Cuteeee
Cuteeee
can you write about cold!reader where the team finds out they're together? ahh i love them so much!
UNDENIABLY YOURS. /spencer reid/
you pick up the wrong phone.
late s10 cold!reader 2.6k fluff series masterlist. main masterlist.
a/n | love a good cliche :)
Spencer’s apartment is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels awkward or hollow, but the kind that settles over you like a warm blanket—a gentle hush made of ticking clocks, the occasional hum of traffic outside, and the soft shuffling sounds of a man who’s currently making tea in the kitchen.
You’re on his couch, half-curled under a throw blanket that doesn’t quite cover your feet. The place smells like old books and something herbal, likely the blend Spencer claims is “soothing to the parasympathetic nervous system.” You never asked what that meant. You suspect it’s just chamomile with a marketing degree.
The night stretched longer than you intended. Dinner turned into wine, which turned into a slow tour through his cluttered bookshelves, which turned into another round of debate over Kant’s categorical imperative versus utilitarian ethics.
You were only supposed to drop by after work. A quick visit, maybe an hour. But Spencer always pulls time out from under you like a magician with a tablecloth.
And you stay. Again.
You don’t touch much when you’re with him. Not like you could. He’s all soft eyes and hesitant hands. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t demand declarations or affection you’re not ready to give. And you? You’re good at compartmentalising. At keeping your feelings tucked into corners, neatly labeled and out of reach. It’s safer that way. Less chaotic.
But you always show up.
That counts for something, right?
“Tea,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with two mismatched mugs. He hands you the one with faded cartoon planets on it. You take it wordlessly.
“Still pretending this helps your parasympathetic system or whatever?” you murmur into the rim of the cup.
Spencer smiles. He always smiles when you needle him. Like he knows it’s your version of affection. Like he’s fluent in your brand of emotional repression.
“I’m not pretending,” he says, settling into the armchair across from you. “There are studies,”
“There are always studies,”
“You want me to send you the links?”
“No,”
“You’d like the one from 2009. It discusses—”
“Spencer,”
“Okay,” he says, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “No studies,”
You sip the tea. It’s hot and bitter and tastes like him. Not literally—he doesn’t taste like dried flowers—but something about the comfort of the moment, the soft warmth of the mug against your palm, the way he looks at you like you’re not a puzzle to solve but a story he’s enjoying watching unfold. It’s familiar. Steady.
Which is probably why you’re still here.
“You staying?” he asks after a few minutes, voice casual. Too casual. Like he didn’t spend the last half hour not asking.
You glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Late enough to make the excuse that you’re just tired and don’t want to drive. You’re already in the oversized hoodie he handed you—his hoodie, not yours—and your shoes are near the door, lined up next to his like it means something.
You should deflect. You always deflect.
Instead, you say, “Yeah,”
He doesn’t react much, just nods, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to examine.
He doesn’t ask for more. He never does.
It’s part of the deal.
Instead, he turns on some lo-fi instrumental playlist (he claims lyrics distract his brain when he’s trying to wind down), and you both migrate to his bedroom.
—
You don’t remember falling asleep. Just that at some point, your eyes fluttered shut, and for once, your thoughts didn’t keep you awake. No spiraling worst-case scenarios. No calculating emotional fallout. Just warmth, and the slow, steady rhythm of Spencer breathing beside you. The kind of peace you don’t admit you crave.
Until it’s shattered.
The phone rings—sharp, insistent—and you jolt awake in an instant, heart pounding with the abrupt transition. The room is pitch black, save for the glowing screen on the nightstand. Spencer groans softly beside you, but doesn’t move.
Still half-asleep, you fumble your hand over the nightstand. Spencer’s glasses, unfinished book, rectangle of impending doom. That’s the one.
“Unless there’s an active terrorist threat,” you snap, voice rough with sleep, “there is zero reason to be calling this late.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then, cautiously, “…Wait, who is this?”
You rub your face with your free hand, already annoyed. “Who do you think?”
Another pause—longer this time. And then, sharply suspicious, “…Not Spencer Reid?”
You blink, finally focusing on the phone’s lock screen. It’s not yours. Definitely not yours.
You sit up slightly, stomach dropping. Shit. “Uh—”
Spencer stirs beside you, blinking blearily. “Wha’s going on…?”
And that’s when it happens. A long, slow intake of breath through the receiver.
“Oooooooooooooooooh,”
You try to recover. “Garcia.”
“Oh my god,” she hisses, like she just found the holy grail. “I knew something was going on! Oh my god, I knew it!”
Spencer’s sitting up now, trying to make sense of the chaos. “Who is it?”
“Penelope,” you say flatly, glancing at the screen like it’s radioactive as you reluctantly put the call on speakerphone. “What do you want?”
“I need visual confirmation immediately,” Garcia is saying, way too awake for 2:07 AM. “Is he shirtless? Wait—are you? Never mind, don’t answer that. I respect boundaries. Mostly. Oh my god.”
“Garcia.” you say, trying for a tone of calm, rational authority, but it comes out more defensive than intended. ”What do you want?”
“We have an urgent case my dear lovebirds,” She’s practically vibrating through the phone. Hotch wants everyone in the office. Oh I can’t wait to see everyone’s reactions,”
“Garcia—”
“Nope! Too late! This is the best news I’ve gotten all year. JJ owes me twenty dollars, I knew I saw something in the way you looked at each other during the surveillance briefing last month. I have receipts.”
“We’ll be in the office soon,” Spencer mumbles, already resigned.
“Oh, you better be,” she says, like she’s the one running the FBI now. “Buckle up, lovebirds!”
The call ends with a cheerful “Byeeeeeee!” and a click.
You sit there in stunned silence, phone still in your hand, the screen now dark and judgmental. Spencer groans, collapsing backward into the pillows.
“She’s going to tell everyone,”
“She’s already telling everyone,” you correct, flopping back beside him.
“This is going to be so embarrassing,”
You glance over at him—hair tousled, face flushed, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s trying to hide from the world. It’s honestly… kind of adorable.
You smile, just a little. “Could be worse,”
—
The BAU's conference room is already buzzing when you and Spencer walk in—thirty minutes later, coffee in hand, trying very hard to pretend this is just a normal Thursday.
It is not a normal Thursday.
Everyone is already there. Everyone is already looking.
Garcia practically explodes with smug glee the second she sees you. She doesn’t say a word—she doesn’t have to. She’s vibrating with the restrained chaos of someone who knows they’ve set off a very satisfying chain reaction. Her eyes sparkle. Her smile is enormous. She’s won something, and she knows it.
Spencer, for his part, looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. He’s gone unusually quiet, hiding behind the rim of his coffee cup like it’s a shield. He keeps tugging at the sleeves of his sweater, hands jittery, face flushed, clearly regretting every decision that led to this moment. He won’t look at anyone.
And everyone else?
Well.
JJ’s eyebrows are in her hairline. Emily’s face is frozen somewhere between astonishment and visible mental recalibration. Morgan looks like he just got handed a particularly juicy tabloid headline. And Rossi—bless him—leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and gives you both the kind of slow, impressed once-over usually reserved for rare bourbon.
Nobody says anything.
The silence stretches.
Spencer makes a small noise like he’s about to speak—probably to stammer through some clumsy attempt at clarification—but you beat him to it.
You cross your arms, plant your feet, and deliver the line like a press briefing:
“Yes, we’re dating. No, we haven’t had sex. We’ve been together officially for three months. I will not answer any questions, so don’t ask them.”
It lands like a bomb.
The room goes absolutely silent.
For a few blessed seconds, no one dares to move.
Then, from the corner, Rossi lets out a low chuckle—more impressed than anything else. “Well. That’s one way to do it,”
Morgan whistles low under his breath, shaking his head with an admiring grin. “Damn, kid,” he says to Spencer, who is now actively hiding behind his coffee. “I knew you had game,”
Garcia looks like she’s about to start clapping. You shoot her a warning glare.
“I’m just happy for you!” she chirps, hands raised in innocence. “This is so good for team morale,”
You glance at Spencer—his face still red, lips pressed tight like he’s trying not to die on the spot—and sigh.
Hotch remains blissfully unaffected.
He’s sitting at the head of the conference table, scrawling something on a case file with his ever-present air of detached focus. His pen moves in slow, methodical strokes as if he’s entirely unaware that the team has just been thrown into chaos.
Everyone is staring at Hotch now, waiting for him to react, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t even look up from his paperwork.
Rossi, of course, is the first to break the silence. “You knew about this,”
Hotch finally looks up—barely. It’s almost as if he’s taking a mental note of your existence before giving his usual level of minimal acknowledgment.
“They informed me,” he says matter-of-factly. “HR protocols.”
The silence in the room grows exponentially. HR protocols?
Rossi looks betrayed. So does Emily. JJ blinks rapidly, trying to process the betrayal. Even Morgan stares at Hotch like he just said something deeply alien to their universe.
Garcia’s jaw drops in comically exaggerated shock. “Wait… you knew and didn’t tell us? Hotch!” She looks almost wounded by the injustice of it all.
Hotch, however, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen idly on the table. “I was informed of a change in personal relationships within the team,” he says, as if explaining why his coffee’s not hot enough. “Standard procedure.”
Derek’s mouth twitches with the effort to hold back laughter, clearly fighting the urge to burst into full-on chuckles. “That’s it? No ‘I’m happy for you’ or ‘This changes everything!’?”
Hotch doesn’t even flinch. “Congratulations,” he adds with minimal sincerity, glancing up briefly, before continuing, “but we have an urgent case to focus on.”
Everyone’s collective sense of betrayal is palpable. There’s a beat of stunned silence before Emily, trying to save face, says, “I… I guess we should focus on the case.” She says it with half a smile, but the effort is obvious. “But seriously, Hotch. No heads-up? Not even a hint?”
Hotch simply gives them his patented “this is serious business” look and straightens up. “Focus, everyone.” His voice brooks no argument. “We’re being briefed on a new case, and I need all of you focused. Now.”
And just like that, the air in the room shifts. The humor fades, the teasing subsides, and everyone reluctantly pulls their attention to the matter at hand.
—
The rest of the day passes in a haze of good-natured (and sometimes not so good-natured) teasing. Derek, as always, is the first to crack a joke.
“So, you two gonna make superhuman babies, or what?” he smirks, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he watches you and Spencer in the hallway.
Spencer nearly chokes on his coffee, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Morgan,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper, “can you not?”
Derek just grins wider. “Oh, I’m just getting started, loverboy,” He winks at you both and saunters off with the most obnoxious swagger imaginable.
Garcia, never one to be outdone, is already planning date ideas before you even step off the jet. “You two should so check out that new fancy restaurant that just opened up down the street,” She nods at you, holding up her phone like she’s already making the reservation.
You raise an eyebrow at Spencer, just to see his reaction. He’s still turning red, but you can’t help a small, satisfied smile at the sight of his discomfited expression.
“No, Garcia. We shouldn’t,”
“Oh come on,” She beams. “I would die to be taken there on a date,”
You tilt your head at her, “You really think we would enjoy a place like that? Really?”
“Well…”
Emily, for her part, is still trying to process what the hell just happened. She keeps glancing at you both, trying to act casual but clearly still in disbelief. “So soon—” She shakes her head. “I’m just—wow. Okay. Good for you, I guess? I’ve gotta go hide from Morgan now, completely unrelated—”
JJ just chuckles, arms crossed. “Congratulations, both of you. I’m really happy for you,”
You could almost thank the universe for the relief of normalcy. You don’t. The universe didn’t do shit. It was all you. And Spencer. Mainly Spencer. “Thank you,”
The day finally winds down, and it’s time to leave. Spencer walks you to your hotel room, still looking like he might burst into flames from sheer embarrassment. You’ve let him be teased by the others, of course, but nothing too much. He’s still wearing that sheepish, half-worried expression as you approach your car, and you can’t help but smirk.
“Well,” you say, glancing up at him as you lean against the room’s door, “Now they know,”
Spencer groans. It’s low, and it carries all the weight of his supposed regret. “Yeah,”
You lean in just a little, close enough that your voices are quiet but not enough for anyone else to overhear. You keep your tone flat, but there’s something soft in your eyes when you speak.
“Could’ve been worse,” you remark, just barely meeting his gaze. A quiet reassurance, a little more tender than the rest of the day has been. It’s not the most romantic thing in the world, but it’s yours.
He’s helpless, standing there, still flustered. But the way he looks at you—fondness in his eyes and a soft laugh escaping his lips—makes everything feel more okay than it probably should.
You reach up a soft hand to brush over the side of Spencer’s face, a juxtaposition he’d never point out unless you asked, and he smiles against you as you kiss him goodnight.
You’re barely parted when he speaks, foreheads pressed together and his declaration a whisper on your lips. “I love you,”
“Thank you,” you nod softly as you separate, “Goodnight, Spencer,”
“goodnight,”
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hi ! love ur fics <3
can i request reader as being a massive flirt publicly towards spencer but when its Intimate and Private, reader is suddenly Stunned and Speechless and Blushing and spencer kinda gets the confidence to Do Stuff
im sorry if that was the stupidest described ask ever achh but lov u !
pairing: s9!spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: established relationship, bombshell-ish(?) reader, fluff warnings: 16+ for kind of suggestive? he’s so in love UGH a/n: thank you for requesting !! wc: 1.22k
Spencer thinks that you are the most beautiful person in the world. He thinks that you’re glowing every time you walk into the room– no matter how upset or disgruntled you may be– and as cliche as it may seem, he’s certain that swarms butterflies fill his stomach and cloud his mind. In fact, he thinks that you have always had that effect on him, ever since he’s met you. You’re touchy, and despite Spencer’s general aversion to physical touch, he finds that he doesn’t mind your germs much.
Very often he finds himself at your mercy, with the way your fingers brush against his face as if it’s nothing, as if that movement alone was something that you do with everyone (you’ve only ever done it with him). There are other instances where you’ve been very blatant in your attraction towards him, so much so that he ends up with his cheeks hot more often than not. A part of him is grateful that though you work in the FBI, it isn’t his division. He doubts he’d be able to see the end of it.
“Spencer,” you gush, curling your fingers into the ends of his hair. Or rather, lack of hair. “You got a haircut. You’re supposed to consult me first, you know.”
He laughs, looking up at you as you stand over him while he sits at his desk. “Is that what a good boyfriend is supposed to do?”
“Yes.” You speak with mock indignation, properly running your fingers through his hair from his fringe to the back of his head. “It’s so short.”
“Do you hate it?” There’s a momentary pang of unease that strikes at his heart. “Maybe I should have consulted you.”
“No, baby, it looks really good.” You smile at him, pressing a kiss to his hairline. “You’re warm. Do you have a fever?”
Of course I’m warm, Spencer wants to say while you continue to dote on him, your hands travelling to his collar next and brushing against his throat. You’re touching me in the middle of the bullpen.
He opts to not say anything when he sees your knowing smile. You’re doing this on purpose. He clicks his tongue, squeezing at your waist lightly as you lean over him to kiss his forehead. He’ll let you win this battle; he’s going to get you back.
***
He doesn’t really know how to get you back. There are a few harmless things he’d thought of doing: sneaking into your department and hiding your mug on the top shelf (he fears that you’d ask someone, a taller more handsome someone, to rescue it for you), not wearing the tie you picked out for him that morning (he can already envision your disappointed frown and his chest aches at the imaginary you getting upset because of him), and putting toothpaste in your Oreos (he doesn’t want to die).
All of these ideas go down the drain and he ends up not getting back at you for days. It doesn’t help that he’s been gone for a case while you’ve been stuck at home. It isn’t all bad, and a part of him wishes that he can hold himself to the same level of confidence as Derek when Penelope calls him with flirtatious motives. You do virtually the same thing.
Your words are honey as you shower him with compliments, ending him with a simple “Hey, gorgeous.”
It is enough to make his heart leap to his throat and his cheeks to warm to a pretty pink. There’s not much overlap between the Human Resources Branch and the BAU, especially considering that you assist more on the training and hiring side of things, so there aren’t many opportunities for you to fluster him when he’s out of the office. He finds that you always make an excuse.
“Hi,” he responds softly, avoiding the teasing gazes of Emily and Derek. “Is… are you okay?”
“Do I need to not be okay to talk to my lovely boyfriend?”
You’re teasing him, poking fun at the way he so easily surrenders to you. He resists the urge to run out the room.
“Stop,” he warns half-heartedly. He says your name quietly, tapping his fingers at the edge of the table. “Is there something you needed?”
He can practically hear you smile as you respond, the sound of your mouse clicking in the background. “Oh, yeah. My computer says that my storage is full. What do I do?”
“Your storage is full,” he repeats, smiling. “That’s why you called me?”
“It’s lunchtime in Santa Monica, right?”
He relents, cheeks hurting from how hot and stretched out they are. “Yes.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
He puffs out a breath of air, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re lovely.” He can imagine you batting your eyes, your smile saccharine. “Don’t you wish that you were here, gorgeous?”
He’s definitely going to get you back.
***
Spencer goes to your apartment once the case ends, his eyes dreary with sleep and the horrors that he saw only a few hours prior. Your apartment key hangs next to his on his keychain– a limited edition Tardis charm that you got him for his birthday. He huffs out a breath, unlocking your door and stepping inside. He’s met with you dancing around in your kitchen, headphones on whilst holding a wooden spoon. A part of him is concerned with how easily he could slip into your home without being notice, but the other part can’t help but smile at how carefree you look, and he leans against the wall to stare.
He doesn’t get the opportunity to stare for long. It’s comical, the way you jump upon seeing him, eyes wide as you rip your headphones off.
“You’re back! You scared me.” A smile stretches across your lips while you press your palm to your chest whilst taking steps towards him. “Don’t do that ever again.”
Spencer laughs, toeing his shoes off and resting his hands on your waist. His head dips down to meet your gaze, peering up at you with a soft smile. “You look beautiful.”
Your cheeks glow warm and you break eye contact. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” He hooks his pointer finger under your chin, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I missed you.”
He notes the way you don’t respond, in some sort of daze while your lips part in both surprise and flusteredness. He understands your sentiments– it isn’t often that he initiates affection.
“Did you miss me, too?” Spencer asks softly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he speaks.
“Of course I did,” you croak out, heat building in your head.
Spencer chuckles, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s doing this on purpose, flustering you to the point of no return. He kisses you again, one hand holding the base of your head while the other squeezes at the flesh of your waist. It’s dizzying, the taste of coffee on his tongue and the feel of his fingers in your hair.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs once he’s pulled away. His thumb rubs a line from the back of your ear to where your jawline starts, and he can’t help but chuckle. “Where did that confidence go, hm?”
reblogs are always appreciated!
This is so funny to me 😂
learning sign language so you can make inappropriate comments to spencer while at work and you sign “want to suck your cock” and spencer just looks at you all bewildered like “since when did you know ASL?”
dirty talking to spencer in ASL genre: sfw with sexual innuendos word count: 1,8k a/n: a lil something while i'm working on kinkfest :)
Spencer Reid is a man of many talents. People say — well, specifically, Spencer once told you that learning a new skill is easiest around the age of ten and how the process will be more difficult once you reach the age of eighteen. Something about neural connections forming rapidly, the unconscious system, the critical period… To be honest, you lost your focus the moment he mentioned the new skill he’d learned: sign language.
Spencer was excited to tell you about this new skill. He already knew a handful of languages, from Russian to Yoruba, but what appealed to him most about ASL was the hand motions. How he didn’t need to pronounce any of the words. You still chuckle to yourself when the memory of him pronouncing a Spanish sentence pops up in your head. How vividly you could picture Elle correcting him. There was nothing funny about him using ASL, though. In fact, you remember the way your throat tightened and your cheeks heated when his hands started moving — long fingers, decorated in veins, flexing into different symbols at a speed that other beginners would envy.
“That means ‘I love you, and that sweater looks pretty on you’.”
You had laughed. Had leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you,” you replied. A hot pink flush made its way onto his face, a shy smile tugging on his lips.
“Does this mean you’ll be speaking to me in sign now?”
Your comment was meant as mere teasing, but Spencer had taken it as a challenge. He’d made sure to at least communicate a couple of ASL sentences to you every day. You could imagine it being a good way of practice for him. For the both of you, actually. Because over time you started to recognize some of the movements. A sign you had mistaken as rock and roll before, you had now concluded meant I love you. A swipe of his hand over his face? Pretty. There were a few others you could recognize, but as the sentences grew longer and his signs faster, you gave up.
You had always assumed everything Spencer signed to you was something sweet. You’d smile, kiss him as a thank you, and forget about it, assuming he was complimenting you. That was until Derek caught Spencer in the act, signing something to you before the elevator doors closed in front of him, ready to head over to the lab for another case you were on.
“My man,” Derek chuckled heartily, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Your brows furrowed, the smile that had lingered on your face moments before dropping instantly. “What?”
He kept laughing, not noticing the clear confusion you were in.
“Derek!” you said, giving a soft punch to his arm to catch his attention.
“Oh, you don’t-” He raised an eyebrow, pointing to you and the closed elevator doors before laughing even harder.
“Stop it!” You cried, getting embarrassed by the scene you were causing in the middle of the bullpen. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, pretty girl,” he started, taking a deep breath to recover, still grinning widely. “Pretty Boy over there should be getting the title of Dirty Boy from now on.”
Your mouth opened, then quickly closed when no words came out. “I don’t understand.”
Derek looked around the bullpen, finding no one near. Still, he leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand as he recited Spencer’s words to you.
You gasp, hand clutching your chest dramatically as if starring in a soap opera. “He didn’t,” you say in full disbelief.
“Oh, yes he did,” Morgan smirked in full pride.
“How would you even know that?”
“My buddy works at a youth center. I teach the kids football from time to time. Some speak ASL.”
You scoff. “Kids have taught you these words?”
Derek shrugs. “What can I say? It’s the dirty words that are most fun to learn.”
-`♡´-
You had struggled to think of anything else after that encounter, your mind wandering to every possible naughty sentence when Spencer signed to you from then on. It was frustrating, really, how he must be gleaming knowing you had no clue what he was saying. As long as he knows that you’re also up for a challenge.
After work that day, you told Spencer you’d be home later, having to pick something up from a friend’s house. It wasn’t completely a lie — you had to pick something up, just from a different location. You parked your car in the parking lot in front of the public library, feeling like a criminal as you knocked on the glass doors. A woman in her late sixties greeted you, her kind beady eyes framed by thin glasses that hung low on her nose.
“You’re the one who called? From the FBI?”
You nodded, smiling. “Hi, yes, that’s me. I am so sorry to be bothering you at this hour, but we’ve got a killer on the loose, and it’s very urgent.”
The older woman cringed at the mention of a killer, muttering some words under her breath, and turned to grab an entire stack of books. You reached your hands out, accepting the heavy weight of the books, the title A Beginner’s Guide to ASL written on the top one.
Her hand trembled lightly as she tapped the front cover. “This one comes with a DVD.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you for your help.”
“You better catch that bastard!” You nodded confidently in response as you turned on your heel.
-`♡´-
Unfortunately, Spencer was right: learning a new language as an adult was far from easy. Especially with the lack of time you had because of working a demanding job. You had to make do with the rare free weekends and some late nights during the week to study as much as possible.
You were tucked underneath a blanket on the couch, laptop in your lap, as you were watching a YouTube video Derek had recommended: “Sign Dirty to Me: A Guide to Dirty Talk in Sign Language”.”
“The next sentence we’ll be learning is ‘I want to give you a blowjob’.”
“A what?”
You screeched, lifting yourself up on the couch at a speed that made the laptop fall on the ground with a thud. You mutter a string of curses as the video continues playing, using your foot to stomp the laptop shut.
“Jesus, Spencer, can’t you knock?”
You turn your body, spotting your boyfriend's tall figure leaning against the open bedroom door, an amused smile lingering on his lips. “I think you’ve forgotten that you’re in my house.”
You groan at his smug grin, trying to find an excuse.
“What were you watching anyway?” He asks in curiosity before you could explain.
“Nothing!”
He takes a stride toward you, and you scramble from the couch to grab the laptop, holding it tight in your arms as a safety measure. Spencer leans on the plush frame of the couch, appearing rather relaxed as a gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were watching-”
“No!” You exclaim in offense.
“I wouldn’t mind it if you were.”
“I was not watching anything.”
The content look doesn’t fade from his face. He looks rather pleased by the scene you’re making. The tips of his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. Those damn fingers. “I don’t mind, angel. I would just offer you my help instead.”
You swallowed. He was distracting you, and you were not going to fall for his dirty ploys yet again. No way.
“I’m good,” you squeak, hurriedly standing up from the couch. You point at him while your other hand clutches your laptop. “I will go to the bedroom now, and you will stay here. Don’t even think about moving an inch.”
Your words were only making you sound more suspicious, but you didn’t care. It would be worth it in the end.
-`♡´-
Two weeks had passed since you and Derek had exposed Spencer’s dirty, little secret. Two weeks in which you had spent all your free time learning ASL. You had been nervous all morning while getting ready for work, trying to resist the urge to sign something to him. But you wanted to do it in the bullpen; you needed to see him get flustered in a crowd.
Your fingers had been nervously tapping on your desk, eyeing Spencer at his desk opposite yours. You were waiting on Derek, who you had promised could be there for the “big moment”.
“Where are we going?” Penelope’s voice sounded through the bullpen as Derek grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the desks. You throw your hands up in frustration, it wasn’t the plan to make it that big of a show. “Are you kidding me?” You mouth toward Derek.
“Now,” he mouths back as he stays at a safe distance against the far wall.
Here we go.
A single kick to Spencer’s shin was enough to grab his attention. “Ouch! What did you do that for?”
Biting down on your lip to hide your smile, you began moving your fingers, a little exaggeratedly, to make sure he understood.
Look what new skill I learned.
Spencer beams, smiling brightly as the realization dawns upon him. “Hey! Since when did you know ASL?”
You don’t give him an answer right away, not wanting to get out of your flow, so you continue signing the variety of sentences you’ve learned, each one even dirtier than the last.
You knew you were doing a good job when a few snorts came from your right at certain words, Derek understanding what you were saying. Looking at Spencer confirmed it — his eyes stood wide open, red blotches of heat forming on his neck as his lips moved in a struggle to find the words.
Stop it. Right now. He eventually signed.
You grin, pride washing over you as you can understand him. This new method of communication truly opens up worlds.
But I mean it. You sign back.
He hides the small smile that forms on his face, tugging away a piece of hair before finding the courage to respond back to you.
What else would you like to do, then?
Penelope nudged Derek, looking puzzled. “What are they doing? Are they…? Oh my god, they’re trying to get in each other’s pants? Right in front of us?!”
Derek threw his head back laughing. “That’s right. They’re not so innocent anymore, huh?”
“But dirty talk is our thing!” Penelope protested.
Derek shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, baby girl, but they’re outdoing us.”
I love him 🤍🤍
summary — spencer goes easy on you in a game of chess
pairings — s1!spence x shybaufem!reader
a/n — part 2 of this also requested so thank u! also when they talk they sound so nerdy so just smile and nod
The gentle hum of the jet engines had become a familiar soundtrack to these impromptu moments with Spencer. This time, the battlefield was a chessboard, the pieces miniature soldiers poised for strategic combat on the small pull-down table.
"Your move," Spencer said softly, his gaze steady across the board.
You considered your options, a nervous flutter in your stomach mixing with a spark of anticipation. He had a remarkable ability to make you feel both challenged and completely at ease, though the former often made your cheeks flush. You moved your knight, a calculated risk, your gaze flicking up to meet his shyly before quickly returning to the board.
Spencer’s eyes flickered over the board, a thoughtful pause before he responded. His move was swift and precise, countering your advance while subtly positioning his own pieces. You couldn’t help but notice that he seemed less intensely focused than usual. Almost indulgent.
"Interesting," you murmured, studying the new configuration. "Are you perhaps taking pity on my distinct lack of chess prowess, Dr. Reid?" The question was soft, laced with a hint of self-deprecation.
A faint smile touched the corners of his lips. "Pity? My analysis indicates that you possess a developing strategic mind. Though perhaps lacking in aggressive tendencies."
"Aggressive?" you echoed quietly, fiddling with the base of your queen. "I prefer a more cautious approach. Less confrontational."
He chuckled softly, a low rumble that made you jump slightly. "A pacifist on the chessboard. A novel approach." His eyes flickered up to meet yours, a hint of amusement in their depths. "Though sometimes, a well-timed offensive can be surprisingly effective."
"Perhaps," you conceded, a small, shy smile gracing your lips. "But I find a well-defended position rather comforting." You moved your rook, a safe, predictable move.
"Comforting, perhaps," Spencer replied, making his next move. "But comfort rarely leads to victory."
"Maybe not victory in the traditional sense," you countered softly, your gaze lingering on his thoughtful expression. "But perhaps a quiet draw has its own merits."
"A draw," Spencer echoed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "An interesting proposition. Though I confess, I find the pursuit of a decisive outcome rather compelling."
"I can imagine you do," you murmured, your cheeks warming slightly. "You do seem to have a… decisive nature."
"I believe in efficiency," he corrected gently. "And in identifying the optimal solution."
"Even if the optimal solution involves letting me one across the board almost capture your knight?" you teased softly, your gaze finally meeting his with a touch more confidence.
A genuine smile now touched Spencer's lips. "Sometimes," he said, his voice softer than usual, "the optimal solution involves a more nuanced approach."
@sleepysongbirdsings @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @khxna @raysmayhem-72
I shouldn't be smiling as much as I am right now
Classroom Talk | Spencer Reid
Summary: Spencer drops your lunch off to your classroom filled with apparent love experts, who then question the man you’re with and tease you two for not being married yet…
A/N: idk why but I just thought of this, it’s adorable though. Not proofread too tired for that. LOL.
BYR(b4 you Reid): light teasing, Spencer getting kind of bullied by teens, and fluff :))
You were at your desk, deep in teacher mode. Grading assignments, updating the grade book, the usual rhythm of a productive day.
You glanced up and saw your students working quietly for once, either reading the latest chapter you’d assigned or scribbling their thoughts in journals. It was that rare magical moment every teacher silently prays for: peace.
Naturally, it didn’t last.
There was a knock at the door.
Every single head turned in unison. Including yours.
“Hello.” A familiar voice said, soft and polite, peeking into the room like he wasn’t about to cause utter chaos.
Spencer.
Your brilliant, shy, awkward boyfriend. Standing in your classroom.
You blinked, stunned. “What are you doing here?” You asked, smiling like this was the best little surprise.
“Someone.” He said, raising a brow and holding your bag up. “Forgot their lunch at home.”
You walked over to meet him halfway, shaking your head. “Wow, I didn’t even realize.”
His hand instinctively went to your waist as he handed you your lunch, you turned to face your students, you immediately regretted it.
Half of them were staring blankly. The other half wore smug little smirks, the kind you’ve seen way too many times this year.
You sighed, already sensing the storm brewing. “Everyone, this is Spencer.” You introduced him. He gave an awkward wave and shy smile, very much regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.
“Hi.” Came a chorus of teenage politeness, which was immediately shattered by
“Is that your husband?” Silas blurted. Of course it was Silas.
You chuckled. “No, not my husband.”
“Fiancé?” Someone else chimed in.
“Boyfriend.” Spencer said, trying to sound casual.
“Oooh!” “Awws” “no way” erupted from every direction.
Mia raised an eyebrow. “You have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you tell us? We thought you were lonely!”
You blinked. “I-well- I didn’t think you needed to know about my personal life.”
“Why? We always tell you about ours.”
You stared at them. “That’s…true, unfortunately.”
“I always thought you and the basketball coach would be cute.” Someone tossed out.
Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
You stepped in. “Okay! That’s enough. You’re scaring him”
The class laughed, clearly delighted.
You turned back to Spencer, lowering your voice. “Thanks for this. Lunch is in fifteen, have time?”
He smiled. “For you? Always.”
You motioned to the chair near your desk, and he sat, awkward but trying. You returned to your seat, praying your students would go back to their journals.
Nope.
Olivia’s hand shot up.
“Yes? Olivia?”
“Why is your boyfriend dressed like he’s coming from a funeral?”
You choked back a laugh, Spencer blinked at you, betrayed.
“Well.” You said sweetly. “Spencer?”
He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Uh…my job?”
“What do you do?”
“I’m with the FBI.” He said, a little more confidently. “Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
“Boring.” Someone muttered.
Your head snapped up. “Hey! Be nice. His job is actually super important.” You say going to your sweet lovely boyfriend’s defense because only you can pick on him.
“Yeah, shut up. Let him talk.” Silas said.
You raised a brow. “Appreciate the support, not the tone.”
Spencer smiled faintly. “What we do is analyze criminal behavior to help catch criminals. It’s called profiling.”
“It’s like psychology.” You added. “It’s really cool.”
“So you predict what people do? Do me!” Ethan asked.
“Uh…it doesn’t quite work like that.” Spencer replied.
Ethan sighed, immediately unimpressed.
“So you get to catch criminals?” Mia asked.
“Yeah. We do.” Spencer said, nodding.
“Cool.” Silas grinned. “Do you see crime scenes? Are they gross?”
“Very.” Spencer said.
And now they were really invested.
“What’s the worst you’ve ever seen?” Someone asked
Spencer opened his mouth.
“Nope!” You interrupted. “Do not answer that.” The class groaned. “Sorry, guys.”
“How long have you guys been together?” Mia asked.
You hesitated. “Four years. Now get back to work.”
“Four years and no ring? That’s sad.” Silas said. Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
“Are you guys scared of marriage or something?” Olivia teased. You and Spencer both looked equally offended.
“No.” You said crossing your arms. “We’re just…comfortable.” Spencer nodded. “We’re happy where we are. Right?” He asked, his head snapping to you for confirmation.
You smiled. “Right.”
“Well, if my boyfriend didn’t propose after four years, I’d dump him.” Mia declared. You shook your head. “When did this classroom turn into a relationship panel?”
“Yeah.” Spencer added. “How old are you guys? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
The room broke into laughter.
Finally, the bell rang. “Thank god.” You muttered, watching them pack up.
A few waved at Spencer, others giggled as they walked past. And then Olivia stopped right next to him.
“She’s a lovely woman. You should really put a ring on her finger.”
Then she was gone.
Spencer turned to you, you were already laughing.
“She’s not wrong.” You said making your way to him, grabbing his hand. “I am pretty lovely.”
“I am never stepping foot in this classroom again.” He said. “That was more stressful than interrogating a serial killer.”
“Oh, come on. I think they liked you.”
“Really? Because that comment about the basketball couch felt very personal.”
You laughed and nudged him. “You’re focused on the wrong thing.”
“What should I be focusing on?”
“Marrying me.”
He paused, then smiled. “Noted.”
You walked toward your classroom door, twisting the lock. Spencer was still by your desk, looking mildly traumatized.
“Are you okay?” You asked, trying not to laugh.
“I’ve been shot at less aggressively than I was questioned in here.” He replied, deadpan. “And I sensed one of your students wanting to fight me. I saw the glint in their eyes.”
You laughed. “Well, you held your own. I’m proud of you.”
You moved a chair next to Spencer, and took a seat, unwrapping your sandwich. He watched you for a second, then leaned in with a smile.
“So…four years no ring?” He said, repeating Silas’ line like he was testing it out loud.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t you start.”
“Hey, I’m just saying. The experts have spoken. We’re on thin ice.”
“You’re right, should I just elope with the basketball coach?”
Spencer gave a dramatic gasp. “I knew it.”
You nodded. “He is tall, and charming.”
“Wow. Okay, now I am scared.”
You smiled, nudging your foot against his. “You know I don’t need a ring to feel secure with you, right?”
“I know.” He said softly, reaching out to brush your hand. “But also…I don’t not want to marry you someday.”
Your heart did a flip. You tried to play it cool, like your knees didn’t suddenly feel like jello.
“Yeah?” You asked, voice softer.
He nodded. “Yeah. Just…not because Olivia told me to. Although she is very convincing.”
“She is. Probably runs the underground student government.”
“Definitely. But I’ve thought about it before. And I want to do it the right way. You’d deserve something…meaningful. Not pressured by a bunch of freshman armed with sass and curiosity.”
You grinned. “I do love something meaningful.”
He leaned in slightly, teasing. “So…no courthouse wedding tomorrow after work?”
You thought about it. “Only if we go matching in some ridiculous couples costume.”
“That actually sounds incredible.”
You both laughed, the weight of the moment balanced by the natural ease between you. You leaned your head on his shoulder and exhaled.
“I liked seeing you here.” You murmured. “Even if they grilled you like a suspect.”
He chuckled. “Next time, I’m bringing backup. Maybe Morgan.”
“Oh please, if Morgan walked in here, half the girls would faint.”
He smiled, agreeing with you.
You then grabbed his hand. “Thank you for bringing my lunch.”
“Anytime. Next time I’ll bring a ring, just to keep them happy.”
You lifted your head. “If you propose in my classroom, I will throw a dry erase marker at you.”
“Romantic.” He whispered, his smile never leaving his face, you looked at him, and he kissed your forehead.
“I love you.”
“I love you most.”
SO ADORABLE WTH
- Tag List ~
@alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna
Such a good read 🫶🫶
Soulmates
A/n: From this request. Also I lovedddd writing this it was such a cute concept
HELLO I HAVENT LOGGED ON IN MANY MOONS AND CATCHING UP WAS SO AMAZING I LOVE YOUR WORK
could you do a fic once spencer starts teaching and kind of disappears for a few seasons and the bau brings on an agent who never crosses paths with spence but the bau can’t stop thinking how good a couple theyd be and they think of how to set them up and then one day he walks in unexpectedly and just kisses her hello bc they’ve been together/engaged for years and everyone is shocked and it wasn’t ever a secret they’re just like “no one asked is so we didn’t say anything”
Summary: Everyone knew Y/n and Spencer would be the perfect couple, it was just a shame he left the BAU before she joined.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Fluff)
Content Warning: nothing ??
Word Count: 2.0k
Masterlist
Everyone recognized that they were similar. It was a silent agreement that the newest member of the BAU would have been a perfect match for recently-departed Spencer Reid. Her flaws were perfectly complemented by his strengths and vice versa.
And they all thought it a shame that Y/n never got to meet Spencer.
Keep reading
This was sooo cute
theoretical knowledge vs. practical application ☆ spencer reid
summary: spencer studies intimacy like any other subject, but nothing prepares him for the reality of being with you. in your arms, he finally learns that some things can’t be understood- only experienced. pairing: inexperienced!spencer reid x reader warnings: fluff galore, lots of kissing (practically making out), intimacy, but no explicit sexual content! wc: 1.1k masterlist. a/n: this brilliant idea came from my very lovely moot @/jackiesistired over on twitter <33
Spencer had read five books about kissing.
Not just any books, no. They were scientific, psychology-based books that broke down the act of kissing into its most basic neurological, physiological, and psychological components. He’d also skipped numerous peer-reviewed journal articles, and, at some point, had managed to venture into less scientific territory- modern dating guides that made his skin crawl but ultimately did provide insight into what people expected in relationships.
And then, there was the… other research.
The kind that led to him sitting in front of his laptop at 3 a.m., his ears burning as he read about intimacy in ways he hadn’t yet experienced. He took notes. Intricate organized, handwritten notes in which he annotated his key findings, storing them away like highly classified information.
But all of it- all of the extensive research- meant absolutely nothing the moment your lips crashed against his.
⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰
You and Spencer had been dating for a few months now, and while things had been progressing steadily, he hadn’t made any major moves beyond gentle, lingering kisses and hesitant, shaky touches.
He was shy about it- not because he didn’t want you to know, but because he was terrified of messing up. He’d told you early on about his utter lack of experience, and you had reassured him earnestly that there was no pressure.
But he wanted more. He wanted to touch you the way you touched him. He wanted to kiss you until you were both breathless, and he wanted to see if reality could really live up to things he had spent so long reading about. He wanted to know if he was capable of making you feel good.
Most of all, he desperately wanted to stop overthinking.
Which is how he found himself here.
Spencer hadn’t realised just how sensitive he was until he was beneath your hands, beneath your lips, and was trying (and failing) to stay coherent.
You had started slow and gentle, kissing him with a sweet, lingering tenderness, but the moment he responded- the moment he made the quiet, needy sound in the back of his throat- you deepened it. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he could survive this.
Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging softly, and the delicious whine that escaped him was so involuntary, so desperate, that you felt him tense in embarrassment.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Don’t hold back.”
His breath hitched. His head spun as his grip on your waist tightened, unsure whether to pull you closer until there was no air between you or to push you away before he completely unraveled under your touch.
“I- I don’t-” He swallowed harshly as your lips gently brushed across his jaw. “I didn’t know I was this-”
“Sensitive?” you supplied graciously, dragging your lips down his neck.
Spencer shuddered. “Y-yeah,” he admitted, voice wrecked already.
You smiled against his soft skin. “I like it.”
He let out a ragged breath, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed kisses down the column of his throat. “I- I think I do too.”
You laughed softly as you trailed lower, and Spencer actually whimpered.
You’d never heard a sound quite like that from him before- so high and desperate- a noise that he clearly hadn’t intended to make. His whole body twitched beneath your teasing touch, and he was gripping the couch cushions like they were his sole tether to reality.
“Oh, God-” His voice cracked as your teeth grazed over his pulse point, his hips shifting instinctively beneath you.
He inhaled sharply as you went back up and pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw. Suddenly, his brain kicked into overdrive. "Did you know that the skin along the neck has an increased concentration of sensory receptors? It’s why-" His words cut off with a sharp inhale when your lips gently caressed the skin where his neck met his shoulder.
"Why what?" you teased, brushing your lips lightly over his neck.
"Why- it’s- um- " His breath hitched. "It’s a- an erogenous zone- highly sensitive- oh-"
"You were saying?" you murmured, dragging your lips up the column of his throat.
"I-" He tried again, but when you nipped lightly at his jaw, his thoughts crumbled.
You pulled back to take in the sight of him. He was flushed, panting, his pupils blown wide with something akin to pleading.
“Spencer,” you murmured, running your fingers through his tousled curls, reveling in how he leaned into your touch like he was starving for it.
He looked up at you in a daze, his lips parted like he was trying to form words, but he failed to find them.
“I-” He swallowed hard. “I did research on this.”
You tilted your head slightly and bit your lip, amused. “Uh-huh?”
“Very extensive research,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “A lot of it.”
“And what did your research tell you?” You hummed softly as you trailed your fingers lightly down his chest.
He inhaled sharply as he tried not to react to your touch. “That, uh- physical contact increases oxytocin, which promotes bonding, and- oh-” His voice broke when you pressed a kiss just below his ear, his whole body trembling beneath yours.
You grinned. “Go on, Spencer.”
“I- I-” His fingers clenched at your hips as you shifted, his breath stuttering. “Oh, my God-”
You kissed him again, slow and deep, and he let out the softest moan against your lips, feeling utterly helpless.
His hands trembled where they held you, like he was overwhelmed and he didn’t know where to move them. Like he was afraid that if he moved too much, or breathed too much, he might just lose control completely.
“You are adorable,” you whispered against his lips, dragging your nails lightly down his back.
He exhaled shakily. "I- um- "
Your smile softened, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s practice more.”
Spencer’s hands tightened on your waist, and for once, he didn’t overthink.
He just felt.
And it was so much better than anything he had ever read.
⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰
Later, when you were curled up against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
You lifted your head. “What?”
He shook his head, cheeks still tinged pink. “I spent weeks preparing. Studying. Making sure I knew everything I could possibly know. And yet…” He looked down at you, still dazed. “Nothing I read could have prepared me for you.”
You smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw.
“That’s because,” you murmured, “some things you just have to experience.”
Spencer exhaled shakily, pulling you closer.
“Then I think I still have a lot to learn.”
You grinned, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Good thing I loved teaching you.”
And when you kissed him again, he decided that practical application was his new favorite subject.
White Lies
[Spencer Reid x Female!Reader]
Synopsis: You have constantly lied to your mother about your private life, as she was one to disapprove of everything, but those "harmless lies" become a lot more serious when you forget to cancel plans with your closest friend.
WC: 3036
Category: Fluff, Fake Dating, Sassy!Reid {TW: Reader’s mom is Authoritarian}
Another drafted idea that I finally wrote up because Spencer is the definition of pookie, and you cannot change my mind. This is also a dedication to my girl, @yoursacredqueenmother, for matching my crazy delulu fantasies 🫶💖
『••✎••』
Your mom has always been a force of nature—a whirlwind of opinions, expectations, and unsolicited advice that sweeps through your life like a hurricane. She’s the kind of woman who believes she knows what’s best for you, even when you’re pretty sure she doesn’t. Ever since you turned 30 last year, her visits have become more frequent, and her nagging has reached a fever pitch.
"You’re getting old, sweetheart," she’d say, her voice dripping with concern that felt more like judgment. "You need to settle down, find a nice man, start a family. I’m not going to be around forever, you know."
The words were always delivered with a smile, but they stung like a slap. You love her, you really do, but her constant pressure makes you feel like you’re failing at some unspoken test of womanhood.
So, to get her off your back, you’d started lying. Little white lies at first—"I’m seeing someone, Mom, it’s just early stages"—but they quickly snowballed into more and more elaborate fibs. Soon, you were telling her that you were dating a doctor who wanted nothing more than to start a family with you but was waiting for the right time.
It was easier to make up a fictitious doctor than to explain the real reason you were still single.
Because the truth is that the man of your dreams is already in your life, he's been here for years, and he's always been the perfect friend. The problem is that he's a little hard to read. You have no idea how he feels about you or if he sees you as more than a friend.
You'd tried to tell him how you felt about him before, but the words had stuck in your throat. He’d seemed so confused, so shocked by the mere suggestion of romance. Maybe he just didn't see you that way. Maybe you’d ruin your friendship by even mentioning the idea.
This led to where you are now: alone, frustrated, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother from butting into your personal life. You’d thought maybe she’d drop the issue after your birthday, but she’d come by to "surprise you" last night and is now currently sitting at the kitchen table, looking around your apartment with an expression of vague disappointment.
"Honey, you’re an adult now," she says, not looking up from her coffee cup. "You can’t keep living like this."
She gestures at the living room, which is scattered with discarded letters and half-read books. The mess is a symptom of the chaos in your head as you’ve been too preoccupied with thoughts of him to worry about cleaning up after yourself.
"It’s not that bad," you mumble, though you know it is. Even he’d commented on the state of your apartment when he’d last stopped by, and his place is usually worse than yours. Messy, not dirty. He’s a bit of an organized hoarder.
"Well, maybe not for a single girl," she sighs. "But what if Doctor Whoever comes over? Don’t you want to impress him?"
You bite your lip, trying to keep your temper in check. This is the problem with your mother—she has a habit of steamrolling over your feelings, and you've never been able to stand up to her. You’d thought you were done having this argument when you turned 30. Apparently, you’d thought wrong.
"Mom," you begin, your voice firm. "I told you, he doesn't care about stuff like that. He's more concerned with things like—"
The doorbell rings, interrupting you mid-sentence. Thank God. You’re not sure what you would have said, but any excuse is better than none. You figured it was the mailman, late with that package you’d been expecting, but when you just so happen to glance at the calendar (the one your father bought you last Christmas, with pictures of cats wearing hats), your stomach drops.
March 21st, which may not seem important, and it really isn’t, unless you look closer and realize that the cat in the picture is wearing a lab coat and is holding a beaker. Because that, my friends, is not just a picture. It is a reminder.
The one thing you had not wanted to forget.
The one thing, apparently, you had forgotten.
You’d been so busy trying to avoid your mother’s questions about your non-existent boyfriend that you’d completely lost track of time. The calendar sits there, taunting you, and all you can think is:
Oh, no.
Because the person who had rang the doorbell? It was him. He and his adorable grin, hazel-like eyes, and messy brown hair. He probably even brought a bag of those terribly expensive chocolates you love.
You want to cry. Of course, it had to be that day, the day of all days, the day you'd been secretly anticipating for all month.
Chess day. It was a monthly ritual you'd started with him when he'd discovered that you, too, were a fan of the game. You were absolutely terrible at it, and he won every time, but honestly, you didn't care. Chess day was just an excuse for you to spend time with him.
Except today, you have company, and it’s not exactly the kind you want him to meet.
You were supposed to call him, but in your haste to please your mom, you completely forgot.
Your mother’s gaze shifts to the door, and her eyebrows rise as if she can sense his presence on the other side. "Well, aren’t you going to answer that?"
No.
That's what you wanted to say. Instead, you hear yourself saying:
"Yeah, just a sec."
And, like a complete idiot, you open the door.
You open the door, and he’s there, all bright-eyed, smiling, holding a box of chocolates and his perfectly polished travel chess set. You feel like the biggest jerk in the world.
"Uh, hey!" he chirps, his voice making your stomach flip. He doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air or the fact that your mother is standing right behind you, peering curiously over your shoulder. "I know I’m a little early, but I needed to pick up some things and..."
He trails off as his gaze settles on your mother. She’s eyeing him like a hawk and doing what she does when meeting a new person: leaning forward slightly, squinting her eyes, and tilting her head. You can see the wheels turning in her mind.
"Is this him?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.
Before you can stop her, she grabs your wrist and pulls you aside. You stumble into the kitchen, and she takes your place, smiling warmly at him.
"So, you’re the doctor," she says, her voice full of approval. "My daughter has told me so much about you!"
Oh, this is bad. So, so bad.
"Uh," he begins, clearly caught off-guard. His eyes dart to yours, and you were expecting his classic confused puppy look, but this time, it’s different. He looks... honored? No, that can't be right.
"She… talked about me?" he stammers, looking back at your mother.
She nods. "All the time! In fact, I was starting to think she’d made you up. It’s good to know my daughter has such a handsome young man in her life."
You want to die. Right there, on the spot. But, somehow, you manage to force a smile, even as your heart pounds with anxiety.
And your mother? She beams.
"It’s lovely to meet you finally," she gushes. She reaches out and shakes his hand, and he stares at her with a dazed expression. "My daughter has always been a bit shy, and she tends to keep things close to the vest if you know what I mean."
"Mom, please," you cut in, mortified. "Stop."
He still hasn't said a word, and the silence is killing you.
"Well, come on in, then," your mother continues, ignoring your protests. "I insist. After all, I can't wait to learn more about my future son-in-law!"
And this is when the situation goes from bad to worse.
This is when he freezes, and the box of chocolates threatens to slip from his fingers. You watched as he struggled to form a coherent sentence.
"I... Uh, that's not... we’re not..."
"Yes! Yes, we are!" you shout, desperate to cover up his stammering. He looks at you, his expression shifting from confused to shocked, and it’s like a punch in the gut. "That’s right, Mom. This is him. My boyfriend. Doctor Whoever."
"Oh, sweetie, this is so wonderful!" Your mother is so busy clapping her hands with delight that she doesn't notice his reaction.
"Doctor… Whoever?" He looks offended and a bit hurt. "What’s that supposed to mean—?"
"Shush!" You hiss, silently pleading with him to keep quiet. He must have caught your desperation because he shuts his mouth.
It allowed you a moment to process everything. Your mother is smiling widely, her face filled with delight. She doesn't even seem bothered by the fact that he’s currently dressed like a college professor with an evident love for scarves.
Meanwhile, he’s standing there, blinking stupidly, looking as if his entire world has been flipped upside-down. He seems torn between anger and elation, and honestly, it’s confusing as hell. You want to grab him and apologize and explain that this was all a mistake, but you can’t. Not with your mother right there.
So, you knew what you had to do.
"Mom! Say, would you mind doing me a huge favor and just give us like a few minutes? We have some important totally-not-boyfriend stuff to discuss."
"Sure, honey." She grins. "I'll do some unpacking. How about that?"
"Perfect!"
She practically skips into the other room, leaving the two of you alone. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.
The sigh you let out is one of relief, tinged with the faintest hint of dread.
Though, he was the first to break the silence with words.
"I didn’t realize we were dating," he says, his voice low. He's not quite glaring at you, but it's a close thing. "Last time I checked, statistically, dating requires at least two people. Which leads me to the logical conclusion that you are, in fact, a liar. Unless this is some strange, newfangled term for friendship, in which case, I think it would be more appropriate for me to refer to you as the "teller of lies" rather than a—"
"I know, I'm sorry." You blurt out, your cheeks flushing with shame. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was asking all these questions, and I couldn't tell her the truth, and then she just kept talking, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, and... I panicked. Okay? That’s all."
"What do you mean, couldn’t tell her the truth?" He narrows his eyes. "Is something wrong? Did you get yourself into trouble?"
"No! No, nothing like that."
"Then, what is it that you can't tell her?"
He steps closer, and the concern in his eyes makes you feel even guiltier.
"Look, don't worry about it, alright? It’s not important." You turn away, refusing to meet his gaze.
"If it isn’t important, then why are you so embarrassed?"
"I’m not embarrassed."
"Your cheeks are flushed," he points out. "And you tend to rub your thumb against your forefinger when you’re feeling nervous or stressed. Which, coincidentally, is also something you do when you’re lying."
Damn it. You should’ve known better than to lie to a profiler.
"You don’t know what it’s like to be interrogated by my mother," you snap, harsher than intended. You soften your voice before continuing. "It’s like she’s constantly see-sawing between disapproval and pity. She means well, but when she’s around, I feel like I'm being crushed under the weight of her expectations."
He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.
"And I know, I know, that’s not an excuse for lying. I just... I’m sorry, okay? It was wrong and selfish and... I didn’t mean to drag you into it."
You brace yourself for the inevitable rejection, the anger, the disappointment. Instead, you hear him let out a sigh, followed by the familiar look of resolve that comes over him when he's faced with a challenging puzzle.
"You know, when we first met, you used to lie all the time." He glances at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You would say things like, 'I don't watch rom-coms,' and, 'I have a real job,' and, most infamously, 'there's no such thing as aliens.'"
"Hold on a minute—"
He ignored your protests, his smile growing wider.
"You’re not that bad of a liar. Actually, you’re pretty decent, considering your lack of social skills. So the fact that you’ve managed to fool your mother is pretty impressive."
"Hey—"
"And, honestly, it’s a little flattering."
"I— Wait… what?" You gape at him, trying to figure out what's going on. "Flattering?"
He shrugs, but you can tell he's trying not to blush.
"Liars tend to use people they know well or trust implicitly when they need a cover story because they have more information about them and are therefore more believable. So, by lying about your fake boyfriend, that being me, it suggests that you trust me enough to make a convincing cover story, and the fact that you are embarrassed about the deception implies a certain amount of fondness."
"You can't know all that from a simple lie."
"Can’t I?"
There's something in his tone, the slightest hint of a tease, that makes your heart flutter. He's always been like this, so damn perceptive. You never knew what to make of it.
"It’s actually a well-established behavioral theory," he continues. "Deceivers typically show affection toward the person they are attempting to deceive. In fact, a study in the 1970s—"
"Spencer, please." You hold up a hand. "I get it."
"I'm not so sure that you do."
There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your stomach do backflips.
"Because," he murmurs, moving a little closer, "if you did, I wouldn’t have had to spend the past three years of my life wondering why my best friend keeps avoiding my gaze."
"You noticed that?" You squeak, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.
"I notice everything."
He takes a step toward you, and it’s so quick, so unexpected, that you can't help but glance up. He's actually extremely close, his face mere inches from yours, and you find yourself frozen, unable to speak, unable to think, as his eyes lock with yours.
"I notice that the color of your eyes changes depending on the lighting." He pauses, and his voice grows softer. "And I notice that your pupils dilate when I'm near. I notice the way you breathe, the way you laugh, the way you chew your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought. And I can’t help but notice that the closer I get, the faster your heart rate becomes. That could be a number of things, of course, and not just an indication of arousal, but considering the context, the likelihood that it’s due to anything other than sexual excitement is simply—"
"Spence," you breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’re not sure what to do, so you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. "Do you want to be my fake boyfriend?"
There’s a moment of silence, followed by a quiet snort.
"I thought I already was."
You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but the tension between you has lessened. Now, he’s simply staring at you with a smug smile, and it's like a dam has burst. The words tumble out of your mouth, spilling out like water from a leaky faucet.
"Well, then, you should know that my boyfriend is absolutely infuriating and has a tendency to ramble about obscure facts at inappropriate moments. And he’s really, really bad at taking a hint."
His smile widens, and his voice takes on a teasing tone.
"Oh, he is, is he? Tell me, is he good at chess?"
"No, he’s terrible at it."
"Then, he sounds like a total loser."
"Yeah," you admit, biting back a smile. "He’s the biggest loser I know."
"In that case, you should know that my girlfriend is incredibly frustrating and a compulsive liar who uses her boyfriend for cover stories. She also tends to cheat her way to victory despite still losing most of the time."
"I do not cheat!" You protest, playfully punching him on the shoulder.
"No, you just make up rules on the spot in order to justify why you lose so badly."
"You’re one to talk. You’re the one who’s been letting me win all this time."
"Perhaps," he grins. "Or maybe I’ve been letting you believe that."
You narrow your eyes.
"Are you admitting to me what I think you're admitting?"
"What is it that you think I’m admitting to?"
"I think you’re admitting to me that you’ve been throwing our chess games all this time."
"That sounds like the ramblings of someone who cheats and is trying to project their own faults onto others."
"Oh, you know what—"
And that's when the bedroom door swings open, and your mother's voice cuts through the air like a knife.
"Ahem."
She's standing there, smiling, and holding a box filled with old pictures and baby toys. Your father had sent it to you last year, hoping that you’d have children soon and use it, but you’d put it in storage, intending to deal with it later. Apparently, your mother had decided now was the perfect time.
The both of you share a look, and it's clear that he’s thinking the same thing as you.
"Not interrupting, am I?" She asks, glancing from him to you and then back again. Her smile was practically glowing, and she had a strange look in her eyes as if she were a cat watching a bird. "I was just looking for a place to put these old things and thought maybe my daughter's boyfriend might be interested in seeing them."
The shared look between the two of you solidified what was going through both of your minds. This was indeed going to be a long, long afternoon.
This is so sweet 🤍
spencer and readers first fight ! can you possiblyyyy do something along the lines of spencer said something sassy/petty/mean which results in reader giving spencer the silent treatment and he crashes out begging for her to speak to him 🤓☝🏼
your first fight with spencer genre: slight angst, fluff word count: 1,7k a/n: i've been so excited to write this one! honestly way too long for a drabble, but i hope you enjoy it
“That’s okay. Your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend a concept like this."
Spencer didn’t understand the gravity of his words before you huffed out a sigh, placing your hands on your knees as you lifted yourself up from the spot next to him on the couch. His eyes followed your body as you walked straight toward your shared bedroom, opening the door before shutting it behind you with a bang. The click of the lock echoed through the now silent living room.
Spencer sat frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the door as if you’d magically reappear in front of him.
Everything about your body language hinted at you being angry, but he couldn’t grasp why. He replayed the situation back in his head in an effort to decipher the reason.
You had cheerfully greeted him when he entered the apartment. He’d been away on a case for several days, not having had the time to speak to you over the phone or give you any updates on how he was doing.
As much as he preferred keeping clear boundaries between his personal and professional life, Spencer couldn’t resist telling you the details of some of his cases when coming home. Not when the psychology behind the unsubs fascinated him so much. And especially not when you eagerly pulled him toward the couch, pushing him down onto the soft cushions as you handed him a cup of freshly brewed coffee, ready to hear about his day.
You sat cross-legged in front of him, eyes twinkling with admiration as he told you about today’s case. He explained how he discovered a pattern in the way the unsub took his captives, using the numbers 11235 — the first five numerals in the Fibonacci sequence.
He noticed the frown forming between your brows as he got into more detail.
“Can you explain that to me? I don’t get it,” you asked.
“That’s okay. Your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend a concept like this.”
Spencer wasn’t lying. He remembered how his coworkers had blankly stared at him when he analyzed his theory — how Emily made eye contact with JJ, their silent looks saying there he goes again, and how Hotch had to cut him off to tell him to get to the point. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to explain it to you, he just didn’t see the point in doing so, not when he knew this was a connection only he could understand.
After a couple of minutes, there was still radio-silence. Spencer got up and walked to the bedroom, knocking softly on the door. “Angel? Can you open up for me?”
“Just go away, Spencer.”
Your voice cracked, like you had been crying, and the sound made his heart sink.
“Please open the door so we can talk. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” Your scoff vibrated through the door. “I don’t even want to talk to you if you can’t understand what’s wrong.”
Spencer swallowed hard, his hands turning clammy. He didn’t like confrontations and especially not with you. You’d never fought before. Rationally, he knew fights weren’t necessarily a bad thing — conflicts usually stemmed from deeper fears and feelings that get triggered, and confronting these feelings could lead to creating an even stronger bond. But right now, all he wanted was to turn back time and make sure those words never left his mouth.
His mind blanked in situations like these, so the only logical fix he could come up with was to call Derek.
“Hey,” Spencer spoke through the phone, balancing the device between his ear and shoulder as he nervously paced through the living room.
“Hey man. What’s up?”
“I messed up.”
Morgan’s chuckle sounded through the speaker. “Our genius making a mistake. Who would’ve thought the day would come?”
Spencer sighed, losing his patience. “It’s serious.”
Derek paused before responding. “Alright, slow down. Tell me what happened.”
Spencer repeated the conversation for what felt like the hundredth time that day, his guilt accumulating with each repetition. He gulped when he heard Derek take a sharp inhale at the other side of the line. He could almost see him shaking his head.
“Okay,” Derek began. “Now listen to me. When it comes down to it, all women are the same, they just need some loving and appreciation. Go buy her some flowers before the store closes.”
Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. He glanced one last time at the still-locked bedroom door before heading out.
Thankfully, Spencer’s apartment was close to downtown. He hurried into the first flower shop that he spotted, his eyes scanning the bouquets until they landed on a pair of bright colored lilies. The outer corners of the petals shone with a radiant shade of pink, fading into a soft white at the center.
He cleared his throat as he placed the flowers on the counter. “Can I have these, please?”
The woman behind the counter started wrapping them in pink paper, reaching out for lint to tie a bow. “Trouble in paradise?”
Spencer blinked, not often experiencing someone seeing right through him. Besides his coworkers. And you.
“Ya know, I see so many men come in here on the daily. You can just tell they got in trouble with their lady; sweating bullets and rushing to pick a bouquet the second before the store closes.” She twirled the bouquet in her hand as she pulled on the strings of the lint bow. “At least you picked a nice one.”
“Do-,” Spencer hesitated, his voice softening in an uncertain whisper. “Will she forgive me after this?”
“Depends on what ya did,” she answered with a lift of her shoulders. “What I can tell you is that flowers don’t do much fixing.”
Damn it, Derek.
The florist turned around, rummaging through a drawer, before pulling out an envelope and sliding it across the counter.
“Write,” she stated in a single syllable. “We need words. We need to know that you care, and we need you to put more effort into it than paying ten dollars.”
With a new plan in mind, Spencer hurried home. The apartment was still silent when he returned, the door firmly closed and no signs of you having left the bedroom. He sighed and made his way to his desk, shoving aside piles of books and papers until he had enough space to write. He opened the envelope the florist had given him, and carefully pulled out a sheet of blank stationary.
My Lover Dearest,
It is ironic that I have read so much poetry and so many books in my life, and yet I cannot find the words to describe how much you mean to me.
Sometimes, I find it difficult to believe that someone as wonderful as you would want to be with me. That I’m allowed to deserve the love that you give me.
My mind works in strange ways, and as much as you’ve praised me for it, it can work as a curse as well. I am scared to overwhelm you, to talk your ears off (which would be a shame, because you have beautiful ears) to the point that you grow tired of me.
I never had the intention to cause you pain, or to initiate that you’re any less brilliant than you are. You are the brightest part of my life. I feel grateful every time I get to talk to you, and I would love nothing more than to explain any concept you’d want me to. I’m sorry for not having understood that before.
I love you. I love you. I have been wanting to tell you this in a special way, please know that I am not just saying this to ask for your forgiveness. I love you.
Sincerely, Spencer
The clock chimed 03.00 a.m. by the time Spencer finished his letter. His hand ached and he could barely keep his eyes open as he stumbled to the bedroom door. He turned the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. With a resigned sigh he slid the letter under the door and sat down against it. It didn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake him.
The repeated knocking of the door against his back woke him.
“Spencer?”
Your voice sounded like a siren, and he instantly scrambled away from the door, allowing you to open it fully.
You stood there, holding the envelope in your hand as your eyes softened when you glanced over him, mouth forming a small oh. “What are you doing here?” you asked in worry.
“The door was locked,” he answered, voice still hoarse from sleep.
A curse escaped your lips as you pressed your hands against your face. “I am so sorry. I must have fallen asleep with the door still locked.”
Spencer’s lips lifted into a small smile, relieved that you hadn’t locked him out intentionally. “It’s okay. Orthopedists actually recommend sleeping on the floor from time to time. Sleeping on a hard surface encourages a more natural position for your spine, which can reduce back pain. It even strengthens certain muscles, so the pressure on your body evens out. As a matter of fact, anthropological studies have shown that-”
He stopped mid-ramble, blushing when he noticed the faint smile tugging on your lips.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll stop,”
“Don’t you ever stop,” you replied as you lowered yourself on the ground next to him. You reached for his hands, placing them into your lap.
Spencer’s blush deepened, and he struggled to suppress a grin. Your encouragement reassured him, and he went on about groups in Japan and Tanzania who experience significantly lower rates of back pain due to their minimal use of furniture.
“Spencer,” you gently interrupted after a while.
He blinked at you, seeing the gleam in your eyes as you adoringly stared at him. “Hm?”
“I love you too.”
hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with
AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!
a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.
spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.
main masterlist.
a/n — is this… progression?
The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.
The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.
Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.
You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.
Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.
And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.
You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.
It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.
“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”
Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”
“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”
You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.
He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.
It’s unprofessional.
That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.
It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.
Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.
“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.
Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.
“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”
She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?
You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.
—
You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.
But instead, you feel your focus splintering.
Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”
“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”
You stiffen.
It’s unprofessional.
That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.
It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.
Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.
Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.
And that irritates you.
So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.
“Reid.”
Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.
You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”
Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.
“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.
You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”
It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.
Except.
Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—
If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?
—
The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.
Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.
The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.
You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.
But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.
You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.
She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.
But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.
It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.
“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.
Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.
You don’t care.
Except you do. And that makes it worse.
Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.
“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.
You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.
You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.
Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.
But you don’t feel relieved.
The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?
You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.
Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.
Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.
“Are you okay?”
The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.
No. You’re not okay.
You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.
You can’t look at him anymore.
“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.
Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.
You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.
But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.
You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.
But none of that feels convincing anymore.
By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.
A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.
You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.
But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?
And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.
—
The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.
There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.
He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.
He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.
The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.
Instead, he looks to you.
“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”
You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.
“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”
Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.
You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.
Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.
Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.
He’s noticing you. He’s listening.
When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.
“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.
You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.
"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.
Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.
You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.
And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.
Ok ok smut. I keep thinking about how the BAU is often gone on longer cases and a Spencer who missed his girlfriend on a long case and just wants to be really close to her so like clingy...maybe some cockwarming...umm yeah imma see myself out byyyeeeee
-🌞
a/n: i’m literally so sorry that this took me six months to post 😭 i literally have no words omg. but i totally loved!!!! this request and it was so much fun to write and i really hope that i did it justice 💕🧚♀️ (even though i feel like the ending might be a teensy bit rushed 😭) also also also: today is mgg’s birthday! omg! i love me a pisces man 🧎♀️➡️
well, without further ado
You feel like Home
Spencer Reid x fem!reader
nsfw, 18+ MDNI
cw: no use of y/n, Spencer calls reader Angel, smut, cockwarming, dry humping (barely though), words to describe the female genitalia, unprotected p in v sex, mentioned rough sex, Spencer is described as “pussy-whipped” (he is), kissing, some light making out ig, and umm maybe softdom!Spence (?) idrk tho, also english is not my first language so im sorry if this isn’t grammatically pristine
• Before he met you, Spencer had no real qualms about his work schedule
• Sure, it was a bit of a hassle to travel for work so much, but let’s face it, he didn’t really have anything better to do
• While the rest of the team complained when they had little to no free time between cases, he was secretly happy for the distraction from his mostly uneventful life
• After he met you, though…
• To put it simply, Spencer was obsessed with you
• He fell fast and he fell hard, and now every second thought in that big brain of his was about you
• He most definitely would’ve spent every waking moment with you if that was possible
• Or inside you
• Pussy-whipped was one of the best ways to describe him
• But could you really blame him? You were beautiful, and alluring, and your skin was so soft under his touch, and you always smelled and tasted divine…
• Yeah, it was safe to say that you had him completely wrapped around your finger
• And now he suddenly understood why it was such a nuisance to have to travel across the country on a random thursday afternoon, for an unforeseeable amount of days
• He tried to call you as often as possible, but most of the time he was either too busy or your schedules just simply didn’t align
• It was no different on this case, and to make matters even worse, this time he had to go five whole days without seeing you, and three without getting to hear your voice
• So when he finally arrived home to your shared apartment, seeing you in one of his oversized sweaters, looking so inviting and cozy on the couch, smiling at him so sweetly as you greeted him…
“Spence,” you giggled softly, tilting your head to the side to grant him easier access, as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck. You were seated in his lap, your arms around his neck, and his hands on your thighs on either sides of his hips. He has refused to let go of you ever since he came home almost an hour ago, his hands and lips not leaving your skin for even a second, as if he was afraid that you would disappear like a mirage.
“Hm?” He hummed against your neck, his lips focusing on your pulse point. He nipped and sucked on your pristine skin, covering it with small love bites. They would fade by the morning, but for now, he relished in getting to decorate you with his marks, like a physical reminder that you were his.
Your breath hitched, only letting out the shuddering breath that you sucked in, when his hands finally moved under your –his– sweater. You very quickly forgot what you were about to say, your hips rolling against his with a small, needy sound.
“Angel.” Spencer’s voice was soft, if a bit choked, his hands quickly sliding down to hold your hips. “I want to take my time with you tonight. Will you let me?”
You bit down on your lower lip, feeling your lower regions ache with desire from how he wound you up with his casual, gentle kisses and touches. At the same time though, you were feeling just as clingy as he was. You didn’t want this to end for a long time, didn’t want to rush into an orgasm.
So you just nodded, cupping Spencer’s cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him languidly. Your lips moved in sync, in a familiar, well-practiced dance, while you raised your hips to allow him to pull off your shorts and panties.
You reached down to the hem of your sweater, but he caught your wrists, stopping you from taking it off.
“Leave it on. Please,” he said, adding the adverb almost as an afterthought. “I like making you mine in my own clothes.”
And oh, that just simply wasn’t fair. He couldn’t seriously say stuff like that and expect you not to drag you needy, wet cunt against the noticeable bulge in his pants. You both moaned at the same time from the friction, and this time he didn’t have it in him to tell you to stop.
You kissed him deeply, moving your hands to unbuckle his belt, while he unzipped his pants –a combined effort, to get his poor, aching hardness out of the confines of his slacks as fast as possible.
There were very little words exchanged, lips parting as you both sighed into eachother’s mouths, once you finally sank down on his length.
“Jesus Christ, Angel. I missed you so much,” he whispered hotly against your lips, before dipping his head down, to press his lips to your throat.
It was hard to stay still at first. As much as you wanted to drag this out, his tip was nudging your cervix so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him tightly. You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt him twitch inside you in response, while he whined against your skin.
But after a few minutes, you finally settled. It felt incredible, being connected with him so intimately, bodies and souls entwined on your couch. You kissed him lazily, before asking him about his day, his time away, letting him talk to you about the case –well, as much as he was allowed to tell you about it.
You talked and cuddled and just stayed in eachother’s embrace. Because after so long, you were finally reunited, and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of it.
And if a while later, after you’ve already discussed everything and caught up with eachother, he finally pounded you into the couch, well… You definitely weren’t one to complain about that either.
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