrowing your eyes. “I mean it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rossi hums, clearly unconvinced. He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “You know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

You raise a brow. “Oh? You had a thing for Spencer, too?”

Rossi lets out a full-bodied laugh. “No, but I was stubborn. And I was good at convincing myself that things weren’t what they obviously were.” He tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me ask you something. If I told you that Spencer thinks the world of you, that he practically glows when you’re around, what would you say?”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. “I’d say you’re exaggerating.”

Rossi shakes his head. “No, bella, I’m not. Derek sees it. I see it. Hell, even Garcia sees it, and she’s usually too busy matchmaking herself to notice when something’s right under her nose.” He leans back again, watching you carefully. “But the real question is—why don’t you see it?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. The truth? Because the idea that Spencer could feel that way about you is terrifying. You’ve convinced yourself he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not in the way you secretly hope.

So you deflect. “Spencer’s just… Spencer. He’s sweet to everyone.”

Rossi sighs, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. “You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.”

You scoff lightly. “What, you want me to march over there and declare my undying love?”

Rossi grins. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

You shake your head, muttering something about meddling old men as you shove your paperwork into a neat stack, trying to ignore the way your hands feel slightly unsteady.

Rossi just watches you, amusement still lingering on his face.

Because he knows.

And one day, you’ll know, too.

—

The precinct is buzzing with too much movement and too much noise. Officers shuffling papers, detectives arguing over case details, coffee machines gurgling, the fluorescent lights humming like an irritating static in the back of your head. It’s a small station, cramped, and the team has been forced into an even smaller conference room, shoulder to shoulder with local law enforcement.

Spencer has been quiet all morning, his fingers twitching slightly, his blinking a little too frequently. You’ve been with him long enough to notice when the world is becoming too much for him, and right now, it’s clear that the rapid-fire conversations, the overlapping voices, the smell of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener—it's all pushing him to the edge of his tolerance.

So, as usual, he attaches himself to you.

It’s something he’s done for years, seeking you out when things get overwhelming. You’ve never minded. In fact, you never even thought much of it—until now.

Right now, his head is slumped against your shoulder, a deep sigh escaping him, his breath warm where it ghosts over the fabric of your shirt. His long fingers loosely clutch your jacket sleeve, not in an obvious way, but just enough that you know he’s anchoring himself with your presence. His entire frame is pressed slightly against your side, fitting into your space in a way that should feel intrusive—but it doesn’t. It never does.

But today? Today, it does feel different. Not bad, not at all, just... noticeable.

The warmth of his body against yours. The way his hair brushes your cheek when he shifts. The way you can feel the weight of him, trusting, unguarded.

You should say something—acknowledge it, maybe even tease him like Derek would—but your throat feels tight. Instead, you sit perfectly still, let him rest, let him take what he needs from you.

Across the room, Rossi is watching. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a knowing look, an almost smirk, before turning back to his conversation with Hotch.

You swallow hard, your mind racing with thoughts you don’t have time to entertain. Not right now. Not with a case on the line.

Spencer exhales again, a deep, exhausted sound. Without thinking, you lift your hand and gently brush it over his arm, a quiet reassurance. He hums in response—barely audible, but enough to let you know he appreciates it.

And you?

You pretend your pulse isn’t hammering; pretend this is just like every other time.

Even though, for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

—

The room is already cold and sterile, the air thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic and something darker, something that clings to the walls of places like these—death, decay, the remnants of lives cut short. The mortuary is dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs casting a bluish hue over the metal slabs, the bodies covered with crisp white sheets.

Spencer and Emily step inside, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them away from the world of the living for just a little while.

Emily exhales, rubbing her hands together despite the temperature-controlled environment. “I don’t know what Hotch thinks we’re going to find that we didn’t already see,” she murmurs, but there’s no real complaint in her tone—just exhaustion.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, scanning the room with sharp, restless eyes. He doesn’t like being back here. Too quiet, too still. Too much time to think. And he’s already spent the morning overstimulated, barely hanging onto himself. If it weren’t for you—your presence, your steadying warmth—he might have lost his grip entirely.

But you’re not here now.

Emily watches him for a moment, sees the way his fingers twitch slightly, how he pushes his hair back only to drop his hand to his wrist, rolling the familiar hair tie between his fingers. A grounding mechanism. She’d seen him do it before.

“Spencer,” she calls gently.

He blinks and looks at her.

“You okay?”

He hesitates, then nods.

Back in the SUV, Emily watches Spencer out of the corner of her eye as he flips through the case file, his knee bouncing slightly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the folder. He’s rattling off statistics about the likelihood of unsub behavior escalating post-mortem examinations, but there’s a certain absentmindedness to the way he’s speaking—like he’s not entirely here.

And Emily Prentiss? She’s no fool.

So, as she turns onto the road leading toward the mortuary, she decides to go for it.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she starts, keeping her tone casual. “In fact, I haven’t for the past few years.” She glances at him and watches as his fingers tighten slightly on the folder. “But today felt different. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Spencer stills, his knee stopping mid-bounce before he forces it back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emily snorts. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

Spencer purses his lips, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to physically move away from this conversation. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Emily hums. “And yet, back at the station, you looked about one deep sigh away from crawling into her lap.”

Spencer stiffens. “That’s an exaggeration.”

Emily shrugs, smirking slightly. “Is it? Because from where I was standing, you were practically molded to her side.”

Spencer stays silent, glaring down at the folder like it’s personally offended him.

Emily softens, tilting her head. “Look, I’m not teasing you. I’m just asking—are you okay? Because I’ve seen you cling to her before when things get overwhelming, but today… it was different.” She hesitates. “You were different. She was different.”

Spencer swallows, pressing his lips together. He could brush it off. He could easily throw out some logical, cold dismissal. I was overstimulated, and she provided a familiar presence. There is nothing unusual about that, but the problem is, it is unusual.

Because for the first time, he noticed it.

Noticed how natural it felt, how good it felt, to be pressed against you. Noticed the way your touch lingered, how your fingers brushed his arm with a softness that made his skin buzz. Noticed how he felt safe, not just because you were familiar, but because he wanted to be close to you. Because he liked it.

And that? That realization is unraveling something in him he isn’t sure he’s ready for.

“I—” He hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

Emily watches him for a moment before nodding, letting the conversation settle for a few beats before she speaks again.

“You know,” she says, keeping her tone light. “You could always ask her.”

Spencer’s head snaps toward her, eyes wide, panicked. “Ask her what?”

Emily grins, eyes twinkling as she pulls into the mortuary parking lot.

“Oh, you know. On a date.”

Spencer makes a strangled noise of protest, but Emily is already unbuckling her seatbelt, pretending she doesn’t hear it.

She lets him stew in his thoughts and sit there with that panicked expression because honestly?

He needs to figure it out for himself.

—

Tuesday nights were for Star Trek, and Friday nights were for pizza and movies. It had started as something casual, a way to unwind after long days at work, but over time, it became an unspoken rule—a part of your week as consistent as waking up in the morning.

Tuesday nights meant curling up on your couch, debating over which Star Trek series to watch that week. Spencer always had his preferences—he loved The Original Series for its groundbreaking storytelling and The Next Generation for its philosophical depth—but he never protested when you picked Voyager because he knew how much you liked Captain Janeway. You didn’t always pay attention to the episodes the way he did, but you loved listening to him ramble, watching his eyes light up as he dissected the scientific inaccuracies or argued about the moral dilemmas presented in each episode.

And then there was Friday night—pizza and movie night.

Unlike Star Trek night, where Spencer usually held the reins, movie night was a battle. You had vastly different tastes—Spencer leaned toward old classics, noir films, and things with intricate plots that required full intellectual engagement. On the other hand, you sometimes just wanted to watch an over-the-top action flick, something fun and ridiculous.

“I don’t understand why we can’t watch Casablanca,” Spencer had complained one Friday, frowning at your choice of Die Hard.

“Because Casablanca is depressing, and I just want to watch Bruce Willis blow things up,” you’d argued, plopping onto the couch.

Spencer had grumbled but ultimately stayed, reluctantly eating his pizza while you enjoyed Die Hard a little too much.

But despite the friendly bickering, you both always showed up for each other. No matter how draining the week was or how heavy the cases got, Tuesday and Friday nights were yours. If one of you was too tired, the other brought food. If Spencer needed to visit his mom, he’d make you promise not to watch Star Trek without him. If you had a bad day, he let you pick the movie without a single complaint (except for that one time you picked Twilight, which he still refuses to acknowledge).

For years, it was just routine, something comfortable, something easy.

The case had finally wrapped up late Wednesday afternoon, and while you should have been relieved—grateful that everything ended as cleanly as possible—you were distracted. Off-kilter. Your mind wasn’t on the debriefing, the flight back to Quantico, or even the pile of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow.

No, your mind was stuck on him.

Spencer.

More specifically, the way you couldn’t seem to shake the lingering warmth of his body from when he had leaned against you, or the quiet, vulnerable way he had sighed into your shoulder, or the way Rossi’s words had wormed their way into your brain and stuck.

"You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time."

Damn him.

You were usually so good at compartmentalizing, at keeping your feelings neatly boxed up and shoved into the farthest corner of your mind where they couldn’t betray you. But now? Now, every little thing Spencer did had you spiraling.

Like right now.

Friday afternoon rolls around, and you’re already on edge.

When Spencer casually walks up to your desk, his messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and his hands are tucked into his pockets, you already know you’re in trouble.

“Hey,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

You blink at him.

Wait. What?

Is he confirming plans? He hasn’t done that since the first month you started doing this—since he was still unsure if the ritual was set in stone. But now, after all this time, he’s asking?

Your heart starts hammering, palms go clammy.

“Yeah—yes,” you blurt out, nodding a little too fast. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

Spencer watches you carefully, clearly picking up on something being off. His brow furrows slightly, and he studies you with that damn profiler gaze, the one that makes you feel like he’s reading every single thought you’re desperately trying to bury.

“You okay?” he asks slowly.

You force a laugh. It comes out weird. “Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”

His frown deepens.

Okay. You need to fix this before you combust.

You grab your phone off your desk and clear your throat. “So! What are we watching tonight?” you ask, trying to force the conversation forward before you completely unravel.

Spencer tilts his head slightly, still watching you with suspicion, but he lets it go.

“For our movie night? Or are you asking if we’re switching to a Star Trek episode lineup for some reason?”

You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Movie night, obviously.”

He hums, his lips quirking slightly. “I figured it was my turn to pick.”

You groan dramatically. “Ugh. If this is another silent foreign film that you claim is ‘captivating,’ I’m kicking you out before the pizza even gets here.”

Spencer smirks. “It’s not silent.”

You narrow your eyes. “But it is foreign.”

Spencer just shrugs.

You groan again, shaking your head. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”

He grins, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels normal again.

Except it’s not.

Because now you’re noticing everything. The way he’s smiling at you, like he genuinely likes looking at you. The way he’s still standing a little too close, the scent of cologne you’ve never noticed mixing with the faint smell of old books and coffee. Your heart is pounding, not from panic anymore but from something else.

And Rossi’s voice echoes in your head—You’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to push the thought away.

Spencer is still looking at you, waiting, expectant.

You clear your throat. “So… my place at seven?”

He nods. “Your place at seven.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you gripping your desk, trying to convince yourself that your entire world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

—

The knock at the door makes your stomach drop.

You weren’t expecting it. Not from him.

Spencer never knocks. Not anymore. Not when he’s been coming here for years, slipping inside without hesitation, using the key you gave him so long ago that neither of you even remembers when it stopped being your apartment and started feeling like his, too.

But tonight, he knocks.

And for a moment, you just stare at the door, pulse pounding in your ears, a strange, unsettling panic twisting in your chest.

Why?

Why would he knock?

Did something happen? Did you do something? Did he?

You scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug in your rush to reach the door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob for half a second too long before you finally pull it open.

And there he is.

Standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, looking just as nervous as you feel.

He’s holding the pizza in both hands, gripping the box like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His lips are parted slightly as if he’s mid-thought, mid-explanation for why he’s standing here like a stranger instead of walking in like he always does.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is careful, deliberate. Like he’s testing the temperature of the air between you.

You swallow. “Why’d you knock?”

Spencer shifts, his fingers flexing against the cardboard. “I—” He exhales sharply, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wasn’t sure if I should just—if you wanted me to just come in.”

Your stomach twists. “You always just come in.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallows, tries again. Spencer takes a breath, shifting his grip on the pizza box. “Can I come in?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the doorknob as you nod and step aside.

The warm glow of your living room wraps around Spencer like a familiar embrace. The scent of old books and candle wax lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh pizza. He’s holding the box carefully as if it were fragile or important. His fingers clutch the edges a little too tightly.

Something is different.

You feel it the moment he walks through the door, the way he hesitates on the threshold before closing it behind him. His usual easy presence is replaced with something unsure, something heavy that neither of you can quite name.

It’s never been awkward before.

But tonight, it is.

Maybe it’s the way he swallows before speaking or the way you feel hyper-aware of the space between you—space that’s usually nonexistent when you’re tangled up on the couch, watching whatever movie you finally agreed on after bickering for twenty minutes.

Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush against his wrist absentmindedly, rolling the hair tie between them, a habit you know means he’s feeling too much.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because something unspoken has been hanging in the air between you for a while now, something neither of you have dared to name.

Spencer sits down beside you, a little closer than usual but still not quite enough. His knee brushes against yours, and you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

“Movie?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying to push through the tension.

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t reach for the remote. Instead, he glances at you, searching your face, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something.

And for the first time in all the years of Friday pizza-and-movie nights, for the first time in all the comfortable silences and easy laughter, you think—

He might actually say what you’re both thinking.

But when Spencer finally does speak, it’s not what you expect. You blink at him, your brain short-circuiting.

"Do you want to watch 10 Things I Hate About You?"

It takes you a second to process the words because that is not what you were expecting.

For a moment, your grip tightens on the edge of the couch, your knuckles going white, and your heart still hammering from the sheer weight of what you thought he was about to say.

“What?” you finally spit out, voice higher than you’d like.

Spencer shifts awkwardly in his seat, clearing his throat as if he’s just realized how strange the moment is. “It’s… isn’t it your favorite rom-com?”

You stare at him. “Yeah… but I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I don’t dislike it,” he hedges, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “And, statistically speaking, if we’re ranking romantic comedies based on their adherence to Shakespearean influence, it’s arguably one of the better adaptations of Taming of the Shrew—”

You cut him off with a squint. “You’re rambling.”

He presses his lips together, a nervous habit, his fingers twitching slightly. “Right. Sorry.”

The air between you feels charged, like an unsaid truth is pressing against the walls, threatening to break them down. But instead of confronting it and saying whatever it is that’s clearly sitting on the tip of his tongue, Spencer is talking about rom-coms.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “Okay, but… why? Why that movie? Why now?”

His eyes flicker up to yours then, just for a second, and there’s something raw, vulnerable, and uncertain.

And then, before you can decipher it, he shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Your heart clenches painfully because God, he’s so Spencer. Always thinking of you, noticing the smallest details, and looking out for you even when you don’t expect it.

And yet… there’s still something unspoken lingering between you, something simmering beneath the surface, something that almost came out before he took a sharp left turn into the world of 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Do you want to watch?” Spencer asks again in that vulnerable tone, lifting the movie case from his bag.

You exhale, rubbing your hands on your pants to wipe off the nervous sweat. “Yeah,” you sigh.

Spencer nods, but it’s almost hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes. He lingers for a second with the 10 Things I Hate About You DVD case in his hands, gripping it just as tightly as he had the pizza box moments ago.

You swallow, rubbing your palms against your pants again before reaching for the remote. “Uh, you can put it in.”

He moves toward the DVD player slowly, methodically, like he’s focusing on the action so he doesn’t have to focus on you. You watch him as he kneels down, sliding the disc into the tray, his fingers steady even though you know he isn’t.

The air between you is thick with something unspoken, a weight pressing on both of you, but neither of you acknowledges it. Instead, you wait as the movie boots up, the familiar menu music filling the quiet space between you.

Spencer hesitates before sitting, but it’s closer than usual when he does.

Not overly close—not close enough to make it obvious—but close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, close enough that his knee brushes yours again.

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends not to, either.

The movie starts, and for the first time, neither of you is watching it.

You’re too aware of him—the way he shifts slightly when you do, his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s trying not to reach out, and the way his breath catches ever so slightly when your arm brushes his.

Spencer doesn’t usually do this. He’s tactile when he’s overwhelmed, yes, but this? This is different. This is hesitation; this is awareness; this is something tiptoeing dangerously close to the edge of something neither of you has dared to touch before.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you try to focus on the movie, try to push through the nervous energy coiling in your stomach.

But then—

Then Spencer shifts, leans back against the couch, exhales softly—

And his arm drops, just slightly, around your shoulders.

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen, unblinking, unsure if he even realizes what he’s done.

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

The room feels different now. Warmer, heavier, charged with something neither of you have spoken aloud. You can’t tell if it’s the candlelight flickering in the dim space or if it’s just him, just this, whatever this is, settling around you like a second skin.

Spencer’s arm—his arm—is resting along the back of the couch, not quite on you, but close enough that you can feel its weight, close enough that if you shifted even the slightest bit, it would be.

You try to focus on the movie. Try to act like nothing’s changed.

But your body betrays you.

Your shoulders stiffen at first, instinctively, not because you don’t want this—God, you do—but because you don’t understand it. Because Spencer Reid does not do things like this. He does not reach out in this way, not unless he’s overwhelmed, and even then, it’s different. This is intentional, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

You inhale slowly, carefully, keeping your eyes trained on the screen as Kat Stratford delivers another sharp-witted insult. But you’re not really listening. You’re waiting. Waiting for Spencer to shift, realize what he’s done, pull back, laugh nervously, and pretend like nothing happened.

Except—

He doesn’t.

If anything, he seems more relaxed than before. His breathing is even, his body settling into the couch like he belongs there. Like you belong there.

And then, before you can stop yourself before you can overthink it like you always do, you shift. Just slightly. Just enough that your shoulder leans into his arm.

The movement is so small and insignificant that if it were anyone else, they wouldn’t notice. But this is Spencer. And Spencer notices everything.

You hear the sharp inhale of breath and feel the way his body tenses just for a moment—just long enough to make your pulse hammer against your ribs—before he exhales slowly, deliberately.

And then—

Then his fingers brush against your shoulder.

A whisper of a touch, hesitant, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So, he stays.

And for the rest of the movie, neither of you moves. Neither of you speak.

But everything, everything, has changed.

The credits roll. The music swells softly through the speakers. The dim glow of the screencasts flickering shadows across the room, but neither of you move.

Not even a little.

Your body is still pressed into his side, your shoulder tucked against him, his arm draped so loosely yet so deliberately around you that you can’t tell if it’s keeping you close or if it’s keeping him grounded.

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s what this has always been.

You don’t know how long you sit there, frozen in the moment. You don’t know if he’s thinking the same thing, if he’s waiting for you to speak, to move, to acknowledge that something unspoken has settled between you like a weighted silence.

But then—

“Y/N,” Spencer murmurs.

Just your name.

Soft. Almost careful.

You inhale sharply, blinking yourself back into the moment. Your head turns toward him slowly, cautiously, like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile balance is hanging between you.

And then—

Spencer shocks you.

Because the second your eyes meet his, the moment your lips part in silent question—he leans in.

And he kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not unsure.

It’s not like the Spencer Reid you thought you knew—the one who second-guesses, who overthinks, who analyzes every possibility before making a move.

No.

This is something else entirely.

This is Spencer moving without logic, without calculation, without fear.

This is Spencer wanting.

And for a split second, your brain short-circuits, unable to process what’s happening or understand how the man who had just spent two hours analyzing 10 Things I Hate About You is now kissing you like he means it.

But then—

Then you kiss him back.

And it’s over.

Whatever line had existed between you—whatever barrier had kept you from stepping over the edge—it's gone.

Spencer exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years. His fingers tighten against your shoulder, just slightly, pulling you in closer, pressing against you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not after this.

—

Dating Spencer is like stepping into something timeless, warm, and constant. It’s not rushed or overwhelming. It’s not dramatic or chaotic. It’s just Spencer. And that, in itself, is everything.

He doesn’t love convention. He doesn’t do big grand gestures unless they mean something. But he does the little things, the things that matter. The things that show how deeply and irrevocably he feels for you.

Like reading to you before bed.

It starts without much thought, just a quiet habit that becomes part of your nights. You never ask him to do it, and he never makes a point of it, but it happens—night after night, in the soft, dark quiet of your bedroom when the world slows, and nothing exists but the warmth of his arms and the soothing rhythm of his voice.

Some nights, it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or a few pages from Pride and Prejudice. Other nights, it’s something entirely different—a passage about an old poet, a historical retelling of an artist’s life, something obscure and worn, a book he’s read a hundred times before. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even remember the contents most nights.

What you remember is the sound of Spencer’s voice, the way it lulls you into a hazy, comfortable state within minutes. The way his fingers draw lazy circles on your arm as he reads, absentmindedly tracing patterns like he can’t not be touching you. The way his lips brush the top of your head in soft, feather-light kisses like he’s saying goodnight without ever actually stopping the words on the page.

You never make it past a few minutes.

That’s how long it takes for his voice to pull you under, for the warmth of his chest to turn into a lullaby, for his steady breathing and gentle presence to quiet every thought in your mind.

And Spencer?

Spencer never minds.

Even when you fall asleep on him mid-sentence, even when his voice trails off and he realizes you’re gone, lost to dreams, he just smiles to himself, presses one last kiss to your temple, and quietly closes the book.

Because he loves this.

Loves you.

Even if he hasn’t said it yet.

—

You knew Spencer was good with kids—he had an innate gentleness, a patience that most adults didn’t possess. You had seen him with Jack before, seen the way he could calm a crying toddler with a few soft words and a fascinating fact about dinosaurs. But this? Watching him take care of a baby?

This is a whole different level.

JJ and Will had been desperate for a night out—just a few hours, nothing crazy—and with Garcia tied up at some tech conference, JJ hesitantly asked you and Spencer to watch Henry. She had barely finished asking before Spencer nodded, assuring her that he had plenty of experience with child development and cognitive growth.

Now, an hour into babysitting, you sit on the couch in quiet awe as Spencer moves around the living room, cradling Henry against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Statistically speaking, infants exposed to language early on are more likely to develop higher literacy skills in adolescence," Spencer muses softly, bouncing Henry gently in his arms as the baby babbles against his sweater. "So even though you might not understand this now, Henry, I think you'd really enjoy learning about the Fibonacci sequence when you’re older."

You stare, biting your lip to contain the ridiculous grin threatening to take over your face. "Spencer, are you seriously lecturing a one-year-old on mathematical sequences?"

Spencer glances at you, unfazed. "He seems interested."

Henry lets out a delighted squeal, gripping a fistful of Spencer’s cardigan and yanking with surprising strength.

"Ah—Henry, no, that's my—" Spencer stops mid-sentence as Henry starts giggling, his tiny fingers still tangled in the fabric. Instead of pulling away, Spencer just sighs in resignation, adjusting his hold so Henry can comfortably rest his cheek against his shoulder.

And oh, no.

Your heart is gone.

Your ovaries? Destroyed.

Because Spencer—sweet, brilliant, slightly awkward Spencer—is standing there in JJ’s living room, holding a baby like he was made for it, rubbing gentle circles on Henry’s back as he hums absentmindedly.

And you are not okay.

"You’re good at this," you murmur before you can stop yourself, watching how he instinctively shifts to sway Henry slightly, lulling him between sleep and contentment.

Spencer shrugs, but there’s a soft pink dusting his cheeks. "It’s just… knowing how to respond to their needs. Babies need security and reassurance. If they feel safe, they thrive." He glances at you then, his voice quieter. "It's not complicated."

But it is.

Because suddenly, your brain is not thinking about just this night. It’s not just thinking about babysitting Henry. It’s thinking about Spencer as a father, Spencer with his own baby in his arms, rocking them just like this, whispering facts to lull them to sleep, pressing soft kisses to their tiny forehead.

And the thought wrecks you.

JJ has no idea what she’s done by asking you to babysit.

Because now?

Now, you are painfully aware that Spencer Reid would be the best dad in the world.

And you really need to go splash cold water on your face before you say something insane.

The drive is quiet at first, a comfortable kind of silence, filled only with the hum of the engine and the faint rustling of Spencer shifting beside you. The weight of the night still lingers, the softness of it, the warmth—Spencer holding Henry, the easy way he’d cared for him, the way it had done things to you that you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to name yet.

"Are you dropping me off," Spencer asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness, "or am I coming over?"

Your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The question is simple. Straightforward. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something unspoken. Because this isn’t the first time Spencer has stayed over. But tonight, with the way you’re feeling, with the way you want him—really want him—the meaning feels different.

Your pulse picks up.

You don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know what you want, but because you do.

Because you want him to come over. Because you want him in your bed for more than just resting. Because you’ve wanted it for a while now, but neither of you have crossed that line yet.

And suddenly, it feels like Spencer knows exactly what you’re thinking.

He’s watching you, quiet, observant, his fingers resting lightly against his knee as he waits for your response. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry—he just waits.

You swallow, exhaling slowly before finally speaking. "Come over."

Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his lips are pressed together, his fingers twitching slightly—nervous energy, anticipation, something else.

"Okay," he says finally, voice quiet but firm.

And that’s all.

You don’t talk for the rest of the drive.

But you feel everything.

The way his hand rests between you is so close to yours but not quite touching. The way your breaths sync up is slow but uneven, charged with something you both know is coming.

When you finally pull into your parking spot, turn off the car, and steal one last glance at him, Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He just unbuckles his seatbelt, pushes open the door, and follows you inside.

Spencer follows without hesitation but doesn’t move past the doorway immediately. He lingers, standing just inside your apartment, watching as you set your keys down on the counter, as you exhale slowly, as you try to steady yourself against the weight of what this night is turning into.

You turn back to him then, and the sight of him standing there—hands tucked into his pockets, shifting slightly on his feet, looking at you like he’s trying so hard to figure out what happens next—makes your stomach flip.

He’s waiting for you.

Waiting for permission.

You take a step forward, closing some of the space between you. Spencer watches you carefully, his breath hitching just slightly, his fingers twitching where they rest at his sides.

Spencer nods. Swallows. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Are we just sleeping?”

The question hangs between you, thick with implication, and that’s when it happens—the shift from nervous anticipation to something else.

You step closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that if either of you moved just slightly, you’d be touching.

And then, softly, hesitantly, you reach for his wrist, fingers brushing against the skin just above the hair tie he still wears, the one you gave him so long ago.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to just sleep?”

Spencer’s breath catches. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back up again.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

And that’s all it takes.

Because suddenly, you’re kissing him.

Or maybe he kisses you—you don’t know who moves first, don’t care, because all that matters is the way his hands are suddenly on your waist, pulling you closer, the way his lips part against yours, slow and deep and wanting.

It’s different from the previous kisses you have shared. And as his hands slide up your back, as you press yourself into him like you’ve been waiting forever for this, as he exhales sharply against your mouth because he’s finally getting to have you—

You know neither of you will be getting much sleep tonight.

The first time you and Spencer had sex was nothing short of mind-blowing—at least for him.

You hadn’t known just how little experience he had until later when he mumbled something against your skin about only having done this once before, his voice laced with disbelief and something like awe.

But it wouldn't have changed anything even if you had known beforehand. It had started so slow, like neither of you wanted to rush like you were both trying to memorize each other in ways you hadn’t been able to before.

Spencer had been nervous at first—not clumsy, not hesitant in a way that made you think he didn’t want this, but careful, intentional, like he wanted to make sure he was doing everything right. Like he was terrified of messing up, of not being enough.

But God, was he more than enough.

Because once he got past the nerves, once he stopped thinking and started feeling—

It was everything.

He touched you like he was discovering something new like he was learning you in real time. His fingers mapped the soft curves of your body, memorizing the way your breath hitched when he kissed your neck and how you sighed when his hands gripped your waist.

And when you guided him, when you whispered what you liked against his lips when you told him exactly how to move—

That was when he really fell apart.

Because Spencer thrives on knowledge, learning, on understanding. And now, he was learning you—learning what made you shiver, what made you moan, what made you clutch at his shoulders and gasp his name in a way that sent a shudder through him so deep he thought he might break apart completely.

By the time you were actually together, when he finally slid inside you with a deep, shaky moan, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—he knew.

He knew he was ruined for anything else.

Because nothing—not the one experience he had before, not the books he had read, not the theories or statistics—could have ever prepared him for this.

For you.

And when he came undone, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and ragged, your name tumbling from his lips like a prayer—

It was the closest thing to heaven he had ever known.

You pulled Spencer on top of you without hesitation, letting his exhausted body flop onto yours, his full weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He didn’t resist or try to roll away or give you space—he just let himself be and melt into you like he belonged there.

You traced slow, lazy shapes on his bare, sweat-slicked back, feeling the way his breathing gradually evened out, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against yours in a steady rhythm. His damp curls tickled your skin where his face was buried against your neck, but you didn’t dare move. You liked having him close like this.

Then you felt it—Spencer taking a deep breath like he was about to say something important.

His voice was muffled, soft, still laced with lingering wonder as he exhaled against your skin.

“Did… was that good for you?”

You smiled at the ceiling, your fingers still tracing mindless patterns along his spine. He was too cute. Too him.

“It was amazing, Spencer.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt him tense slightly, his arms tightening around your waist as he let out a small, almost sheepish exhale.

“I’m sorry it was over so quickly.”

You laughed, tilting your head so you could press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Spencer, you have nothing to apologize for.”

He huffed, shifting slightly so his face was visible again, his flushed cheeks still pressed against your skin. “But I—”

“Nope.” You cut him off before he could finish whatever self-deprecating thought was about to leave his mouth. “I loved it. And besides…” You trailed your fingers down his spine, feeling the shiver it sent through him. “Now that the nerves are out of the way, we’ve got all night to take our time.”

Spencer froze for half a second before lifting his head just enough to look at you properly, his eyes wide, dark, needy.

“All night?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You smirked, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his back. “Mmmhmm.”

And just like that—

Spencer wasn’t exhausted anymore.

The night stretched long and slow, turning into early morning, and in those quiet, intimate hours, you discovered things—things that made you grin, things that made Spencer writhe, things that neither of you had ever put words to before but suddenly felt so obvious now.

Like hickeys.

Spencer really liked hickeys.

You hadn’t meant to leave one, not at first. But the moment your lips latched onto the sensitive skin of his neck, the second your teeth scraped lightly against his pulse point, Spencer let out a sound that was almost embarrassing—a sharp, gasping whine that had his fingers digging into your waist, his hips bucking up against you without thought.

And just like that, you knew.

“You like that?” you murmured against his skin, already smirking, already marking another spot just below his jaw.

Spencer shivered violently, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening. “I—” He cut himself off with a choked noise, arching into you again.

Yeah. He definitely liked it.

And then there was the other discovery that made your entire night.

Spencer was a certified bottom.

He liked giving up control, liked you taking the lead, liked it when you moved on top of him, guiding him, making him fall apart underneath you.

And oh, he thrived in it.

Especially when your hands threaded into his hair, whispered things to him, and praised him in that sweet, teasing tone that made him whimper.

And God, the way his hands roamed when you were on top—

Which led to the third discovery of the night.

Spencer was a tits guy.

Sure, he loved all of you—he worshipped every inch of you with those big, eager hands, his lips, his tongue, taking his time, savoring you like he had all the time in the world.

But your boobs?

Those really got him going.

Maybe it was because of the angle, the way they bounced when you moved, or maybe it was the way they fit so perfectly in his hands, how he could squeeze, cup, and knead them just the way he liked.

Maybe it was the fact that he could bury his face in them, groaning as he nuzzled into your chest, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your skin, mumbling about how perfect you were, how soft, how he never wanted to stop.

And when you realized?

When you teased him about it?

He turned a deep shade of red, sputtering something about biological instincts and aesthetic appeal, but the second you rolled your hips and dragged his hands back to your chest, his words died completely.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, his head thudding back against the pillow, his fingers squeezing you almost desperately.

And yeah—

You really liked that discovery, too.

—

Spencer had barely stepped into the bullpen when Derek’s booming voice rang through the air like a damn foghorn.

"Pretty boy!"

Spencer flinched. He knew that tone. That taunting, giddy, Derek-is-about-to-ruin-your-life tone.

And then—before Spencer could so much as blink—Derek was grinning at him, full teeth, eyes sparkling with absolute mischief as he pointed directly at Spencer’s neck.

“Oh no,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, instinctively reaching up as if he could somehow erase the evidence.

But it was too late. Because Derek had seen it. The hickey.

The hickey.

The one you had left on him Saturday night. Or was it Sunday morning? Honestly, it didn’t even matter—what mattered was that he had forgotten to cover it up, and now? Now, Derek was never going to let him live this down.

“Damn, kid,” Derek laughed, sauntering over with the confidence of a man who lived for this kind of teasing. “So you are gettin’ some.”

Spencer groaned, his entire face going up in flames. “Derek—”

“Nah, nah, don’t even try to deny it,” Derek interrupted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That is a grade-A hickey, man. I’m talkin’ official, stamped, certified ‘this man is gettin’ wrecked’ level.”

“Derek, please,” Spencer hissed, glancing around desperately as if he could somehow stop this from escalating.

Too bad the damage was already done. Because JJ and Penelope were already staring. And then laughing. Loudly.

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, practically shrieking with delight. “Spencer! Look at you! Our boy is all grown up and getting marked up like a romance novel protagonist!”

“Okay, stop,” Spencer pleaded, feeling absolutely doomed.

JJ just smirked, sipping her coffee like this was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. “So, how was your weekend?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and making a beeline for his desk, determined to escape. “I hate all of you.”

Derek just grinned, following after him with his arms crossed. “Nah, Pretty Boy, you love us. Just not as much as you love your girl—who, by the way, did some damage on you, man. She got territorial.”

Spencer slammed his forehead onto his desk with a loud thud. JJ and Penelope cackled. Derek patted him on the back like he had just won something. And Spencer?

Spencer knew damn well that this was never going away.

—

Spencer was always composed. Always Spencer. Polite, intelligent, articulate. The type of man who didn’t act impulsively, who thought through everything before making a move.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

Because when it came to you, Spencer had no self-control.

And nowhere was that more apparent than tonight—right now—when he had you pressed up against the bar in the middle of a crowded room, his lips hot against your neck, his hands resting just a little too low on your waist, and his very obvious boner grinding against your ass.

This was not the Spencer the team knew. This was not the awkward, hesitant genius who stumbled over his words and overanalyzed his every move.

No, this Spencer was different.

This Spencer wanted you, and he didn’t care who saw.

This Spencer also happened to be a few glasses of champagne deep in his birthday celebration with the team.

“Spencer,” you hissed, gripping the edge of the bar for support as another firm roll of his hips had heat coiling low in your stomach.

He hummed against your neck, his lips still moving, still marking you in the same way he had been since he discovered how much he loved leaving hickeys on you.

“Hmm?” he murmured, voice low, dragging his tongue lightly over the fresh mark before pressing an open-mouthed kiss against it.

Your grip tightened on the bar. “We’re in public,” you reminded him, but your voice was breathy, weak, barely convincing.

Spencer chuckled—actually chuckled—against your skin, his fingers flexing against your hips. “And?”

And?

And?

You blinked, stunned by his sheer audacity, by the fact that Spencer Reid was grinding up against you in a public bar like he had every right to.

Like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You hated to stop him. God, you hated it.

But Spencer was too drunk.

It wasn’t that he was wasted—Spencer didn’t drink often, and when he did, he rarely overindulged—but tonight, between rounds of celebratory drinks with the team and the way he had relaxed into your presence, he was just tipsy enough that his usual inhibitions were gone.

And normally, you wouldn’t mind. Normally, you’d love seeing him like this, out of his shell, more bold in his affections. But Spencer was intoxicated, and you were sober, and you refused—refused—to take advantage of that. 

So, with a deep breath, you gently pried his hands off your waist, turning around to face him fully.

“Spencer,” you murmured, voice soft but firm.

He blinked, slow and dazed, his lips swollen from where he had been so intent on marking you up. “Huh?”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his flushed cheeks. “We need to get you home, okay?”

His brows furrowed. “But—”

“No ‘buts,’” you interrupted, kissing his cheek quickly before pulling away completely. “Come on, before Derek starts making bets about whether you’ll take shots with him.”

Spencer groaned, looking devastated—like a scolded puppy who had just been denied his favorite treat. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to pull you back, but even in his inebriated state, he listened.

With one last longing look at you, he sighed. “Fine.”

You smiled, taking his hand and leading him back to the group. The second you announced, “I’m taking Spencer home,” a chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from your friends.

Derek practically howled with laughter. “Damn, Pretty Boy, she’s gotta put you to bed already?”

“I hate all of you,” Spencer grumbled as Penelope cackled.

JJ smirked into her drink. “Don’t forget to hydrate him.”

“Oh, I will,” you assured her, rolling your eyes as you steered Spencer toward the door.

After a few more teasing remarks and one last dramatic wolf whistle from Derek, you managed to load Spencer into the passenger seat of your car.

As soon as you pulled out of the parking lot, you reached for the stereo and turned on classical music—something calming that would hopefully settle the restless energy still buzzing under Spencer’s skin.

And sure enough, within minutes, he was already melting into the seat, head lolling to the side as the soft notes of Debussy filled the quiet space.

You smiled to yourself, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

“Almost home, Spence,” you murmured.

He sighed deeply, squeezing back. “You’re the best,” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.

The rest of the night had been easy enough—getting Spencer home, guiding his sleepy, clingy self into bed, listening to him mumble drunken nonsense as you pulled the covers over him. He had curled around you the second you lay down beside him, burying his face in your neck, sighing deeply as if you were the cure to whatever hangover awaited him in the morning.

Before you had drifted off, you had set up a glass of water and some painkillers on his bedside table, making sure everything he needed would be right there when he woke up.

Now, in the golden light of morning, you were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, reading while Spencer slowly resurfaced from his alcohol-induced slumber.

He stirred first, shifting slightly under the sheets, letting out a sleepy little grunt before blinking blearily up at you.

For a moment, he just stared.

His hair was a complete mess, curls sticking up in every direction, and his face was still warm and soft from sleep. His lips parted slightly, his eyes unfocused as he tried to piece together where he was, why he felt like this, and why the hell you looked so perfectly content beside him while he felt like his brain was swimming in molasses.

“…Morning,” he croaked, voice raw from sleep.

You glanced down at him, smiling over the top of your book. “Morning, baby.”

He blinked slowly, still processing. Then, realization dawned—the bar, the teasing, you dragging him home like an overgrown toddler.

He groaned, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. “I was drunk.”

You laughed softly, closing your book and setting it aside. “Yep.”

He peeked out from under his arm, his lips twitching slightly. “Did I…?”

“You were very affectionate in public,” you teased, shifting to face him. “Like, very affectionate.”

Spencer made a noise between a groan and a laugh, rubbing his face. “Derek’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”

“I didn’t let anybody see, Spence.”

He sighed dramatically before turning his head to look at you again, his expression softening. His eyes flickered to the bedside table, taking in the water and painkillers, the small gesture that made something warm and fond settle in his chest.

“You took care of me,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Of course I did.”

Spencer didn’t say anything momentarily, just looking at you like he was trying to memorize you in the morning light. Then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you down into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, voice still thick with sleep.

Your heart stopped.

Completely.

Frozen in time, in this moment, in him.

Spencer had said it. So casually, so effortlessly, like it had always been there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to slip out. Like it wasn’t something earth-shattering, something that made your breath catch and your entire world tilt.

You barely breathed as you whispered, "You love me?"

You felt his lips curve slightly against your skin—soft, sleepy, so sure.

"I love you," he repeated, voice muffled but certain, like it wasn’t even a question in his mind. Like it never had been.

The warmth of his words settled over you, seeping into every inch of your skin, curling around your heart like the softest, safest thing you’d ever known.

Suddenly, you were moving, pulling back just enough to cup his face in your hands and tilt his head so that his eyes met yours—still drowsy, still heavy with sleep, but so incredibly full. You smiled, soft and disbelieving like you couldn’t believe you had gotten this lucky. Like you couldn’t believe he was yours.

"I love you, too."

Spencer blinked, like it was his turn to freeze like his still-sleepy brain was trying to process that you had said it back. Then he smiled—wide and beautiful, the kind of smile that made his dimples show, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best possible way.

And without another word, he kissed you.

Slow, deep, certain.

Like he had just decided—right here, right now—that he was never letting you go.

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

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[dannysrosetattoo]

I love my man so much

[gf2bellamy]

devoted — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer sees you talking to a guy and he's jealous. what he doesn't know is that you're talking about him. content warnings: established relationship , drunk reader, guy hitting on reader, a/n: i actually meant to post something else today but then i ended up finishing this one instead so here we are

Spencer Reid lost sight of you for five minutes. He could swear it was just five minutes. Derek had asked him a question—something about a case, something Spencer immediately regretted answering because it sent him spiraling into one of his infamous rambles.

By the time he finished explaining the details of geographic profiling and its applications in modern criminal investigations, Derek looked equal parts impressed and exhausted. But when Spencer turned back to where you had been sitting, you were gone. 

His heart skipped a beat. The bar was packed. Even with his tall frame, Spencer couldn’t see over the crowd. He craned his neck, his eyes scanning the room, but there was no sign of you.

Panic bubbled up in his chest. You had been drinking—a lot. And while you were usually responsible, the way you’d been rushing through your drinks tonight had him worried. The last time he’d seen you, your glass had been half full, but knowing you, you’d probably finished it and gone for another.

Which meant you were likely at the bar. 

There was one bartender you particularly liked—a woman named Jess, who you’d once told Spencer was always sweet to you and even gave you a discount on your drinks. Spencer made a beeline for the bar, weaving through the crowd. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more alarming than the last.

And then he saw you. Relief flooded through him, but it was short-lived. Because there you were, perched on a barstool, your cheeks flushed and your eyes bright with the kind of uninhibited joy that only came with being very, very drunk.

But you weren’t alone. You were talking to a guy. 

The guy was muscly, his broad frame towering over you as he leaned casually against the bar. His eyes were fixed on you, his gaze intense and unwavering, but Spencer barely noticed him.

All he could focus on was you. 

Your eyes were dazed, glazed over slightly from the alcohol, but there was something else in them—a soft, lovey-dovey look that made Spencer’s chest ache. It was the same look he loved seeing when you smiled at him, the one that made his heart skip a beat.

But now, that look wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at him. The stranger. The guy who was standing too close, smiling too confidently, and staring at you like you were the only person in the room. 

For a second, Spencer’s heart stopped. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like the way your eyes sparkled as you laughed at something you’d said, or the way your hands moved animatedly as you talked, your gestures exaggerated by the alcohol.

And he most definitely didn’t like the way the guy was staring at you.

Spencer bit his lip, his hands clenching at his sides as he stood frozen in the middle of the crowded bar. People bumped into him, muttering apologies as they pushed past, but he barely registered them. His entire focus was on you.

You were the one doing all the talking, your words tumbling out in a cheerful, slightly slurred stream, while the guy just stood there.

Spencer suddenly snapped out of his daze, his feet moving almost on their own as he walked slowly toward you.

“Hey,” he said as he stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. He pushed down the jealousy bubbling inside him, forcing himself to focus on what mattered—you. His hands settled gently on your shoulders, and you looked up at him, your face lighting up immediately. 

“Hi, Spencer,” you said, your words slightly slurred but your smile wide and genuine. It was the kind of smile that made his stomach flip, even now, even in this situation. 

Spencer didn’t even glance at the guy you’d been talking to. His attention was entirely on you. He reached for the drink in your hand, carefully prying it from your fingers and setting it down on the bar counter.

“Let’s get you home,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. His fingers brushed a strand of hair out of your face, the gesture tender.

You stared up at him, your eyes slightly unfocused but filled with affection. Then, as if remembering the other guy was still there, you turned your head toward him. “See? I told you how caring he is,” you said, your voice warm and slightly dreamy. 

The guy glanced at Spencer, his expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. He seemed to realize the conversation was over. Without a word, he grabbed his drink and stood up before disappearing into the crowd. 

“Well, that was rude,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred as you leaned your head against Spencer’s chest. Your voice was muffled against his shirt, but he heard you clearly enough.

He glanced in the direction the guy had gone, his brow furrowing slightly.

“What were you talking about?” Spencer asked, his voice soft but curious. He gently cupped your cheeks with his hands, tilting your head up so he could get a good look at you. Your eyes were half-closed, your face relaxed and content, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his heart doing that strange little flip it always did when you looked at him like that. 

“You,” you mumbled, your lips curving into a small, sleepy smile. You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing completely as you savored the warmth of his hands on your face. 

“Me?” Spencer repeated, his voice tinged with surprise. The puzzle pieces slowly started clicking together in his mind, but he wasn’t entirely sure what picture they were forming.

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, his touch gentle but insistent, as he tried to keep you awake. 

“Yeah,” you said simply, not offering any more details. Your voice was soft, almost dreamy.

Your skin was warm under his fingertips, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his heart pounding in his chest. But before he could gather his thoughts, you continued. 

“I love you a lot,” you said, your voice soft but clear, despite the alcohol slurring your words. “I had to tell him.” Your eyes slowly fluttered open, meeting his as his fingers continued to trace gentle circles on your cheek.

A smile formed on his face, small but genuine, as the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. That look in your eyes earlier—the lovey-dovey, dreamy expression he’d mistaken for something else—it hadn’t been for the stranger at all.

It had been for him.

“I love you too,” he said finally, his voice soft. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

When he pulled back, his smile had widened, his eyes shining with something tender. “How about we get you home?” he asked, his tone gentle. 

“Your home?” you asked, your voice hopeful as you reached for his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. 

“Sure, my home,” he said, his voice warm. He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, holding it tighter as he led you out of the bar. The cool night air hit you both as you stepped outside.

You pressed yourself closer to him as he guided you toward the car. “You’re so tall,” you said, your voice tinged with awe as you tilted your head back to look up at him. 

Spencer just chuckled under his breath as he opened the passenger door for you.

“I told him that,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred as you reluctantly let go of his hand. You swayed slightly on your feet, but Spencer steadied you with a gentle hand on your arm. 

“Good,” Spencer murmured, his voice soft as he helped you into the car. He leaned in, buckling your seatbelt with careful precision, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment. He closed the door carefully, making sure you were secure, before walking around the car and settling into the driver’s seat. 

As he turned the key in the ignition, the engine hummed to life, and Spencer couldn’t help himself.

“What else did you tell him?” he asked, his tone casual.

He knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of you talking about him to some stranger in a bar made his chest swell with pride.

“Well,” you said, drawing out the word as you thought for a second. The alcohol was definitely slowing you down, your thoughts coming out in a slow, dreamy stream. “I told him how smart you are. That you’re my genius boyfriend.” You mumbled the last word, your head leaning back against the seat as you stared out at the road ahead. 

Spencer’s lips curved into a small smile, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. He didn’t say anything, but the warmth in his chest grew, spreading through him like sunlight. 

“I also told him that you’re kind,” you continued, your voice soft but earnest. “Remember that one time—” You stopped abruptly, letting out a yawn that seemed to take over your entire body. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening. 

“Oh, I forgot to say goodbye to Penelope,” you mumbled, your words trailing off as you seemed to forget the sentence you’d started.

“I’ll text her later that you’re with me,” Spencer said, his voice soft as he stopped at a red light. He glanced over at you, his expression softening as he took in the way you were leaning against the window, your eyes half-closed but still gazing out at the passing lights. 

The car was quiet for a moment, the hum of the engine filling the space.

But Spencer couldn’t help himself. “So, what else did you say?” he asked.

You thought for a moment, your brow furrowing slightly as you tried to piece together the conversation. “I told him how handsome you are,” you said finally, your voice soft but clear. “I don’t think he liked that.” You paused, your nose scrunching as you tried to remember. “I don’t even know why I was talking to him in the first place,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred. 

Spencer felt a pang of guilt, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He should’ve been paying closer attention. He knew how drunk you were, and he’d let you wander off anyway.

But before he could say anything, you suddenly perked up, your eyes widening slightly. “Wait,” you said, your voice a little louder now. “I do remember.” The light turned green, and Spencer focused back on the road, though his attention was still mostly on you. “He was hitting on me,” you started, your tone matter-of-fact. “I think.” 

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up, his guilt worsening. “Really?” he asked, his voice tight with concern. He dared to glance at you, his eyes flickering away from the road for just a second. “Are you okay?” 

You nodded, your expression calm. “Yeah, he kind of backed off when I started talking about you,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t know why. I think everyone should hear about you.” Your voice was warm.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Oh, we’re here,” you said suddenly, your voice pulling him out of his thoughts. You were looking out the window now, your eyes wide as you took in the familiar sight of Spencer’s apartment building. 

“Yes, we are,” Spencer said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he pulled into the parking spot and turned off the engine.

He had heard enough, and he was happy—happier than he’d been in a while. The way you’d talked about him, the way you’d defended him without even realizing it, had filled him with a warmth and love.

He stepped out of the car, the cool night air hitting him as he rounded the vehicle to your side. Opening the door, he leaned in, his curls falling into his face as he carefully unbuckled your seatbelt. 

“I can do that myself, you know,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred but your tone playful. You swatted at his hands half-heartedly, though you didn’t actually stop him. 

Spencer took a step back, holding out his hand to help you out of the car. “I know you can,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure you could in your current state, but he let you believe it anyway.

You took his hand, your fingers curling around his as you carefully slid out of the car. Your steps were unsteady, and you leaned heavily against him, your free hand gripping his arm for balance.

Spencer didn’t mind. In fact, he liked the way you clung to him, the way you trusted him to keep you upright. 

Twenty minutes later, you were tucked into Spencer’s bed.

Spencer had been patient and gentle, helping you remove your makeup with careful hands before handing you one of his oversized shirts to sleep in. You’d protested weakly, insisting you could do it yourself, but he’d just smiled and helped you anyway.

Now, lying in his bed, you felt drowsy but content, the alcohol still humming in your veins. The room was quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of sheets as you shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable.

But something was missing. 

“Spencer,” you called out, your voice soft but tinged with a hint of whininess. “I can’t sleep without you.” Your eyes were already closed, your body heavy with exhaustion, but the bed still felt too big, too empty without him beside you. 

“I’m brushing my teeth,” Spencer called back from the bathroom, his voice muffled but warm. He’d already helped you with yours.

“Well, hurry,” you mumbled, your words barely audible. You weren’t even sure if he’d heard you, but a moment later, you heard the bathroom light click off, followed by the soft padding of his footsteps as he made his way to the bed. 

The mattress dipped slightly as Spencer climbed in beside you. You didn’t even open your eyes—you just instinctively shifted closer, your head finding its place on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you in, and you let out a contented sigh, your body finally relaxing completely. 

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the rhythm of Spencer’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

Then, his voice broke the quiet, “I love you,” he said quietly, “ A lot. More than you know.” 

You smiled faintly, your eyes still closed. “I love you too, Spencer,” you mumbled, your voice sleepy but sincere. Your hand found its way to his chest, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. 

Spencer pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment. “Good,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now get some sleep.” 

You didn’t need to be told twice.

As you drifted off to sleep, Spencer stayed awake for a little while longer, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your back. He couldn’t help but smile, his chest warm with a quiet contentment.

He knew you were his, just as much as he was yours.

[little-jana]

"Fractured Edges"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: angst

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: raised voices, emotional distress, fighting, case-talk, self-doubt, unresolved conflict, no comfort, mentions of Maeve

Summary: Spencer’s anger and fear explode after you put yourself in danger without telling him.

You had never seen Spencer Reid this angry before.

Not when cases went sideways. Not when he was on the receiving end of ridicule. Not even when his own life was at risk.

But now? Now, as he stood in front of you, his hands clenched into fists, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths—you realized there was an entirely different side of Spencer you had never seen before. One that wasn’t built from logic and facts, but from raw, unfiltered emotion.

And it terrified you.

"You lied to me," he snapped, his voice like glass breaking against concrete.

Your stomach twisted. "Spencer, I didn’t—"

"Don't." He shook his head, his jaw tight, his entire body rigid with barely restrained fury. "Don't insult me by pretending like it wasn’t a lie."

You swallowed hard, the weight of the situation settling deep in your chest. "I didn't tell you because I knew how you'd react."

His laugh was hollow, bitter. "Oh, so you knew I’d be upset? That makes it better?" He took a step forward, his eyes burning into yours. "What else have you kept from me?"

The question hit you harder than it should have.

"It wasn’t about you, Spencer," you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I made a choice, and I stand by it."

"A choice?" His voice wavered, disbelief coloring every syllable. "You put yourself in danger, you took risks that could’ve—" He cut himself off, running a shaking hand through his hair.

You knew he was struggling to keep his composure. To hold back the fear that had transformed into anger.

And somehow, that hurt more than the words themselves.

"I did what I had to do," you said softly, but the words felt weak.

Spencer let out a sharp exhale, pacing now, hands gripping his hair in frustration. "God, you sound just like—" He stopped himself.

Your stomach dropped. "Like who?"

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to.

Maeve.

The name sat between you like an open wound, fresh and bleeding.

You sucked in a breath. "Spencer..."

"Don’t," he said again, but this time it wasn’t sharp—it was broken.

You wanted to reach for him, to tell him that this wasn’t the same, that he wasn’t losing you, that you weren’t her.

But the look in his eyes told you it didn’t matter.

He felt like he was losing you. And maybe, in a way, he already had.

“Tell me why you did it.”

The demand was quiet, but it didn’t lack force. Spencer had stopped pacing, his gaze pinning you to the spot.

You hesitated. He deserved an answer. You owed him that much.

But how could you explain it to him?

How could you put into words the way your stomach had twisted when you realized the danger—how it wasn’t a reckless decision but a necessary one? How could you explain that if you hadn’t done what you did, people would have died?

That he could have died?

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Because it was the only option.”

“That’s bullshit,” Spencer snapped. His voice was sharper now, cutting through the tension like a blade. “There are always options. You just didn’t trust me enough to find another one.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?” He let out a bitter laugh, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t name. “You didn’t tell me. You didn’t talk to me. You just—just decided without even thinking about what it would mean for the rest of us.”

For me.

The words weren’t spoken, but you heard them anyway.

You took a step forward. “Spencer, I wasn’t trying to shut you out.”

“But you did.” His voice wavered. “You did, and now you’re standing here, acting like I’m the one being unreasonable for being angry about it.”

You flinched. “I don’t think you’re being unreasonable.”

“No?” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire posture defensive, bracing. “Then why do you keep acting like this is something we can just move past?

Because you had to.

Because if you didn’t, if you stayed in this place of hurt and anger, you weren’t sure you’d ever come back from it.

But looking at Spencer now, at the way his hands were shaking, at the way his breath hitched when he tried to speak—you realized that maybe he wasn’t sure if he could come back from this either.

“I was scared,” you admitted. The words felt foreign, raw. “I knew what I was doing was dangerous, but it wasn’t about shutting you out, Spencer. It wasn’t about you.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?”

You frowned. “What?”

His voice was quieter now, but the anger hadn’t faded—it had only settled, simmering beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t part of the equation,” he said. “You didn’t think about what this would do to me. To the team. You just decided that you’d handle it alone.”

The words stung.

You wanted to argue. To tell him that he was wrong, that you had thought about him—about all of them.

But had you?

Had you really stopped, for even a second, to think about what it would feel like for them to watch you put yourself in danger without so much as a word of warning?

Your silence must have given you away because Spencer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

“Spence, I—”

“You keep saying it wasn’t about me.” His voice cracked, and that was what finally shattered you. “But don’t you get it? It is about me. About all of us. About what happens when we lose someone else because they thought they could do it alone.”

He didn’t have to say her name.

The ghost of Maeve lingered between you, unspoken but deeply felt.

And now, you had wedged yourself into the same space—another person he cared about, another person who made a choice without him, another person who could have been taken away just as easily.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, and suddenly, it wasn’t anger in his eyes anymore. It was fear.

A deep, bone-deep kind of fear that made your chest ache.

You took a shaky breath. “You won’t.”

His lips pressed together in a thin line. “How can you be so sure?”

Because you weren’t.

And neither was he.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile, like a thread pulled too tight.

Finally, Spencer inhaled sharply and took a step back. It was small, barely noticeable, but it felt like a chasm opening between you.

“I need time,” he said.

Your heart clenched. “Spencer—”

“I need time,” he repeated, and this time, his voice was steady. Firm.

Final.

And then he turned, walking away before you could stop him.

You didn’t chase after him.

You didn’t call out his name.

Because for the first time since you had known him, you weren’t sure if he wanted to be caught.

And that?

That hurt more than anything else.

[reiding-writing]

who needs a valentine when we have cold!reader and Spencer kissing on the 14th

𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

spencer thinks you’re too reckless sometimes. too impulsive. you don’t exactly prove him wrong.

spencer reid x cold!reader ❅ 3.4k ❅ cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

A/N | and thus, the romance arc begins. the amount of requests for this is so funny 😭

The air is thick with tension as the team moves through the abandoned office, the only sounds the distant creak of shifting metal and the quiet shuffle of boots against concrete.

Flashlight beams slice through the dim light, illuminating dust swirling in the air. The unsub is here. You know it like you know the feeling of a storm coming—an electric charge beneath your skin, a pull in your gut.

Your grip on your gun is steady, but your pulse thrums with anticipation. You keep your breathing measured, sharp eyes scanning the shadowed corners of the room.

The others are moving carefully, methodically, sticking to protocol. Spencer had warned you earlier, voice low but insistent: “Please don’t take unnecessary risks. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

He worries too much. It’s something you’ve come to expect from him, but it gnaws at you differently than when others do it. With Spencer, it’s not condescending or dismissive—it’s genuine. He cares, and that unsettles you more than it should.

Which is exactly why you ignored him.

Movement flickers at the edge of your vision. A shadow slipping through a half-open door at the far end of the warehouse. Your instincts scream at you to move. To act. The others are too far behind; if you wait, the unsub could disappear.

You don’t hesitate.

“Going left,” you mutter into your comms, but you don’t stop to explain further. You slip through the doorway, gun raised, ignoring the sharp crackle of your earpiece as Spencer’s voice comes through.

"Wait— Don’t go in alone—”

But you’re already inside.

The room is colder than the rest of the building, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and something else—something sharper. It’s nearly pitch dark, the only light filtering in through a broken window near the ceiling. Your heartbeat is steady, controlled, but your muscles coil tight, ready to spring.

A shift. A whisper of movement.

Then—

Pain.

A white-hot sting tears through your side before you fully register what’s happened. Your breath hitches as you stumble back, your free hand instinctively pressing to your ribs. It comes away slick with blood.

Shit.

Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You fire—once, twice—and the gunshots are deafening in the enclosed space. The figure in front of you jerks and collapses, the dull thud of their body hitting the ground barely registering through the rush of blood in your ears.

The room tilts slightly. The pain sharpens. Your legs feel unsteady beneath you, but you grit your teeth and straighten, forcing yourself to stay upright.

Then—footsteps. Fast, urgent.

A second later, Spencer bursts into the room.

“Oh my god— We need a medic in here!”

His voice is tight, breathless, as he skids to a stop in front of you. His eyes, wide with panic, dart from your face to the growing stain on your shirt. And then he’s moving, closing the distance in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you before you can so much as protest.

His hands replace yours, pressing down on the wound, and you hiss at the sharp pressure.

“Jesus, Reid,” you bite out, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t budge.

“It’s fine,” you grit through clenched teeth, but even you can hear the slight tremor in your voice.

“Fine?” His voice cracks, his breath coming fast, like he’s been running. “You’re bleeding, and you—God, why would you go after him alone?”

You try to roll your eyes, but the action is weaker than you intend. “He’s down, isn’t he?”

Spencer lets out a sharp breath, and you catch the way his jaw clenches, the flicker of something dark and unreadable in his eyes. His fingers press harder against your side, grounding you, keeping you here.

“You could have died—” His voice is lower now, rougher, and it makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

You try to scoff, to deflect. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s not funny.”

You freeze.

His voice is raw. Unsteady. And when you meet his eyes, you see something there that you don’t want to see—something that makes the air between you feel too heavy, too charged.

You’ve seen Spencer worried before, but this is different. This is something deeper. Something dangerous.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

His hands are warm, firm but careful. He’s so close, close enough that you can see the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the slight tremor in his fingers despite the pressure he’s applying to your wound.

He’s afraid.

Not in the way most people would be. Not in the way someone fears losing a teammate.

It’s different with him.

And that realisation sends something cold through your chest.

You should push him away. Should tell him to back off, that you don’t need him fussing over you like this. But your head is light, and the pain is making you sluggish, and his hands are keeping you steady in a way that you don’t want to think too hard about.

So, for once, you don’t fight it.

Just for a moment.

Then, the rest of the team rushes in, and the fragile thing between you shatters.

—

The hotel room feels too small. Too bright. Too loud.

You shouldn’t be here—you should still be in the hospital, technically—but the second the doctor said you were stable enough for discharge, you signed the damn papers and got out of there.

You don’t do hospitals. They make you feel trapped, restless, like you’re waiting for something to go wrong. So you took the out, ignored the side-eye from the nurse, and made your way back to the hotel with nothing but a few high-grade painkillers and a warning to take it easy.

Right. Like that was going to happen.

Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, stiff and exhausted, you’re starting to regret it. Not because of the pain—you’ve had worse. Not because of the exhaustion—you can push through it.

But because Spencer won’t stop hovering.

He’s been like this since you walked through the door, tracking your every move with sharp, restless eyes. He won’t sit down, won’t even lean against the desk or the wall—he just stands there, pacing slightly, rubbing his fingers together in that nervous habit of his.

And worst of all? He hasn’t stopped talking.

"You can’t keep doing this,” he says again, voice tight. “One day, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank. Here we go.

“I’m fine,” you say, each word clipped and deliberate. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the point.”

There’s something sharp in his voice now, an edge you don’t hear often. Spencer doesn’t yell—not really—but this is worse. His frustration is controlled, simmering just under the surface, and it makes your skin prickle in a way you don’t like.

“The point,” he continues, stepping closer, hands moving in short, tense gestures, “is that you ran into a room alone, without backup, without knowing what you were up against—”

“I knew enough,” you cut in, irritation flaring.

Spencer lets out a short, incredulous laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Enough? Enough that you got stabbed?”

His voice rises slightly at the end, and you swear there’s something like desperation in it.

You exhale through your nose, gripping the edge of the bed. Breathe. Keep your cool. You don’t want to fight with him.

Except, maybe you do.

Maybe it would be easier to push him away, to make him angry enough to stop looking at you like that—like you matter too much. Like you scared him.

“I got nicked.” you say, your voice flat. “That’s part of the job, Reid. We all take risks.”

“This wasn’t just a risk,” he snaps, eyes flashing with something dangerously close to anger. “It was reckless.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re not my minder, Reid.”

His jaw tightens. His whole body goes tense, like he’s holding something back.

“Then stop making me feel like I have to be—”

The words hit you harder than the knife had.

You inhale sharply, but he doesn’t give you a chance to recover.

“Do you even realise how bad it could have been?” he presses, voice lower now, but no less intense. “How bad it was?”

You clench your jaw.

“I know exactly how bad it was,” you say, quieter now, your voice cold. “I was there.”

But he won’t let it go.

He keeps talking, keeps pushing, listing every single thing that could have gone wrong, every possible outcome that ends with you bleeding out on the floor, and it’s too much.

You can’t breathe past the weight of it.

It’s overwhelming—the concern, the intensity, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile. Like you’re something he can’t lose.

Like you matter.

You don’t want to hear it.

You just want him to stop.

But he just keeps talking.

His voice is insistent, sharp with frustration but frayed at the edges with something softer, something worse. He’s listing probabilities now, rattling off numbers and percentages like they’re supposed to mean something to you.

Like hearing that there was a 42.7% chance of you bleeding out before medics arrived is going to make you rethink everything.

But it’s not the numbers that get to you.

It’s him.

It’s the way his voice wavers, just slightly, like he’s fighting to keep it steady. The way his hands won’t stay still, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. The way his eyes are burning into you, dark and unreadable, except for one thing:

He’s scared.

And you don’t know how to handle that.

The worry in his expression is like a weight on your chest, pressing down hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. It’s too much—his voice, his eyes, the intensity of it all. He won’t stop talking, won’t stop pushing, won’t stop caring—

And you can’t take another second of it.

So you do the one thing that will shut him up.

You kiss him.

It happens so fast, you don’t have time to process it. One second, he’s standing in front of you, mid-sentence, his mouth forming words you don’t want to hear, and then your hands are gripping his face, and your lips are on his, and—

Everything stops.

Spencer goes completely still. Not just still—frozen. His breath catches, his entire body tensing like he’s just been short-circuited.

For the first time since this whole damn argument started, there’s silence.

No words. No numbers. No probabilities.

Just you. And him. And the space where your lips meet.

For a fleeting, desperate second, you think it might actually work. That maybe this is enough to make it stop.

Then, the weight of what you just did slams into you.

Your breath stutters as reality crashes down around you, as you realise that the heat of his skin is real, that his hands have curled slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

You pull back abruptly, your fingers slipping from his jaw as you take a step back, your heart hammering against your ribs.

But Spencer doesn’t move.

He just—stares.

Wide-eyed. Breath uneven. Lips parted like he’s trying to form words but can’t quite find them.

Like he doesn’t quite believe it happened.

And the worst part?

You don’t know what the hell to do next.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, too loud in your ears, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to retreat, to put the walls back up and pretend nothing happened. Pretend it was just some mistake, some impulsive thing you did in the heat of the moment.

It was just a kiss, right?

That’s what you’ll tell yourself. That’s what you have to tell yourself.

Your fingers tremble as you step back, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You can already feel the walls sliding back into place, the emotional armour rising to shield you from whatever this is. From the mess you just created.

You weren’t supposed to care this much about Spencer. You weren’t supposed to let yourself get wrapped up in him—not when your instincts always screamed at you to push people away, to keep things simple, to keep yourself safe. But now, standing here in the wake of your impulsive decision, you feel anything but safe.

And that terrifies you.

But before you can finish shoving the walls back up, before you can even start to deflect or pretend it didn’t mean anything—he moves.

It’s almost too fast, a blur of motion that catches you off guard. One second, you’re standing there, heart still hammering, and the next, Spencer is right there in front of you, his hands gently cupping your face, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that pins you to the spot.

You barely have time to think before he closes the distance again and kisses you—again.

But this time, it’s different.

This kiss is slow, deliberate. It’s not impulsive, not reactionary, not a desperate attempt to silence the chaos between you.

This time, it’s a choice. His choice.

His lips move against yours with purpose, as though he’s trying to tell you something with every brush of his mouth, something he couldn’t say before. Something you’re too scared to hear.

And for a second, you want to pull away. You want to tell him this was a mistake, that you don’t have time for this, for the complication, for the mess that’s swirling between you both. But your body won’t listen to your mind. It won’t let you run this time.

Instead, you lean into it.

You let your hands reach for him, sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens, and you realise with a sinking feeling that you’re not pulling away because you don’t want this—you’re pulling away because you do.

Because you knew. You knew this was inevitable.

This moment, this connection, this tension between you both that’s been building for so long, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in every glance, in every touch that lingered a second too long.

You’ve both ignored it, buried it under layers of professional distance, under the constant chatter and the mission-driven focus that keeps you moving forward.

But it doesn’t work anymore.

You can’t ignore it anymore.

And as his lips press against yours, as you finally, fully allow yourself to feel what’s been there all along, you realise that there’s no going back from this.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath as you separate, suspended in the space between you both. Neither of you speaks for a long, heavy moment.

There’s a tension now, a thick, unspoken understanding that pulses between you, a thread that has always been there, but now it’s too palpable to ignore. You can’t pretend like it’s not there anymore.

His hands are still on you, a soft warmth, but not quite enough to distract from the fire that lingers in the air. His fingertips hover at your waist, just shy of touching, as though he’s afraid if he holds you too tightly, something will break—something more than the fragile tension that’s just been shattered.

You’re still so close. So close to something you’re not sure you can name.

You pull away slowly, reluctantly, when your body reminds you of the injury. It’s a sharp, jarring pain—nothing too severe, but enough to make your muscles protest, enough to make you wince and break the moment.

You’re trying to hide it, but the slight catch in your breath gives you away. Spencer’s gaze sharpens immediately, eyes flicking down to your side, where the bandage is just barely visible under your shirt.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice quieter now, as if he’s finally realising the full weight of the situation. His hand moves to your elbow, guiding you carefully down to the bed, but not without a lingering touch. His fingers brush against your skin just a little too long, a quiet caress that makes your pulse spike again.

You sit down with a soft sigh, the sharp throb in your side a welcome distraction from the mess of feelings still swirling inside you. You try to focus on your breathing, but Spencer is still standing there, just a few inches away, looking at you like you’ve just cracked the universe wide open.

Your eyes meet, and his expression is a mix of something you can’t quite place—concern, sure, but there’s something else there. Something that burns hotter, deeper, just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to do something. Maybe waiting for you to tell him this was a mistake, or to push him away again, or to tell him it didn’t mean anything.

But you don’t say anything. Neither of you do.

And then, as if testing the weight of the silence between you, he speaks your name—just your name, soft and careful, like he’s unsure of how to even say it after everything that’s happened.

It’s barely a whisper, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he says it too loudly. Or maybe he’s just unsure of what to do with the name now that it’s hanging in the air, heavy with the implications of everything you’ve just shared.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself. The walls you’d worked so hard to put up feel like they’ve crumbled, but you’re too proud—or too scared—to admit it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, as though trying to gauge how much of you is still the same, how much has shifted.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you look at him, at the softness in his expression, the way he’s waiting for you to tell him what happens next. And in that moment, it’s impossible to pretend this didn’t happen, that things are just fine, that the walls you’ve so carefully built around yourself are still in place.

Because they’re not.

This—whatever this is—is real. And it’s not going away.

So you exhale, steadying yourself, and look back at him, finally allowing yourself to face what’s there between you. “Yeah,” you say, voice quiet, but steady. “I’m okay, I’m fine—”

But whatever happens next, there’s one thing you know for sure:

You can’t pretend this didn’t happen.

Not when everything between you has shifted so suddenly, so irrevocably. Not when you’re feeling more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life, and the weight of Spencer’s gaze is both comforting and terrifying.

“I think I need to lie down,”

“Yeah—” Spencer nods a little too quickly, hesitating before helping you under the sheets. “Yeah of course, I’ll uh— come and check on you in a few hours,”

You press your lips together, the phantom sensation of his still present. “Thanks,”

[littleslaywrites]

cupid’s chemistry | spencer reid x reader

nsfw, mdni 

concept by @unknwnfanfics

summary: spencer tries to back a cake for you as a surprise for valentine’s, but ends up making a mess (that you gladly clean up).

word count: 1.4k

cw: smut, f!reader, sub!spencer, oral (m!receiving), slight edging, licking (is that a tag?), unprotected sex, p in v

Spencer had assumed baking would be easy. He had a degree in chemistry, after all. And that’s what baking was, right? Chemistry.

So, for Valentine’s Day, he decided to bake you a cake. Garcia helped him scour pinterest for the perfect recipe. He’d bought all the ingredients, even a heart shaped pan. He knew he’d have time after work before you got home. 

It proved to be less simple than it seemed. He’d gotten the cake in the oven… at least some of it. The mixer proved to be a challenge, as the moment he turned it on, it covered him with batter. It had taken a good ten seconds to turn it off. Batter was in his hair, on his clothes, all over his face. 

When he pulled the cake out of the oven, it was as if he’d never taken a science class in his life. It was somehow too dry and too wet, and the color was abysmal. He hoped the frosting could cover it, yet that proved even more difficult than the batter. Even after mixing, it came out way too sugary, with a strong flavor of red food coloring. 

Just as he was trying to figure out how to save it, you walked through the door. 

“What are you making?” you ask, somewhat suspiciously. 

“Umm… it’s nothing, just–”

His stuttering causes you to enter the kitchen to figure out what he’s doing. On the counter is a pan, which seems like it’s supposed to be a cake, or maybe a brownie. 

“It’s not very good,” Spencer says, defeated.

“No, it’s nice, just a little…” you trail off, trying to find something to say. 

“I thought it would be like chemistry,” he explains, bringing the mixing bowl of failed buttercream over. “It was supposed to be your Valentine’s surprise.”

“You’re covered in batter, honey.” He blushes as you wipe a drop off of his face. 

“The mixer got the best of me.”

“You might not be a good baker,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “but you’re definitely a cute one.” 

He blushes more. Even after all this time, he still gets flustered around you. And you can’t help but take advantage. You lick a bit of batter off of his face, enjoying the way his breath hitches, trying to hide his growing arousal. 

“Should we get you out of these messy clothes?” you ask, faking innocence.

He nods, starting to unbutton his sweater. As he’s pulling it off, you start to unbutton his shirt.

“It only got on my sweater–” is all he can get out before you shush him. He listens, as he always does with you.

Next you make work of his pants, getting on your knees and unzipping them. Spencer rolls his head back, sliding off his underwear, unable to wait for you to do it yourself. His cock springs out, already hard. There’s another thing you love about him. You can get him worked up so easily. 

“I want–” he sighs out as you lightly stroke him.

“Want what? Words, baby.”

“Your mouth. Want your mouth on me.” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” you say, licking his tip. He whimpers, resisting the urge to buck his hips into your mouth. 

You tease him for a while, licking stripes along his veins. He’s leaning against the counter, white-knuckling the edge to keep himself still. Whines escape his lips as he leans his head back, hair disheveled from his earlier incident with the mixer. 

When you finally take him all the way into your mouth, he lets out a moan. You’re gripping onto his thighs for leverage, bobbing your head along his length. Closing your eyes, you get lost in the feeling of the weight in your mouth, the salty taste on your tongue. You feel him twitching as you swallow him deeper. 

Spencer can’t resist anymore, and gives a quick thrust into your mouth. You hum around him, the vibration coaxing him to do it again. Soon, he’s mindlessly moving his hips, chasing his release. You almost let him cum, but decide you’re not done teasing him. 

Taking your mouth off of him, you move to stand up. 

“Please-” he starts.

“No begging,” you say. “Bedroom.”

He follows you into your room like a lost puppy, driven by need. You lay down on the bed, and he joins you, capturing you in a hungry kiss. Your legs tangle together, and he ruts his cock into the side of your thigh, needing any touch he can get. 

You turn him over so he’s below you. If he wanted, he could overpower you, but he’s always putty in your hands. You sit back so you’re on his thighs, just below his crotch. Playing with his cock, you touch him ever so lightly, running a thumb along his slit and tracing the veins you love to admire. 

“Y/n,” he chokes out, brain empty, save for your name. 

Humming in response, you move to sit up on your knees. Shifting just above him, you grab ahold of his length, grinding your wetness on his tip. The stimulation has both of you whimpering, hips speeding up slightly. 

Stopping your motions, you sink down slowly. Spencer sighs, arching his back before you can even take him all the way. You press his hip down, letting yourself adjust before he can move. 

Hand holding him to the bed, you whine. His length fills you just right, and he looks so pretty below you. His brown eyes are communicating everything he can’t voice, begging you for any motion. Leaning down, you press a kiss to his lips. When he closes his eyes, you can feel his eyelashes flutter, complimenting the way your cunt flutters around him.

Pulling away from the kiss, you run your tongue along the remaining batter that’s left on his face. He blushes as you trace his sharp jawline, cleaning up the mess he made of himself. 

You sit back up, tentatively pulling yourself up before slamming back down. Spencer can’t help but meet your motions, rutting up into you. You allow him to set the pace, listening to the soundtrack of his whines and groans. 

The force of his thrusts cause you to lean down, placing a hand on the bed. You can feel his tip prodding deep inside you. His length surprises you every time, reaching within you in a way nobody else can.

He quickly loses rhythm, his need overcoming any sense. Taking over again, you use your hands on the bed as leverage. Being back in control allows you to guide him where you want. You shift so he’s hitting you on the soft spot of your walls. You pause your motions to move your hips subtly, grinding his tip into your sweet spot, before picking up pace again.

You’re clenching him hard, Spencer aware that it’s a signal that you’re close. He lets you use him, his back arching to have you as close as physically possible. Your knees are spread wide, needing him as deep as you can get it.

You can feel his cock spasming inside you as he holds off his own release. As desperate as he is, he wants you to finish before he does. He’s clenching his thighs, hips unconsciously meeting yours. Skin slaps skin, mixing with sounds of your pleasure.

Your hands run along his chest, feeling every part of him as you go over the edge. Your thighs close tightly around his body, muscles tensing before releasing altogether. Crying out, you let yourself fall onto him, fingers going to his hair. Your hands grab at whatever they can, and the tug at Spencer’s locks has him groaning. 

He continues to thrust into you a few more times before he has his own orgasm, arms pulling you close to him. Leaning into your neck, he whimpers into your ear, unintelligible noises combined with your name. 

Both of you are breathing heavily when you roll off of him, whining slightly at the emptiness. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you whisper into his ear, running a hand through his hair as he comes down from his high. 

“Sorry about the cake,” he says. 

“I think you’ve sweat the rest of the batter off of your face, at least.” He turns to look at you, still red in the cheeks. “But you still need a shower.”

“I’ll probably need some help in there,” he says, faking a pout. 

“Poor baby,’ you say, pulling him toward the bathroom.

[charismatic-writer]

This has me in TEARS omg it's so cute 😭

pillow kingdom | s. reid

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid may have three PhDs and an IQ of 187, but when it comes to battling his two tiny, chaos-loving children in an all-out Pillow Kingdom war, he never stood a chance. Pairing: father!Spencer Reid x fem!mother!Reader Word Count: 600 (oh.) Author's Note: genuinely wasn't thinking when i wrote this, saw my nephew and immediately got baby fever and just remembered spence being so good with kids and this is extremely mgg coded, so enjoy this fluffy 'lil one shot <3

You weren’t sure what was funnier—the fact that your two children had built an entire fortress out of couch cushions, blankets, and stuffed animals, or the fact that your genius husband, Dr. Spencer Reid, was dramatically attempting to “storm the castle” like a medieval jester on too much caffeine.

“You think you can defeat me? The all-powerful Dr. Spencer the Fearsome?!” he bellowed, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

From the depths of the pillow fort, two pairs of eyes peeked out. Your daughter, Lily, narrowed hers suspiciously. “You don’t look fearsome.”

“Yeah,” your son, Max, added. “You look like you need a nap.”

You snorted into your coffee from your spot on the couch. They weren’t wrong.

Spencer gasped, clutching his chest like they’d just insulted his entire PhD collection. “A nap? A nap? Do you know who I am? I have an eidetic memory—I once stayed up for eighty-four hours straight during a case! I can outlast any of you!”

Lily pointed a tiny finger at him. “Then why did Mommy say you got cranky and cried over a vending machine that wouldn’t take your dollar?”

You nearly choked.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “I—that’s slander! Your mother is a liar.” He turned to you for backup, but you just smiled innocently and sipped your coffee.

Max, meanwhile, picked up a stuffed T-Rex and threw it at Spencer’s head.

“ATTACK!”

The war was on.

Spencer ducked and rolled—dramatically, of course, like some kind of action hero who had absolutely no reason to be this extra—before lobbing a pillow right back at them. Lily shrieked and launched a plush unicorn in retaliation.

“You’ll never take our kingdom!” she declared.

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” Spencer bellowed, grabbing a blanket and spinning like a deranged superhero. “I have acquired the Cloak of Infinite Wisdom!”

Max squinted. “That’s just the throw blanket from the couch.”

Spencer gasped again, pointing at him. “You have your mother’s skepticism, and frankly, it’s terrifying.”

You grinned. “Taught them well.”

Just as Spencer lunged forward, Lily leaped from the fortress and wrapped herself around his leg. “I got him! I got him!”

Max charged next, full toddler-speed, ramming into Spencer’s side like an overenthusiastic linebacker. Your husband crumpled like a science nerd hit by reality.

“Oh nooooo,” Spencer groaned, flopping onto the floor. “My one weakness! Small, adorable children!”

“Victory!” Lily cheered, standing triumphantly on his stomach like she had just slain a dragon.

Max clambered on top of him next, sitting on his chest. “Now you’re our prisoner!”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “Curse you, tiny overlords.”

From your cozy spot on the couch, you smirked over your coffee. “See, this is why I married you. Not for your three PhDs, not for your genius IQ—but because you lose every single battle against two tiny humans.”

Spencer tilted his head up from the floor, where he lay pinned beneath his children. His curls were a mess, his glasses were slightly askew, and he looked utterly betrayed. “I don’t lose. I let them win.”

Lily gasped. “Traitor!”

Max grabbed another pillow and smacked Spencer square in the face.

And that was the day Dr. Spencer Reid was officially overthrown as ruler of the household.

this was soo rushed, and i'm sooo ughh. hope you enjoyed!! aha

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Spencer's Family

Summary: The team finds out what Spencer did on his sabbatical.

Inspired by a post, I saw about how, in the one episode we're going to see Spencer in, they meet his wife. I took it and ran.

1k words

After finally closing the case, Penelope practically demanded they go see the new place Spencer had bought a few years ago. Once he agreed (begrudgingly), the BAU tech was literally vibrating in her seat.

Spencer had picked out a small-town house on the edge of DC, a train ride away, but the small town had shops, schools, and parks for an all-around American family. 

He unlocked the door, making his way in first, summoning his team in with a nod of his head.

It seemed like a lovely home for a nearly mid-40s man.

However, there was something that caught Penelope's attention. It sounded like there was someone (possibly more than one) in Spencer's living room.

"Spencer," Penelope hisses. "I think there's someone in your house."

Spencer raises an eyebrow and makes his way into the living room without his gun raised. "It's just my wife and stepdaughter," he says over his shoulder.

"Stepdaughter?" Came from Tara and Luke.

"Wife?" Whereas this came from Penelope, Emily and JJ. 

The last anyone had heard from Spencer about his love life was Maxine, and judging by the voice - this wasn't Maxine.

The group hurried after Spencer, seeing a young girl - possibly around the age of 5, maybe 6 - with her arms wrapped tightly around Spencer's neck. The little girl was an absolute chatterbox. She hadn't stopped talking since the moment he set foot in the living room.

However, the woman they were more interested in was Spencer's wife. Who was sitting on the sofa, giggling at the pair in front of her; a blanket was thrown over her lap, and some sort of embroidery was now abandoned at her side.

"-and then Tony stuck a pencil up his nose!" She giggled.

"Why did he do that?" Spencer asked the little girl, taking a seat on the sofa and pulling her into his lap.

Just as she was going to explain why, she burst into more giggles, Spencer looked over at his wife for a possible explanation. "Apparently Arthur dared Tony to do it."

"Ah! You'd think after the incident with the Magic Marker, they'd know not to dare Tony to do things."

Spencer's wife shrugged her shoulders. "Now you're here, I'm going to take a nap." 

Before Emily could question why his wife was going to take a nap, she got herself out of the little nest she had made for herself. Protruding from her abdomen was a baby bump. A pretty big baby bump.

"Reid, you're going to be a father?!" Luke exclaimed, earning himself a rather harsh glare from the little girl (who now obviously sees Spencer as her dad). "Again..." he trails off, correcting himself under the child's gaze.

"Has she been giving you any hassle?" Spencer asks, ignoring Luke's question (or many of the genius didn't hear him), as his hand rested on the bump, a large smile growing on his face told the team the baby was probably moving. JJ still remembers when she was expecting Henry, and when she got Spencer to feel her bump on time, he mentioned how it felt alien-like.

"Well, she's happy now her daddy's home," his wife comments.

He looks up at her. "Have you given any more thought to going on maternity leave yet?"

The team watches as she rolls her eyes. "As I told you before I left, I'm completely fine; the semester doesn't finish for another 3 weeks."

"Your due date is in 4 weeks, Y/N! I know you feel you have a duty to your students, but I think even they would agree you should be at home."

"They would only agree because they don't want to see me go into labour whilst I'm at school."

"What's labour?" 

Both Spencer and his wife, who they now know is called Y/N, look down at their daughter. The wife looks at her husband. "Can you-"

Spencer leans over and presses a kiss to her temple. "I'll deal with this. You go take a nap."

She sighs happily. "Lifesaver, I don't know what I would do without you."

"And you won't have to," he replies, giving her a kiss. "Go take a nap."

After a spirited conversation with his stepdaughter about childbirth and babies (that was appropriate for a 5-year-old), she happily went back to her colouring book, which was neat and tidy, with every scribble kept firmly within the lines - she was more like Spencer even though they don't share blood.

Penelope plops herself down on an open chair and stares at Spencer like she has seen a ghost. "A wife, a stepdaughter, and a baby on the way?" Spencer nods, reaching over to run his fingers through the little girl's hair (who they now know is called Betty).

"You're excited to have a little sister, aren't you Betty?" Spencer asks, watching her blonde hair bounce around her head.

"I gets to help Mommy and Daddy take care of her!" She replies, the excitement bursting out of her.

Emily looks over at Spencer. "Are you ready?"

Spencer looks away from Betty for all of a second to smile at Emily. "I don't think I've been ready for anything more in my life," he turns to Betty. "Have you come up with any more names for your sister?"

Betty coming up with names for her little sister was a way of her having a part in her little sister's life before she even gets here.

However, this time, Betty only had one. "Willow."

18 days later...

Just as Penelope hung up the phone on Emily, her personal phone pinged in her purse.

There was a notification from Y/N. In a picture from a hospital room, Y/N sat in the bed, cradling a bundle; Spencer sat at her side with Betty in the middle of them, the evidence of tears having rolled down the little girl's face.

Meet Willow Penelope Reid, born 5:37am, 6 pounds 9 oz; mom and baby are well. Oh, and Betty has asked Spencer to adopt her!

Penelope was crying when she called JJ. "Hey, Garcia."

"Y/N had the baby, and my name is the baby's middle name!" Penelope cried, and before JJ could say anything. "And Betty wants Spencer to adopt her!"

JJ smiled softly. "Well, we will have to go visit them once they are out of the hospital and settled in at home."

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

I Just Wanted To Play

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~400

Warnings: implied smut

Summary: You and Spencer return from an afternoon of paintballing. Your mother is less than thrilled when she sees what he did to you.

Square Filled: "I just want to play." for @mfbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

x

It’s a peaceful afternoon in the Y/N household. Your mom got up early and enjoyed her coffee on the wrap-around porch in the cool spring sun, she read every bit of the newspaper, and she even did a bit of the crossword puzzle that came with the paper. She’s retired so she doesn’t have any plans besides sitting at home, watching her shows, and enjoying time alone. You moved back in with her once rent got too high, but she loves having you back with her.

She’s at the kitchen island going through the many coupons that came in a booklet when the front door slams open. She jumps from the sudden noise but calms when she hears both your and Spencer’s voices.

She loves Spencer, don’t get her wrong. She loves that you love spending time with him. She doesn’t love what his job entails. You work in a corporate building as a social media manager. He works in the FBI with dangerous criminals. She admires what he does. She admires that he is able to bring down people who inflict harm on others, but she doesn’t want you around it.

She’d been around it since your father was in the FBI. He died on the job several decades ago, and now she hates you being around anything that involves danger. Still, she’s not going to tell you who you can and can’t hang out with, but she’ll definitely frown upon you dating Spencer or anyone else in the field.

You know she’s like this because she loves you. If you do end up dating someone in the field, you know she’ll eventually learn to accept it. Your mother looks up when you come storming into the kitchen covered in paintball splotches.

“How was paintballing?” she asks.

“Come on, it was a joke,” Spencer says, following after you.

Funnily enough, he doesn’t have as much paint on him as you do.

“I’m mad at you,” you glare.

“Why? I just wanted to play.”

“Because when we went paintball shooting, I said to avoid my face. What’s the first thing you do?” You pull your collar down to expose the purple splotch on your neck. “You shoot me in the fucking neck.”

“Spencer, you have to be careful with her,” your mom sighs. “She’s fragile.”

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Go take a shower before you repaint my entire kitchen.”

You wait until your mom has left before turning to Spencer with a mischievous grin.

“Do you think she bought it?”

“Yeah, it was convincing. I liked it.”

You grab Spencer’s shirt and pull him into you. He sides one hand into your hair, grips it, and tugs your head back to control the kiss.

“If you’re quiet, we can shower together so I can mark your pretty little neck up some more.”

You shove him away from you and run from him, giggling when you hear his footsteps coming after you.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[salvatoreloml]

THE DUO

[kiwriteswords]

Happy Valentine's Day to all the lovers, friends, and things in between <3

[reidmarieprentiss]

masterlist ♡ continued

my requests are open! i'm comfortable writing for any sexuality, gender, and/or specified reader preference! my basic model is a fem!reader x male!character because that is how i myself identify and who i am attracted to -- so if you want something else just lmk!! <33

click here for my taglist :)

Asks

A Gentle Embrace ♡

Southern Charm ♡

Cinephile ♡

Where We Were Meant To Be ꩜ ♡

Love Doctor ♡

Not Strong Enough ꩜ ♡

Birthday Surprise ♡ ꕥ

Technicalities ꩜ ♡ ꕥ

Lucky ꩜ ♡

I Love You, I'm Sorry ꩜ ♡

Languages of Love ♡

Wounds: Physical & Emotional ꩜

Sadly Ever After ꩜

Chip Taylor

Something's Gotta Give ꩜ ♡ ꕥ

Juno(OH) ♡

Hometown Glory ꩜ ♡

Matthew Gray Gubler

Unauthorized Documentary 0.5

[saturnsinterlude2k]

i have nothing appropriate to say

[gf2bellamy]

hi athena!! i love your writing so so much! could i request smth where reader and derek match on a dating app but when they go on a date, they decide they’re not really compatible and derek sets her up with spencer instead? no worries if you’re not interested tho!

thanks!!! 🩵🩵

mismatch — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think , just awkward spencer a/n: hii anon !! thanks for your request - hope this is what you asked for <33 also i decided to go with glasses spencer ! hope that's okay <3

It had been 30 minutes, and this date was not going the way you’d hoped. You sat across from Derek Morgan, your fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table as you tried to keep up with his enthusiastic monologue about hockey.

He was charming, sure, and undeniably good-looking, but the conversation felt like it was going in circles. You nodded along, offering the occasional smile or comment.

Derek, being the profiler he was, had obviously picked up on the fact that things weren’t clicking. He paused mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. “You’re not really into hockey, are you?” he asked, his tone more amused than accusatory. 

You blinked, caught off guard, and let out a small, awkward laugh. “Uh, no, not really,” you admitted, shrugging slightly. “I mean, it’s not that I dislike it or anything. I just… don’t know much about it.” 

Derek leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, I kinda figured. You’ve got that look.” 

“What look?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“The ‘I’m trying to be polite but I’m mentally counting down the minutes until I can leave’ look,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. 

You winced, feeling a little guilty. “Sorry,” you said, offering him an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just… this isn’t really my thing.” 

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “No need to apologize. I get it. Dating apps are hit or miss, and honestly, I’m not feeling the vibe either.” 

You let out a relieved sigh, grateful for his honesty. “Yeah, it’s… not really working, is it?” 

“Nope,” Derek agreed, popping the ‘p’ as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But hey, no hard feelings. You seem cool, we…just doesn't seem to be a match.” 

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” 

Returning your smile , he said. “If you ever need a wingman or just someone to grab a drink with, hit me up. I’m always down for making new friends.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, genuinely meaning it. Derek was easy to talk to, even if the romantic connection wasn’t there. 

As you both stood up to leave, Derek glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know, you might actually get along with one of my coworkers,” he said casually. “He’s into all that nerdy stuff you were talking about earlier—books, puzzles, random facts. You two would probably hit it off.” 

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh yeah? What’s his name?” 

“Spencer Reid,” Derek said, his grin widening. “He’s a genius, like, legitimately. But don’t let that intimidate you. He’s a good guy. A little awkward, but in a charming way.” 

”You wouldn’t mind if I gave him your number?” Derek asked, his tone casual but his grin still firmly in place. 

You hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Sure, why not?” you said.

Derek’s description of Spencer had piqued your curiosity. A genius who was into books, puzzles, and random facts? That sounded like someone you could actually hold a conversation with.

Besides, after the awkwardness of the date, you figured you had nothing to lose. 

As you both walked out of the restaurant, you turned to him and gave him a quick hug. “Take care, Derek.” 

“You too,” he said, returning the hug with a friendly pat on your back. “Good luck with Reid. I have a feeling you two might actually hit it off.” 

You chuckled, shaking your head as you pulled away. “We’ll see.” 

Two days later, you were curled up on your couch with a book in hand, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table beside you. The quiet evening was interrupted by the buzz of your phone. You glanced at the screen, noticing a message from an unknown number.

Hi, this is Spencer Reid. Derek gave me your number—I hope that’s alright. He mentioned you might appreciate a conversation that doesn’t revolve around hockey. I was wondering if you’d like to meet for coffee sometime?

You couldn’t help but smile as you read the message.

The next day, you walked toward the café, which was, thankfully, only a short distance from your apartment. The crisp autumn air nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged your jacket a little tighter around yourself as you approached the small, cozy-looking spot. As soon as you got closer, you noticed him immediately. 

Spencer Reid was standing outside the café, his tall, lanky frame hard to miss. He had his glasses on, and his hands were tightly gripping the handle of a worn leather satchel bag slung over his shoulder.

He looked… nervous.

His eyes darted around, scanning the area, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsure of what to do with himself. 

You couldn’t help but notice how pretty he was.

“Spencer?” you called out softly, not wanting to startle him. 

He turned quickly, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he saw you. “Oh, hi!” he said, his voice a little higher than usual, betraying his nerves. He didn’t extend his hand, which you remembered Derek mentioning—something about germs and unnecessary physical contact.

Instead, he gave you a small, awkward wave. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you. I’m Spencer. Obviously. You already knew that. Sorry.” 

You smiled, trying to put him at ease. “Nice to meet you too. And don’t worry, I’m not a handshake person either. Too many germs, right?” 

His face lit up, clearly relieved that you understood. “Yes, exactly! Did you know that the average handshake transfers approximately 124 million bacteria? It’s one of the most unhygienic social customs we still practice. I mean, why not just nod or bow? It’s much more—” He stopped himself mid-sentence, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I do that sometimes.” 

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. “I don’t mind. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.” 

He smiled, a little shyly, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, uh, should we go inside? They have a great oat milk latte here, if you’re into that. Or, you know, regular coffee. Or tea. They have tea too. Lots of options.” 

“Oat milk latte sounds perfect,” you said, nodding. 

As he held the door open for you, you couldn’t help but notice the way his shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he was starting to feel more comfortable. You followed him inside.The smell of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air, and the soft hum of conversation created a cozy atmosphere. 

Spencer led you to a small table near the window. He set his satchel down carefully, then glanced at you.

“So,” he said, sitting down across from you, smiling softly, “Derek mentioned you like books. What kind do you usually read?”

[little-jana]

"A Love in Code"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: fluff

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: mutual pining, kinda slow-burn, kissing

Summary: On Valentine’s Day a secret admirer starts leaving you coded messages, book quotes, and thoughtful gifts.

a/n: it's really similar to my other Spencer Valentine’s fic, but I just loved the idea sooo much. I had to write another one! Enjoy! Happy Valentine’s Day my loves 🌷💝

February 14th – 8:12 AM

You weren’t expecting much for Valentine’s Day.

Sure, the BAU was like a family, and someone (probably Penelope) would bring in heart-shaped cookies. But you hadn’t planned anything special for yourself.

That changed the moment you arrived at your desk.

Sitting on your keyboard was a small, folded note with your name on it.

You frowned, glancing around. Everyone was going about their morning routine—JJ sipping coffee, Derek chatting with Emily, Spencer flipping through a book. No one seemed to be watching you.

Curious, you opened the note.

“When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.” – Arrigo Boito

Your breath caught.

A love quote? From who?

“Whatcha got there?” JJ appeared beside you, peeking over your shoulder.

You quickly folded the note. “Nothing! Just… something from a friend.”

JJ raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “A special friend?”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced.

A secret admirer? Could it really be possible?

And if so… who?

10:45 AM

The second surprise came just before the team’s briefing.

You returned from the breakroom to find a small book sitting on your chair. Pride and Prejudice.

Your heart pounded as you picked it up. Tucked inside the front cover was another note.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” – Mr. Darcy

Your face burned.

Okay. This was real.

“Wow,” Emily said, appearing beside you. “Whoever this is, they know their romance novels.”

You forced a laugh, scanning the room. Spencer was flipping through his own book, not paying you any mind. Derek was smirking like he knew something.

Your mind raced.

Could it be… Spencer?

No. That was ridiculous.

Right?

2:30 PM

You spent most of the afternoon trying (and failing) to focus on work. Every time you thought about the notes, your heart fluttered.

Then, just as you returned from lunch, another surprise appeared on your desk.

A small box of chocolates.

Your hands shook as you picked up the attached note.

“All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.” – Charles M. Schulz

Your stomach flipped.

“Alright,” Penelope declared, marching over. “I need to know who’s making you blush like that.”

You groaned. “I don’t know!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you definitely have a guess.”

You bit your lip.

Spencer.

It had to be him. The literary quotes, the thoughtful gifts—it all screamed Spencer.

But why would he keep it a secret?

Unless…

He was scared.

Just like you.

5:00 PM

You were packing up to leave when Spencer appeared at your desk.

“Hey,” he said, his voice slightly hesitant.

You smiled, trying to act normal. “Hey, Spence. What’s up?”

He shifted on his feet. “I, uh… I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee?”

Your heart pounded. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “I mean, if you don’t have plans, of course. I just thought… we could talk.”

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.

This was it.

You swallowed hard, then smiled. “I’d love to.”

6:15 PM – The Coffee Shop

The café was quiet, bathed in the soft hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of cups against saucers. The scent of roasted coffee lingered in the air, but you barely noticed it.

Spencer sat across from you, fingers tapping restlessly against his cup. The nervous energy rolling off him was something you weren’t used to—he was always so composed, even when discussing the most horrific cases.

But now, he looked… hesitant. Uncertain.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before pulling out the small stack of notes from your bag and placing them on the table between you.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Was it you?”

His gaze dropped to the familiar handwriting on the notes.

He stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His lips parted slightly, his fingers tightening around the ceramic of his coffee cup. His mind was working through a million thoughts, you could tell—trying to calculate the best response, the least damaging outcome.

But there was only one truth.

His shoulders rose with a deep inhale, and then, finally, he met your eyes.

“I wanted to tell you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t know how.”

Your breath hitched.

“Spencer…” you prompted, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you just say something?”

He let out a soft, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Because I was scared. I’m not—” He paused, licking his lips. “I’m not good at things like this. I’ve spent my whole life being better with numbers and facts than with people. And you… you’re the exception to every rule I’ve ever known.”

Your heart squeezed.

“The exception?” you echoed.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, his nerves unraveling before your eyes. “I thought if I told you, it would ruin everything. You’re my best friend. And I was terrified of losing that, of making things complicated. But I also—” He let out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t not tell you.”

Your fingers trembled against the notes as you absorbed his words.

He had felt the same fear you had.

The same hesitation, the same nervous energy that had been plaguing you for months.

He had been scared of losing you.

The weight of it all crashed over you like a tidal wave, and suddenly, every glance, every stolen moment, every lingering touch between you over the years took on a new meaning.

Spencer Reid—the man who saw the world through logic and numbers, who feared unpredictability and chaos—had been in love with you all along.

Your throat tightened. “Spence…”

He swallowed hard, his hazel eyes filled with a quiet vulnerability. “I love you,” he confessed, the words escaping like an exhale he’d been holding in for far too long. “I think I’ve loved you for longer than I even realized. I just—” He shook his head. “I didn’t know how to say it until now.”

Your breath caught.

A warmth spread through your chest, replacing every doubt, every fear, every moment of uncertainty you had carried for so long.

Because you knew.

You knew that this—this man sitting in front of you, the one who had left you quotes from classic literature and chocolates and poetry—he was it.

He was everything.

You didn’t hesitate.

Reaching across the table, you laced your fingers with his. His hand was warm, slightly trembling, but he didn’t pull away.

“I love you too,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips as naturally as breathing. “I have for so long, but I—” You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. “I guess we’re both kind of idiots, huh?”

A slow, brilliant smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess we are.”

The warmth of his hand against yours sent electricity up your spine, and suddenly, sitting across from him wasn’t enough.

You stood, heart racing, and Spencer followed suit without hesitation. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation—just an unspoken understanding as you met him halfway, closing the space between you.

Your hands moved to his face, fingers brushing along his sharp jawline. His own hands settled at your waist, hesitant but firm.

And then, you kissed him.

It was soft at first—a gentle meeting of lips, like the first note of a song waiting to be played. But then he responded, tilting his head, deepening the kiss just enough to make your heart stutter.

His fingers curled into your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and for the first time in forever, you weren’t overthinking a single thing.

You just let yourself feel.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and lightheaded, Spencer rested his forehead against yours, a small, incredulous laugh escaping him.

“I can’t believe it took me this long,” he murmured.

You grinned, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Better late than never, Dr. Reid.”

He huffed a laugh. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispered, his breath ghosting against your lips.

You smiled.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spence.”

And as you stood there in the dimly lit café, hands still tangled together, you knew—this was the start of something extraordinary.

Something that had been written in the stars all along.