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nereidprinc3ss · 2 months ago

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diva

in which flirty!reader shows up to work in a bad mood and it’s spencer’s job to deal with her attitude. not that he minds. (bandages universe)

fluff warnings/tags: fem!reader, mentions of reader coming to work from a casual hookup, flirting, lots of teasing, the BAU being silly geese bc this is before all the trauma, insecurities about reader's job performance, spencer wants to be a cyborg, borderline cuddling hehehe a/n: nanana diva is a female version of a hustler (bandages!reader theme song) no but really i just missed them so much lowkey always accepting requests for these two!! I hope you guys likeeee bc i loveee them and also this was based on a request so i hope u see this LOL

As soon as Hotch calls wheels up in thirty you’re slumping forward, resting your head on folded arms. The to-go cup on the round table in front of you has long been emptied but you look at it longingly anyway.

Morgan chuckles, slapping his folder down on the table next to you. “Aw, look at that. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“It’s Sunday,” you groan. “It’s seven in the morning. Excuse me for not being ready to carpe the diem.”

“It’s just carpe diem,” Spencer interjects, standing and slipping his file into his bag. You sit up and give him the most indignant look you can manage, though it’s hard when you’re this tired and he’s that cute. Slacks. Sweater vest. Button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. An enviable waist.

“Whose side are you on?”

He frowns, brushing a tuft of shining-clean brown hair out of his eyes.

“If I was on anyone’s side other than my own it would cease to be their side. We’re all always on our own sides.”

“No, you’re on my side. Defend me.”

His brows only dart up and he looks back down to his bag. It’s a look you know well. Don’t get me involved.

Morgan spins in his chair to face you, one elbow resting on the table.

“I’m just saying, if this is your Sunday morning, I’d love to see your Saturday night, little miss forty five minutes late.”

“You heard Hotch say he called me half an hour earlier than everyone else. It was technically fifteen,” you frown. “And I… was at church.”

Rossi gestures at you with his coffee cup. “You step foot in a church, your shoes are going to start smoking.”

Your jaw drops.

“Wow. I thought old people were supposed to be sweet. Come on, Spencer.”

Spencer knows better than to put up a fight as you get up and grab him by the hand not holding onto your cup and folder, dragging him to the bullpen to sit at your desk until the team is ready to go.

He stands in front of you, hands in pockets, as you plop into your own chair. “I… can’t tell if you’re actually mad.”

“I am. At you. For not being on my side.”

Spencer sets his bag down and leans against the adjacent desk, arms folded. You stopped caring a long time ago if he’d notice you ogling the long, lithe lines of him. Maybe you never really cared, if you’re being honest with yourself. He’s a little harder to scandalize these days, anyway. But you’ll never stop trying.

He bites his lip thoughtfully.

“If you’re mad at me, why am I the one you dragged down here?”

“I’m not taking questions, Reid.”

He hisses. “Ouch. Reid.”

“Mhm. That’s how mad I am.”

“Okay, grouchy. Do you want a refill?”

You borderline pout, continuously perplexed by his kindness in the face of your insolence, but holding out your hollow cup for him anyway as you slouch lower in your seat.

“Don’t call me grouchy.”

“Then don’t call me Reid,” he says, taking your cup as he passes, and you think you sense the faintest wash of amusement coloring his tone.

The jet doesn’t do much to put pep in your step.

“Aberdeen,” Morgan muses, letting his file closed on his lap. “Isn’t that where, uh, Kurt Cobain grew up?”

Spencer sits down in the chair next to you, setting the day’s third cup of coffee in front of you on the small table. “It is. It’s also where Washington’s first suspected serial killer William Gohl resided.”

“First of many,” Rossi amends. Reid nods.

“In the US, Washington State comes in fifth place in terms of serial killers per capita. Some blame a widespread vitamin D deficiency. Just under eight hours of sunlight in the winter, the least in the contiguous United States.”

Emily gives an abhorrent rendition of a famous Nirvana riff, imitating a twangy electric guitar, before gesturing to your boss. “Hotch, you’re from Seattle. Did you ever get into Nirvana? The whole grunge scene?”

Hotch lowers his folder, giving her an unimpressed look. “Did you?”

While the exchange is amusing, the coffee is not perking you up and you’d like to be slightly less upright, if possible. You bump Spencer’s knee with your own, and he looks over at you obediently.

“What’s up?”

“I wanna move to the couch.”

He nods and gets right back up. When you pass, and he doesn’t immediately follow, you turn around. Maybe the lack of sleep has rendered you unable to hide your look of contempt as he tries to sit back down.

“What are you doing?”

Morgan snorts. “Uh oh. Lapdog almost forgot his training.”

“I am not a lapdog,” Spencer defends, giving Morgan a harsh look of his own, before following you, much to the amusement of the rest of the BAU.

“Don’t listen to them,” you mutter as you step aside to let him pass.

He settles into the corner of the couch. “I almost never do.” When you cozy up next to him, he seems surprised. “Um, hi?”

“I’m cold. You’re warm.”

“This is… unprofessional.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh my god. They don’t care.”

That’s enough to shut him up. Eventually he relaxes, and though he doesn’t put his arm around you (they remain crossed in front of him) he doesn’t seem too distraught over the way you’re leaning against him, head on his shoulder. The sky is a soft grey where you can see it through the little rectangles lining the far wall, like a pale tea with plenty of milk.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” He asks eventually, gingerly, and though he’s bold to ask it you know the last thing he means to do is offend. Luckily for him, he’s your soft spot. You let your eyes flutter shut against the boxes of diffuse light.

“Tired.”

“I know that. You’ve had three cups of coffee and you’re still about to fall asleep.”

“Well… that’s all it was.”

“Mhm.”

“God, you’re—” you lift your head, about to give him a good old fashioned verbal lashing, but he’s so sweet looking, and he’s so kind to you even when he’s not, that you deflate—all your air coming out on a sigh as you settle back against him. “I… was… not home, when Hotch called me.”

“Yeah, you said you were at church?” He sounds utterly bewildered. Your heart melts, and you can’t hide the fondness seeping from every pore as you look up at him through your lashes. He really is so beautiful.

“That was a joke, Spence. I was with a friend.”

His brows knit and a faint blush tinges his cheeks.

“Oh. I knew that.”

And he really is getting better at detecting your brand of sarcasm. One day you doubt you’ll be able to pull any over on him, and he’ll stop being so adorable and bashful and embarrassed and sweet all the time. You don't relish the thought.

“What were you doing this morning?” You ask, in a bid to quell the very embarrassment you covet, because you’re not actually a demon, despite what Rossi had implied earlier.

“Sleeping.”

You hum. Imagine taking his hand. Don’t really take it.

“Me ’nd you should hang out outside of work more often.”

“Like… in the mornings?”

“Uh, probably not,” you laugh, your own face heating at the implication he’s only sort of and undoubtedly accidentally making. “I mean—we could. We could have breakfast sometimes.”

“I like breakfast,” he muses. “I know a couple of good spots. I can show you when we get back. There are these ube pancakes that are like bright purple on the inside. Have you had ube? I think you’d like them. The pancakes and the tuber. They’re the same color as your laptop case.”

You giggle, too tired for anything more dignified and too charmed for anything less authentic. Spencer has a moment of apparent self-awareness and after a second chuckles along with you, and like 99% of your moments with him, it’s a nice one.

It slowly fades, and you sigh.

“We’d probably get called in right in the middle of breakfast.”

“It’s always a possibility,” Spencer agrees, and you feel him nod. He smells really nice—clean and sort of cedar-y. Warm.

“You ever think about how we’re just… robot arms to do the bidding of the federal government? We’re not even people. We’re cyborgs.”

“I’d love to be a cyborg.”

“But then you wouldn’t be so warm and comfy.”

“If I were a cyborg I could install a heating element. I’d still be warm. I don’t know about comfy. Maybe if I kept the biomechatronics to one side of my torso.”

“You’d install a heating element just for me? So we could keep cuddling?”

He clears his throat. You smile to yourself.

“Why are we cyborgs, exactly?”

“Because we don’t get personal lives. The job comes first. I could be doing anything. I could be in the middle of eating bright purple pancakes with my good friend and colleague Spencer Reid and it doesn’t matter. If we get called in we have to leave.”

“If we were in the middle of breakfast, we could just… take our food to go and finish it at our desks.”

“Well—I guess it would be different if it was us, but with my other friends… it’s kind of a bummer, sometimes.”

You’re thinking about the friend you left this morning. Nobody you’re particularly invested in, but you wonder if that friend is still asleep in bed—and you realize you don’t much care. You’re glad to be here, and not there.

“I think if the job didn’t feel worth it to you, you would’ve left by now. But you haven’t. You can complain all you want, but you show up every day.”

You scoff.

“Fifteen to 45 minutes late, depending on how you look at it.”

“That is… atypical. You’re usually on time.”

“Usually…” you repeat darkly. A moment passes. An uncomfortable insecurity begins to bloom and ache like a rotting tooth. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“Do you think…” you falter, unused to this kind of vulnerability. A cloud swallows the jet and the cabin darkens into a place for secrets. “Do you think I’m worth the trouble?”

You know Spencer senses the unease like a sheepdog can sense a storm from the way he perks up next to you. He’s always been like that—incredibly attuned to the moods of others. You hope he doesn’t think profiling is just another of many learned skills. It’s a genuine talent, a sort of savantism in its own right. You can’t imagine him doing anything else as passionately as he does his job. Sometimes it almost makes you insecure.

“What trouble?”

“Like… Hotch having to call me half an hour earlier than he calls the rest of the team. Or you, accepting my constant teasing. I know I’m—I can be kind of a diva. I don’t always really feel as professional as you guys. Or… qualified, maybe.”

You can imagine the way he’d narrow his eyes as he thinks this over, though you’d still like to see it for yourself—but you keep your head on his shoulder. In a way, he’s already getting a closer look at you than you usually grant to anyone.

“I think… you’re good at your job. And you care more than you’d like to admit. That thing you do—where you sometimes show up a few minutes late, or you piss Rossi off on purpose, or you flirt with Hotch—I think… we all have things like that. We all self-sabotage, because it’s a really hard job, and I think we all wonder if we’re really qualified for it, or deserve to be in these positions, or if we even want the responsibility of trying to save people’s lives. But you’re a genuinely good person and a gifted profiler. And everyone else knows it, too.”

The deep thrum of the jet’s engine blurs the rest of the team’s incomprehensible chatting and the pounding of your heart into one big muddied streak of paint. Hopefully Spencer can’t feel the heat of your cheek through his shirtsleeve.

“Oh,” you murmur.

A moment passes.

It’s a relief when Spencer’s anxiety comes bubbling up before your own can. “Sorry, was that too much?”

“No,” you hurry, “no, it was—no. That was really really nice of you to say. Thank you, Spencer.”

He relaxes. “Well… it’s all true.”

How could anyone ever deserve him? How does anyone get lucky enough to know a man like Spencer Reid?

When you burst through the other side of the cloud, the sun has come out. It burns away the milky early morning fog and makes your eyes ache just enough to finally wake you up. You blink and stretch against him like a cat.

“Spence?”

“Hm?”

“I just want to clarify… I don’t flirt with Hotch. I flirt with you.”

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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hearts4hughes · 3 months ago

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nosey - tate langdon x fem!reader

WARNINGS: mdni ; smut ; oral (f receiving) ; fingering ; degradation

A/N: enjoy this 😁

sunlight sneaks through the curtains in your room, illuminating your sleeping figure. you stir slightly and stretch, but continue to keep your eyes closed.

tate sits crisscrossed next to you on your bed. he looks over his shoulder at you as you begin to awake. he smiles and gets back to his reading.

tate was the ghost boy who lived in your house. you were skeptical at first. a cute teenage boy who was telling you that he was forever tied to your house? that’s insane… right?

but as he began to appear out of thin air to talk to you or listen to music, it seemed incredibly real. that’s how the two of you became best friends. he shared similar interests with you that no one else had. he was dark and dressed like kurt cobain and that drew you to him even further. he hid his past from you, shielding you away from the dark that shadowed his entire existence. it didn’t bother you much considering you were keeping some secrets from him as well. now, as he sat on your bed, he flipped through all those secrets.

it wasn’t his fault that you kept your diary on your nightstand.

you blinked the sleep out of your eyes as they adjusted to the light. “tate?” you mumbled, your voice heavy with sleep. his clad striped sweater back was facing you as he was hunched over reading intently. “what are you doing?”

“morning sunshine.” he turned his head to face you. “dream about me again?” he smirked.

again? what did he mean again?

“what are you talking about?” you rasped, sitting up with furrowed brows. you leaned over to see what tate was holding in his hands and your heart dropped. “oh my god, tate!” you shrieked, grabbing the glittery pink journal out of his hands. you slammed it shut and threw it across the room. he looked smug as ever as you began to freak out.

the blood from your face drained as memories flooded your mind of other things written in that damn book. wet dreams, love confessions, describing how he looked in such detail; god, he must think you’re a creep.

“relax, i was just catching up on my reading.” he simply stated. his eyes wandered over your face, taking in your flushed features. “and i have a right to read that, considering i’m the main character in most of your little stories.”

your eyes shot daggers at him. “fuck you! those aren’t ‘little stories’, they’re my private thoughts! and you have zero right to read them like they’re the sunday morning paper!”

“well i, for one, give you five stars on your writing. i seriously never knew that hazel appeared in my eyes when the sunlight hit them.” he teased with a boyish grin.

your face went from pink to a deep maroon. you clapped your hands over your face and avoided eye contact with the ghost.

“and those dreams were, woah,” he huffed out in a mocking tone. “some seriously got me riled up.” he mocked. you pushed at his chest, mumbling something along the lines of ‘shut the fuck up’. “it’s nothing to be embarrassed of, babe. i’m sure if i could dream, i’d dream about fucking you into oblivion too.”

“our friendship is officially over.” your voice was high-pitched and your face was warm with embarrassment. “i’m never talking to you ever again.” you tried to stand up from your bed, but tate’s hand locked around your wrist and pulled you back. swiftly, he trapped you under his body with your wrists above your head.

“well, what i’m about to do to you might not need many words, anyway.”

before you could argue, his lips were on yours. his tongue slipped into your mouth and you moaned in surprise. it wasn’t long before you began moving your mouth against his. he settled is weight on top of you, an unmistakable hardness pressing against your pajama pants.

you subconsciously rutted your hips up against his. the friction sent a spark of pleasure through your body. warmth settled between your legs at the movement.

“you’re so needy,” he murmured against your lips. he started grinding his hips into yours, creating more pleasure than you could imagine. you broke from the kiss, throwing your head back in pure ecstasy. he took the opportunity to press open mouthed kisses to your jugular. “gonna make you feel even better than you could ever dream of.”

goosebumps rose on your skin as he moved down your body, pressing kisses along your exposed skin. he stopped when he hovered over your core, slipping your pants down your smooth legs. he let out a smug chuckle when he realized you weren’t wearing underwear.

“it’s like you knew this was going to happen.” he tsked. “such a slutty girl.” he wasted no time as his tongue licked a stripe through your folds. he moaned at the taste of you. “you’re so wet, baby.” he latched his tongue onto your bundle of nerves and sucked. your mouth was agape. you couldn’t even form coherent thoughts let alone words as he feasted on you.

his tongue began poking at your entrance, causing your hips to buck up. his nose knocked your clit making your eyes roll. that’s when he began to push his tongue inside your tight hole. his hands splayed on your thighs, holding them open as he had his way with you.

he pulled his face away from your core. your slick was covering his mouth and chin. he smirked as he saw you. “is this all you’ve ever imagined? all you’ve ever dreamed of?”

you nodded and whimpered when he abruptly pushed two of his fingers inside you. he curled and thrusted them in at a relentless pace. “words, darling. use your words or i’ll stop.”

“yes!” you blurted out at the threat of him stopping. “making me feel so good.”

“that’s right, baby.” he moved his digits faster in and out of you. your walls clenched around his thick fingers. “making you feel good like the little slut you are. i would bet that you’ve even touched yourself at the thought of this before. haven’t you?”

“yes, i have.” your words were whiney and desperate as you approached your high. you didn’t care how pathetic you sounded, as long as tate kept doing what he was doing.

“such a little slut for me.” his eyes were trained where your pussy sucked his fingers in. the squelching sounds only adding to the pleasure. he started rutted his hips against your mattress, trying to relieve some of his aching.

then, as his lips returned to your puffy clit, you came. the knot untangled in your stomach and like a fountain, your release soaked his face. you had never done that before.

“didnt know you were a squirter, but now that i do know, we aren’t stopping.”

#tate langdon x reader #tate langdon #tate langdon smut #ahs murder house #ahs #evan peters #evan peters x reader #tate langdon imagine #nora’s writings 💐

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