blaysreid

[blaysreid]

CHECKMATE

pairing = arrogant!midseason!spencer + newbau!reader

summary = He’s used to winning until she beats him at chess, and calls him pretty boy like it’s nothing. Now every morning starts with a match, a coffee, and the slowest kind of falling. Quiet, unexpected, and just for them.

a/n = wrote this out of boredom but I hope it's good for u guys :)) also season 4 Spencer YUMMMMM backshots NOW. That hairstyle on him will make me go insane

It’s 7:03 AM and Quantico is still half asleep.

Except for him.

Spencer Reid is already in the BAU cafeteria, sweater vest snug over a striped dress shirt, tie slightly crooked like he dressed in the dark. His hair’s slicked back, neat and one curl refusing to sit down like it has personal beef with him. He’s hunched over the chessboard, fingers twitching over the black queen, eyes glassy with thought.

He’s alone. As always.

Until you walk in coffee in one hand, folder under your arm, and exactly zero intention of being polite.

“You’re castling wrong.” you say flatly, stopping beside him.

He doesn’t even look up. “No, I’m not.”

You smirk. “Yeah, you are. You moved your king before clearing your knight. That’s illegal.”

He does look up now. Blinks. Slowly.

“You’re new." he says.

“You’re arrogant.”

A beat of silence.

Then he sits back, folds his hands, and gestures at the seat across from him. “Play me.”

You slide into the chair like it’s yours, coffee balanced on your knee, eyes scanning the board with casual confidence. “You sure? I’d hate to embarrass you before your second cup.”

Spencer tilts his head, intrigued and maybe, just maybe, annoyed in that quiet genius way of his.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve never lost a game in this room.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

You start. King’s pawn to E4. Bold.

He mirrors the move. His fingers are long, graceful, like the pieces were made for him.

And then it begins.

And suddenly twenty moves in, you’re toying with him. Not out of cruelty, just curiosity. Watching the way his brain works, the way his lips part slightly when he’s concentrating, how he taps his finger against the table when he’s trying not to rush.

He’s brilliant. Of course he is. But you’re better because you don’t play like a textbook. You play like life taught you to lie.

He frowns. His rook is trapped.

“You’ve been studying me." he says suddenly.

You sip your coffee. “Takes one to know one.”

His brow furrows deeper. “Who taught you to play like that?”

You lean forward slightly, voice low. “My mother. She said chess is just like dating. If he’s predictable, he’s useless.”

Spencer chokes. Actually chokes.

You smile. Sweet. Unbothered. Dangerous.

Two moves later

“Checkmate.”

He stares at the board like it personally betrayed him.

You rise from your seat, smooth your jacket, and take a slow sip of your coffee.

“Thanks for the game, Pretty Boy.”

You’re halfway to the elevator before he calls out, not looking up:

“…Wanna go again tomorrow?”

You grin.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

A/N = I appreciate your feedback, please interact I still consider myself new and interested in moots desperately. also requests are open please lmk if you want me to write something up :')

[blaysreid]

I’ve got a request! Spencer and Reader are engaged and it’s the night of what should be Spencer’s bachelor party and the team drags him out to these wild parties but Spencer’s not really having it, so by the end of the night, he sneaks away to meet back up with Reader and reflect on their relationship up until their wedding the next day. I’m thinking mid-seasons Spencer because I can so see Morgan trying to drag Spencer to a bar or club, but Spencer getting nervous because he thinks it would make Reader upset, but she just wants him to have fun.

SNEAKING HOME TO YOU

pairing = fiance!spencer + fiance!reader

summary = The night of his bachelor party, Spencer slips away from the noise and chaos, drawn home to the one place he truly belongs: her arms. In the quiet of their apartment, with sleepy cuddles, soft laughter, and love confessions, he’s reminded that love doesn’t need a party. It just needs the two of them, and a night like this.

A/N = Thank you for the request anon!! This was so sweet to write, I hope it matches up to your expectations:))

The bar was too loud.

Spencer blinked hard as lights shimmered somewhere above the crowded dance floor, strobing like someone couldn’t decide between lightning and a headache. The beat pulsed through the soles of his shoes, through his ribs, his spine, and his temples. He was standing at the edge of the bar with a sweating glass of something citrusy in his hand. Something Rossi had insisted he try and the condensation had started dripping onto his wrist.

“Come on, Pretty Boy!” Morgan was grinning, practically glowing under the club lights. “You’re not getting married tomorrow without one dance. JJ, tell him.”

JJ raised her glass. “Bachelor rule number one: You don’t get to stand still. It’s a crime.”

“I think that’s… not a law,” Spencer muttered, but his protest was swallowed by the bass. He cast a glance at the screen of his phone in his hand, the light was still on from the text she’d sent twenty minutes ago.

“You better be dancing :) I love you so much, please let Garcia take pictures. 💕”

He smiled. Quietly. To himself.

Garcia wasn’t here which she had made a loud, sparkly protest about. “I throw better parties than any man here,” she’d shouted at Hotch, who’d just raised an eyebrow like it was too dangerous to even respond.

And Hotch was still here. Which… surprised everyone.

He was off to the side near the bar with a beer in hand, not his usual drink. Standing next to Rossi, actually laughing at something. He looked good, more relaxed than Reid had seen him in months. He even nodded along to the beat once or twice, and when Morgan tried to rope him into a little two-step near their table, Hotch gave him a look, then sighed and joined him.

Just for a minute.

JJ lost her mind. “Okay, now the world’s ending.”

Even Rossi clapped like he’d witnessed a miracle.

And Spencer? He just blinked. Smiled. If Hotch could dance, maybe he could survive another few minutes here.

He took a small sip of the cocktail. Lemon. Some kind of rum. He couldn’t remember the specifics, and that in itself bothered him. He didn’t like not knowing.

He felt a hand slap his shoulder. “Loosen up, Reid.” Morgan said, laughing as he tried to shove him toward the dance floor. “You’re marrying the love of your life tomorrow. You gotta celebrate.”

“I am celebrating,” Spencer replied, pulling back gently. “Internally.”

“You’re texting her. Again.” Morgan gestured to his phone. “She let you go for one night. You can let her go for two hours.”

Spencer hesitated. “I don’t… I just wanted her to know I wasn’t-”

Morgan tilted his head. “Wasn’t what?”

Spencer shrugged. “I guess… I didn’t want her to think I was doing something stupid.”

Morgan softened a little, the grin dipping into something quieter. “She trusts you, man.”

“I know. I just…” Spencer looked down at the drink again. “I’m not really good at this. The party thing. The whole… letting loose thing.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Morgan nudged him. “That’s why we’re here. It’s your party. We’re celebrating you. Even if that means dragging you onto a dance floor while you pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” Spencer said, fully pouting.

Morgan laughed, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and walked off toward Rossi again, mouthing “Loosen up.” over his shoulder.

Spencer tried. For about five more minutes. Maybe six.

He even watched Hotch let JJ pull him into another shuffle step near the corner. Stiff, awkward, but unmistakably trying.

It was the kind of moment you couldn’t unsee.

But even that wasn’t enough to keep Spencer from glancing again at his phone. At her name on the screen. At the smile tugging at his lips.

And then while Morgan was daring Rossi into karaoke, while JJ shrieked about Hotch doing a turn-spin. Spencer quietly put down his unfinished drink, slipped out through the back entrance, and stepped into the night.

It was quieter outside.

The kind of quiet that felt like oxygen after being underwater too long. The air was cool against his face, and Spencer didn’t rush. He just walked slowly through the downtown streets, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping his phone like a lifeline.

He read her last message again.

“You better be dancing…”

She was probably sipping on chamomile tea, half asleep while reading one of her classic literature books. She always fell asleep reading. Always left the lamp on. Always curled up in the corner of the couch like a cat who didn’t know what beds were for.

His chest softened.

He wasn’t supposed to see her tonight. Not until tomorrow.

But he wasn’t going to make it that long.

After driving back home, the key turned gently in the lock.

Spencer stepped into the dim apartment like a thief, slow, careful, quiet. The hallway light was off, just the faintest glow humming from the living room. The soft rustle of pages turning floated through the silence.

She was awake.

He rounded the corner and found her exactly as expected: curled up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, an open book face-down in her lap. Her hair was a little messy from leaning against the cushion, and the blanket wrapped around her shoulders was slipping off one arm.

And she was staring straight at him.

“…You snuck out?” she said softly.

Spencer froze in place.

“I didn’t sneak.. I mean, technically, yes, I guess I did. But I wasn’t trying to be dramatic or anything, I just- I thought maybe-”

“Spence.”

He blinked.

She smiled, warm and sleepy. “Come here.”

He crossed the room before she finished the sentence. Dropped his coat onto the arm of the couch. Sat down beside her, a little stiff at first until her hand reached under the blanket and found his, tugging him into her side. His body relaxed all at once, like she’d pressed a button he didn’t know existed.

“You weren’t having fun?” she asked gently.

“I was… trying.” he admitted, his voice muffled as he leaned into her shoulder. “I think Morgan was having enough fun for the both of us.”

She laughed. “Was Garcia actually barred from attending?”

“Hotch said it would’ve become her party if she came.”

“That’s fair.”

“She still sent me seventeen memes. One was a raccoon in a tuxedo.”

She kissed the side of his head. “You should’ve shown me.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped once, then held it up to show her the screen. She grinned at the picture. Then turned toward him, watching his expression carefully.

“You okay?”

Spencer hesitated. “I didn’t want you to think I was… out doing something dumb. Or that I was enjoying that more than…” He trailed off.

Her eyes softened. “Baby.”

He rushed on. “I know that sounds irrational. I know you trust me. I just- I kept checking my phone and wondering if you were wondering where I was and what I was doing, and I didn’t want to be that guy who’s off at some bar the night before his wedding, pretending like he’s not already all in-”

She cut him off by grabbing his face and kissing his cheek. “Spence. You don’t have to explain.”

“But I-”

“No, listen.” She turned his face toward her. “You left a party you were uncomfortable at, to come home and sit in pajamas with me while I read in bad lighting. That’s not the kind of thing that makes me upset. That’s the kind of thing that makes me fall in love with you.”

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“The lighting’s not that bad.”

She burst into laughter and dragged the blanket over his lap. “Okay, Mr. Literal. Come on. Lay back with me.”

He slid down until his head rested against her shoulder, and her fingers found his hair instinctively, threading through it with a rhythm he’d come to associate with comfort. With safety. With her.

“I saw Hotch dance,” he murmured after a minute.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. JJ got video evidence.”

“Was it… a good dance?”

He looked up at her with a deadpan expression. “No.”

She giggled again and kissed his forehead. “I wish you’d had fun.”

“I did.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just not there.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. And when she touched his face again, her thumb brushed over the faint crease between his brows.

“Tell me something real,” she said softly.

He paused. And then, without breaking eye contact:

“I knew I wanted to marry you when you organized my bookshelf by publication date instead of author. You told me it made more sense to read a theory chronologically. That was the moment.”

Her heart thumped.

“You never told me that.” she whispered.

“I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“You proposed to me in the middle of a panic spiral because you forgot your umbrella and soaked your socks through an entire thunderstorm.”

He nodded. “That was… six months later.”

She kissed him again. This time on the lips. Long, slow, soft.

He sighed against her mouth, melting like every ounce of tension had finally bled out of his chest.

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together, breathing each other in, the world finally quiet around them. Every now and then he’d speak again, half-mumbling thoughts that had lived in his chest for too long.

“How did we even end up here?” He mumbled quietly against you.

“You called me insufferable in front of Hotch and I still agreed to go on a date.”

“You misquoted Freud in front of me and I had no choice but to correct you.”

“You made me watch Pride and Prejudice twice in a row.”

“You held my hand when I had to visit my mom.”

“You learned how to use an old tape recorder because I said I liked analog sound.”

“You fell asleep on my shoulder in Quantico and I didn’t want to move for two hours.”

“Spence,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-choked up, “stop, I’m gonna cry.”

He smiled and whispered back, “Me too.”

He didn’t stop talking.

Not right away.

Not once he got going.

Not when she looked at him like that. Like the whole night had been leading here, like the whole world could fall away and she wouldn’t move, wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t ever stop looking at him like he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

So he kept talking.

Still curled up on the couch, her legs folded under his, his head resting in her lap now, her fingers still in his hair, playing with the ends.

“You make everything feel safe,” he whispered, eyes closed. “Even things that aren’t. Even me.”

She opened her mouth, but he kept going, like he was unraveling something he’d kept wound up for too long.

“I used to think I’d never get married. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t think anyone would ever want that much with me. I didn’t think I’d be… enough. Or stable enough. Or… easy to love.”

Her fingers paused, and he felt her still. He could feel her breathing.

“But then you showed up,” he said softly. “And you never treated me like I was too much. Or broken. Or weird. You made me feel like being me wasn’t something you had to work around.”

“Spence…” Her voice was barely a breath.

He looked up, eyes meeting hers. “I memorized your coffee order before we were even dating.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t mean to. I just… noticed. And then I’d go home and run the details back in my head until I knew the brand of syrup and the milk ratio. And the temperature you like it at.”

“Oh my god." she murmured, smiling like her heart couldn’t take it.

“I started keeping napkins with your lipstick marks on them a few months ago.. A few days after I proposed..” he added, almost shy,looking down. “They’re in a drawer in my desk.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He smiled again. A little sheepish. “I think I fell in love with you about twelve times before I said it out loud.”

She swallowed. Her voice caught in her throat. “You’ve always held everything together for everyone else. I'm so lucky to be the one to make you happy"

“I didn’t know how tired I was until I had you to fall into,” he whispered. “You make the world quieter.”

She leaned down and kissed his temple. “I love you.”

“I know,” he said, like a secret. “I don’t know how I know, but I do and I feel it all the time. In the way you reach for my hand when I’m spiraling. In the way you text me after a hard day before I even tell you it was hard. In the way you touch my hair when I can’t sleep. In the way you know when I need to be left alone but still sit nearby so I’m not alone-alone.”

She smiled through tears. “I feel it too.”

He reached up, fingertips brushing her cheek, catching one tear with the pad of his thumb.

“I would marry you a thousand times over,” he said. “Even if the world reset every morning and you forgot me. I’d do it again. I’d find you again.”

“You're unbelievably perfect.”

“And you're the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” His hands reaching for her face gently.

She laughed, broken and soft and curled her body down into his, wrapping her arms around him like she wanted to protect him from everything he’d ever been afraid of. And he let her. Let her hold him. Let her love him. Let himself be held like that fully, freely, completely.

Because in her arms, it didn’t matter that the party had been too loud. That his shirt was wrinkled. That his voice cracked when he spoke too gently.

All that mattered was this.

Just this.

Her breath in his hair. Her fingertips on his back. Her love, so loud, it drowned out the world.

a/n = please interact and reblog/comment if you've enjoyed cause I really appreciate your feedback :) Check out my other works too and feel free to request more!!

[blaysreid]

Reid being strict and overprotective while taking care of sick!reader like he did with his mom in s12 e11 (when he watched her to make sure she swallowed her meds)

THROUGH SICKNESS & HEALTH

pairing = overprotective!spencer + sick!reader

summary = You’re sick and feverish, and Spencer cares for you with soft kisses, gentle touches, and quiet love. He helps with your meds, watches over you, and opens up about his mom. You tease him, and he’s adorably innocent. You fall asleep safe in his arms.

content warning = just a little fever, nothing detailed mentioned!!

A/N = thank you for the request, I hope this matches up to your expectations!!

You didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch.

But the ache behind your eyes had gotten heavier by the hour, your throat dry and sore, your body sinking further and further into the mountain of blankets you’d piled up for comfort.

When you finally stirred again, the room was quiet.

And warm.

And smelled faintly like chamomile tea and eucalyptus.

You blinked blearily, head turning toward the soft sound of a page being flipped.

Spencer.

He was sitting in the armchair across from you, his long legs folded beneath him, a book open in his lap and his brows slightly drawn in focus. He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet.

Not until you made a small sound, a sniffle that cracked through the stillness.

He looked up instantly.

And the expression on his face when he saw you… it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t worry. It was something softer. Something heavier. A kind of warmth that settled in his eyes like light through honey.

“Hey,” he said gently, setting the book aside and moving toward you. “You’re awake.”

You nodded, voice croaky and small. “Barely.”

He crouched beside the couch, resting his arms on the edge, his fingers brushing against the blanket near your arm.

“You’ve been sleeping for a while. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You broke into my apartment,” you teased, voice too weak for sarcasm to really land.

“I used the key you gave me. That’s not breaking in.”

You pouted. “You could’ve at least knocked.”

“I did,” he whispered, leaning closer, “but you didn’t answer. So I let myself in. You left a mug on the counter with tea still in it. Half full. That’s not like you.”

Your brows pinched a little, but Spencer reached up slowly, smoothing your hair back with a tenderness that made your heart ache more than your fever did.

“You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine…”

“You’re not fine.” he murmured, his fingers brushing over your cheek, then your forehead. “Your skin’s warm and dry. You’ve got chills. And you sound like you swallowed a pack of sandpaper.”

You made a weak face. “Sexy.”

His lips curved upward just slightly. “Heartbreakingly.”

You melted a little more into the blanket.

Then you watched as he reached to the side, lifting a tray you hadn’t noticed before. On it sat a mug of steaming tea, a water bottle, tissues, and of course a thermometer.

He held the tea in front of you first.

“It’s chamomile. With honey. I made it how you like it.”

You blinked slowly. “Are you trying to make me cry right now?”

“Maybe later,” he said, helping you sit up gently. “Right now I just want you to drink something.”

You took a sip.

It was perfect. Sweet and warm and soothing, just the way you always told him you liked it. He watched you so closely, like he was cataloguing every detail. Like he was scared he might miss something important.

When you set the mug down, he reached for the thermometer.

“Wait." you mumbled, trying to push the blanket off.

“What are you doing?” Spencer’s voice stayed soft, but his hand paused over your wrist.

“I look awful. I need to fix my hair or brush my teeth or-”

“You don’t need to do anything,” he whispered.

He leaned in and pressed his lips gently to your forehead, then to your nose.

Not kisses filled with urgency or concern. Just love.

Pure, warm, steady love.

“You’re sick,” he said into your skin, “and you’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath caught in your chest.

Spencer eased back, just enough to look into your eyes.

“I know you don’t like being fussed over. But let me do this. Just today. Please.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. Too touched to try.

He smiled, relieved. Then he handed you the thermometer, still treating you like something precious. Like you might break if he moved too quickly.

When it beeped, he read it with a small frown.

“One hundred and one point two.” he said “Not the worst. But you need to rest. And take these.”

He pulled a few pills from a small case, then held out a water bottle.

You groaned dramatically. “What if I refuse?”

“I’ll still love you,” he said softly. “But I’ll sit right here and wait until you take them anyway.”

You smiled tiredly. “You’re really staying?”

Spencer nodded, reaching up again to push your hair back, his touch featherlight.

“Of course I’m staying. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you weren't sick I'd refuse to leave your side"

His tone teasing and with that, he leaned in again, kissing your forehead once more.

Slower this time.

Just as warm.

Later on the sky outside had darkened completely by now, the gentle grey of late afternoon shifting into an inky blue that wrapped itself around the windows. Streetlights flickered on. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed and faded into the distance. But inside, it was quiet.

Still.

Too still.

Spencer sat beside you on the couch, one leg tucked under him, his elbow braced on the cushion behind you as he rested a cool cloth against your forehead.

You hadn’t spoken much in the last hour. You were barely even conscious. The fever had crept up slowly at first, then began to burn through your body like wildfire. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips dry, and your shivers came in waves. You’d drift in and out, murmuring things that didn’t make sense, eyes glazed, lashes fluttering.

And through it all, Spencer didn’t move.

Not for food. Not for a bathroom break. Not for anything.

He watched you. Monitored your breaths. Tilted your chin to help you drink sips of water every half hour. Replaced the cool cloth on your forehead when it lost its chill. Reapplied lip balm when you complained about your mouth being dry in your half-sleep.

Every movement was delicate. Focused. Gentle.

Loving.

Now, your head was resting against his chest as he sat propped behind you, arm curled securely around your shoulder like you might float away if he didn’t hold you here, snuggled between his legs.

Your pulse was fast. But steady.

Your skin was still too warm.

He pressed his lips to your temple and let them linger.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmured. “You’re fighting it.”

You made a small sound, part groan, part hum and curled in tighter against him, your fingers weakly clutching at his cardigan.

“I know, sweetheart.” he whispered. “It hurts, I’m so sorry.”

He looked down at the medicine bottle in his hand. Then at the clock. It was time again. He shifted, trying to stir you gently.

“Hey… wake up just for a second,” he said softly, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You need to take these.”

You made a low, pained sound, turning your face into his chest.

“Mm-mmh. No. ‘S gross.”

“Baby, I know,” he said, voice quieter now, almost breaking. “But you have to. Please.”

You cracked one eye open, brow furrowing as if even that much effort hurt.

Spencer smiled softly. “There you are. Just take these two, okay? I’ll give you water after. You don’t have to move.”

You groaned, but opened your mouth slightly. He pressed the pills to your lips, watching you carefully like you were made of porcelain.

Then came the water. He held the bottle steady, tilting it just enough for a small sip.

And once you swallowed, he kept watching.

“I saw that,” he murmured. “You swallowed. Good girl.”

You smirked faintly, eyes still closed. “Call me that again and I might just recover on the spot.”

Spencer blinked.

Then blinked again.

“I… um… is that a term of endearment or-”

You laughed. Well, wheezed against his chest. “It’s a joke, Spence.”

“Oh.”

He was quiet for a second. “I… don’t think I got it.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. His expression was the picture of pure confusion, laced with concern and something incredibly sweet. His mouth was slightly parted, his eyebrows drawn together like he was genuinely running calculations on the mechanics of your joke.

You coughed again, letting your head drop back onto his chest.

“You’re so innocent. It’s unreal.”

Spencer frowned, but his hand never stopped moving, stroking up and down your back, grounding you.

“I don’t think it’s about innocence. I just… didn’t think it was appropriate to find anything about this situation funny.”

You peeked up at him.

His eyes were a little tired now. His hair a little messier than it had been. He looked like he hadn’t blinked in an hour.

“You’re taking this really seriously,” you murmured, thumb brushing his wrist. “You always do, don’t you?”

He paused, eyes focused on the middle distance now.

“I’ve taken care of someone sick before.”

His voice had changed. Soft, but distant.

“My mom… when she was unwell, she wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t move. Sometimes she forgot who I was. I started documenting everything — times, temperatures, responses, anything I could track. It made me feel… in control. Like I could do something about it.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just held his hand tighter.

“I haven’t done this in a long time.” he said quietly. “But the second I saw you curled up and sweating through your hoodie, it all came back. I didn’t even have to think.”

You turned, tucking your face into his shoulder. “Thank you for thinking of me like that. For caring.”

“Of course I care,” he said, his voice suddenly fragile. “You’re-”

He stopped.

Then he lowered his head and kissed your forehead again.

Slower. Deeper. Pressing every ounce of his worry and affection into that one touch.

“I’m glad you’re letting me stay.”

“You weren’t going to leave even if I told you to,” you mumbled, muffled by his sweater.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’d have stayed in the hallway.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re going to get sick.”

“I’ve been exposed to worse things.”

“You’ll catch my grossness.”

“Then I’ll let you take care of me.”

You nuzzled into him with a sleepy, content sigh.

“You’d be the worst patient.”

“I’d follow your every instruction,” he whispered, smiling softly. “As long as I get as many forehead kisses as I’ve given you.”

Your hand brushed his chest, searching for his heart through the layers of cotton and wool.

Found it.

Matched your breathing to the soft, steady thump beneath your palm.

And drifted off again. But not before murmuring a soft "I love you so much Spence".

His gentle hands rubbings up and down your back, soothing you.

"I love you more sweetheart."

[blaysreid]

Rooms Without Heat

pairing = shybf!spencer + baugf!reader

summary = Nestled close and wrapped in quiet cuddles, Spencer and Reader are just beginning to explore the gentle warmth of a new relationship. Every shared glance and tender touch draws them closer, turning simple moments into something beautifully unforgettable.

content warning = just cuddles and lots of kisses. lowkey one bed trope? but they're already in a relationship! nothing related to a case is mentioned.

It started with a quiet knock.

Not the kind that said emergency. The kind that said help. The kind that said I trust you. And maybe just a little bit of I want to be near you too.

Spencer was still awake, though barely. His room was dim, one lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow across the pages of the book resting in his lap. It was something about the history of snowflake classification that he’d picked it up on impulse at a roadside bookshop earlier that day, thinking you might find it cute.

His reading had slowed. He was at that sleepy stage where the words stopped making sense, but he didn’t want to stop. He was still wearing his BAU hoodie, sleeves pulled over his hands, curls messy and flattened on one side from the pillow he’d been leaning against. The whole room smelled faintly of spearmint tea and the wood of the old lodge furniture.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Barely there.

But he heard it.

And he was up in seconds.

He didn’t even think about it, his body moved faster than his mind, already padding across the cold wooden floor in socked feet, heart thudding a little faster than he expected. He reached for the door, hands slightly shaky, like some part of him already knew it was you. That same part that always felt warmer just being near you. Even when things were still new. Especially because things were still new.

And when he opened the door-

There you were.

Wrapped in a cream coloured blanket that trailed behind you like a cape, cheeks flushed from the hallway chill, lashes heavy with sleep. You looked so small like that. So human. So soft and cold and real and… his. His girlfriend.

Spencer’s heart just about cracked wide open.

“Oh,” he breathed. Not surprised more like overwhelmed. Like the sight of you short circuited something in his chest. “Hi.”

His voice was warm, low, instinctively gentle. Like he was already trying to comfort you without knowing why you were there.

You gave a little sniffle, smiling sheepishly. “My room’s freezing. Like, teeth chattering freezing. I didn’t want to wake anyone else, but… I didn’t know where to go.”

Spencer blinked, and something about the way you said that like he was your first thought sent a wave of heat rushing to his face. His ears were already pink. His hand, still on the doorknob, twitched like he didn’t know what to do with it now.

He took a breath. Then said it like it was the easiest, most obvious answer in the world:

“Come in.”

You stepped past him slowly, and he stood there watching you like you were moonlight come to life. The blanket dragged behind you, and your shoulders shook slightly from the leftover cold.

His voice followed you in, still soft. “You can always come here. Anytime.”

You looked back at him with that little smile . The one that made your eyes squint slightly at the corners. “Thank you, Spence.”

The door clicked shut behind you. The room was quiet. The heater in the corner gave a soft, tired wheeze. You stood in the middle of the floor, still wrapped in your blanket, teeth gently tapping together as you tried to rub warmth back into your arms.

Spencer moved before he could overthink it. He started tugging at the extra throw blanket folded at the end of the bed, unfolding it clumsily and then looking at it like he didn’t actually know what he was doing with it.

“I have this,” he said quickly. “But it’s not very thick. I should’ve asked for another one at the front desk earlier but I didn’t think- I mean- I didn’t expect- not that I didn’t want-”

He caught himself, flushed, and took a breath.

"I mean. There’s space. If you want. On the bed. With me. If you’re comfortable with that. No pressure. It’s just… it’s probably warmer.”

You turned toward him slowly, a brow raised, half amused and half touched.

“Are you trying to offer me cuddles, Doctor Reid?”

He swallowed. His whole brain short-circuited.

“I… I just think biologically speaking, we’d conserve more heat by sharing a confined space and-”

He gave up halfway through the sentence and dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

You padded over to him and gently nudged his arm with your elbow. “Spence. I’m your girlfriend. You’re allowed to offer me cuddles.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, and you swore you saw stars there. Real stars. That wonder he got when something beautiful caught him off guard.

“I know,” he said quietly. “It just still surprises me.”

“What does?”

“That you’re mine.”

Your heart thudded.

He looked so sincere. Like he didn’t even mean to say that out loud. Like the thought had just slipped out without warning.

You gave him the softest smile you could manage, then held up your arms with a teasing little shrug.

“Come on then, boyfriend. Make room for me.”

He did. So fast. He pulled the covers back like it was a sacred ritual and waited for you to crawl in before following after. The bed creaked a little under both of your weight, and for a moment, you just laid there side by side in silence, not touching yet, listening to the wind outside the window.

His voice broke the stillness, nervous but sweet.

“Just so you know… I won’t move unless you do.” His tone teasing, but you knew he meant every word he just said.

You laughed softly.

“You’re such a dork.”

“I like you too much to mess this up.”

And your heart soared. Literally melting as you slowly slid in bed next to him.

The bed wasn’t just small. It was absurdly small.

Spencer had called it a double, but you were pretty sure it was closer to a glorified twin. A twin that had dreams of being more, but ultimately wasn’t built for two adults with wildly different ideas of personal space.

He was lying next to you now, stiff as a board, his arms tucked across his chest like he was afraid to accidentally touch you without permission. You were barely brushing shoulders, the blanket pulled up to your chins, neither of you speaking.

But you could feel it.

The tension.

Not the bad kind, the fizzy kind. That weird, delicious sort of electricity that only came from being this close to someone who made your heart feel like it belonged somewhere. Someone who made everything in your chest quiet down for once.

And just when you thought you were going to have to break the silence-

“Biologically speaking,” Spencer whispered suddenly, voice all raspy and half embarrassed "sharing body heat is the most efficient way to regulate warmth.”

You blinked.

“…Are you trying to say you want to cuddle?”

There was a pause.

He swallowed audibly.

Then, so soft you almost didn’t hear it:

“Yes.”

You smiled into the dark. “Then come here.”

Still hesitant, he rolled onto his side to face you. His hand hovered awkwardly above your waist like he was waiting for the go-ahead, so you reached for him first. You slid under his arm and pressed yourself into the hollow of his chest, fitting your body against his like two puzzle pieces.

And Spencer-

He melted.

There was no other word for it.

He folded around you with this deep, shaky sigh, his arms wrapping around your back and holding you like you were something rare. Something breakable. Something his.

His hand settled gently between your shoulder blades, fingertips resting just barely against the fabric of your shirt. His other arm curved under your waist, holding you closer, firmer, until there was no more space between you at all.

You could feel his heartbeat.

Fast. Nervous. Real.

You tilted your chin up to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his voice hoarse and full of that tender panic that always came when something mattered too much. “Am I holding you too tight?”

You shook your head, forehead brushing his. “No. It’s perfect.”

And then something changed in his expression. It was like a wall dropped, because suddenly, he wasn’t just holding you. He was holding you.

Like he didn’t care if you felt how much he needed you. Like the guardrails were off. Like he was finally letting himself believe that you were really here and really his.

“I love this,” he whispered. “You. Here.”

You smiled into his chest. “Me too.”

And then his lips pressed to your forehead. Slowly. Softly. Like it was instinct. Like his body was just moving in response to the feeling in his heart.

He kissed your temple next. Then your hairline. Little, innocent kisses that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t need anything, just wanted to give.

When you looked up again, his eyes were wide and glassy.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Believe what?”

“That I get to love you like this.”

You leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose.

“You get to do it forever, Spence.”

He tightened his grip, face buried in your hair, whispering words you barely caught “I want that so bad.” "It's yours, I'm yours"

You tucked your cold toes under his legs. He didn’t flinch and instead he just pulled you closer, hands comfortably sliding down you back and you can physically feel him relax, thanking you for being the first to show him how easy this really is.

That night, you stayed tangled together in the middle of a too small bed, under a too thin blanket, but somehow… it was the warmest you’d ever been. His arms and legs wrapped around you, his lips on your forehead and his heart yours.

You’d been tucked in against him for a while now. The room was dark. Quiet. The kind of peaceful that made everything feel smaller and safer than it really was.

Spencer’s fingers were tracing lazy patterns across your back, slow and absentminded, like his brain had gone all fuzzy but his hands still needed to memorize you. You’d long since pressed your cheek to his chest, lulled by the steady thump of his heartbeat and the softness of his hoodie.

Neither of you had spoken for a while.

But then, just as your eyelids started to grow heavy, his voice floated into the dark.

“…Goodnight.”

You smiled without opening your eyes. “Goodnight, Spence.”

And then-

A pause.

Followed by the softest little murmur.

“…Can I kiss you goodnight?”

You blinked up at him, a little stunned. Not because you didn’t want to but because he sounded so shy about it. So careful. Like even after everything, he still needed permission.

You reached up, cupped his jaw, and nodded. “Please.”

He leaned down, lips brushing yours once, slow and sweet, like he was still figuring out how to do this whole having you thing.

But when he pulled back, you were already grinning.

And then-

You kissed him back.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

Quick little pecks, scattered across his lips, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, back to his lips.

Each one made him stifle a breath. And then a laugh. And then-

“Wait—” kiss

“Are you—” kiss

“Are you trying to—” kiss

He broke into full-on giggles.

And it was the cutest sound you’d ever heard.

“Stop-” he whispered between fits of laughter, even as his hands tightened around your waist. “Baby you're killing me.”

You just kept going, planting kisses all over his face now, his jaw, his dimple, his forehead, and anything you could reach.

“Killing you with love. Can’t stop. You’re too cute.”

He shook his head against the pillow, grinning so hard his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You're handsome.”

“You're perfect.” He said it so quietly, with those puppy eyes you'd absolutely kill for looking up at you.

You kissed him again. Slower this time. A little longer. And he melted into it, smiling against your lips.

When you pulled back, he was staring at you like you’d just reinvented the entire universe.

“…Wow.”

You tucked your face under his chin with a satisfied sigh. “That’s what you get for being so kissable and adorable.”

He rested his cheek against the top of your head, whispering against your hair, “I’ve never been this happy before. I adore you so much.”

Your heart stuttered.

You didn’t say anything back.

You just hugged him tighter.

And he kissed your temple one last time, breath warm and full of wonder. This time his heart beat finally slowing down, body fully relaxing into you.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” , "Goodnight Spence"

a/n = couldn't sleep until I let my imagination run wild. Please consider checking out my other works if you've enjoyed and please share your opinion I'd really appreciate it!

tag = @summerobertsvariant

[blaysreid]

WRONG NAME, RIGHT REACTION

pairing = chaoticbf!spencer + prankstergf!reader

summary = You prank call Spencer “Jensen” while asking for a blanket and accidentally unleash his petty, genius side. Now he’s plotting hilarious revenge with confused waiters. Welcome to the ultimate prank war, where Spencer always wins with his silly ideas.

The apartment was quiet.

Late afternoon sun poured through the windows, casting everything in gold. The scent of tea hung in the air, and Spencer sat cross legged on the couch, utterly absorbed in whatever dense academic article had taken his soul hostage.

You were beside him, curled up with your phone.

Minding your business. Mostly.

And then, as fate would have it, you saw the trend again. "Call your boyfriend by your ex’s name and see how he reacts."

You smirked slowly. You weren’t impulsive, normally. But today… today felt right.

You stretched casually, then leaned forward to grab the remote off the coffee table. “Hey Jensen, can you pass me that blanket?”

Stillness.

Absolute, soul shaking stillness.

Spencer didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink.

But his fingers stopped moving on the page.

Paused mid sentence.

“…What did you just say?” His tone was calm. Too calm.

You tilted your head, blinking innocently. “Hmm?”

“You called me Jensen.”

“Oh,” you said airily, like you hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb. “Right. Sorry.”

He finally looked at you. Very slowly. “Sorry?”

“Yeah, force of habit.”

Silence. The kind of silence that made you want to laugh and run and also maybe leave the country.

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Like his brain short circuited. “Force of habit?”

You nodded. Bit the inside of your cheek. Fought a smirk. “I mean… Jensen used to pass me stuff. It’s just muscle memory, y’know?”

His jaw twitched.

You went on.

“Blankets, mugs, remotes. Jensen was very helpful.”

Spencer stared at you. “So helpful that you forgot I existed?”

You shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I see.”

Then he picked up the blanket and tossed it into your lap.

You blinked. “Thanks, Jen-Spencer.”

Now his eyebrows rose. “Unbelievable.”

You kept going, like the gremlin you are. “Actually… you kinda remind me of him sometimes.”

That broke him. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” you said, all dreamy now, looking off into the distance. “He used to read like that. Cross-legged. Glasses on. All mysterious and… emotionally unavailable.”

Spencer scoffed. “I’m not emotionally unavailable.”

You raised a brow. “A year ago you flinched when I tried to hold your hand.”

“I was overwhelmed-”

“And you locked yourself in the bathroom for twenty minutes when I told you I liked you.”

“I WAS PROCESSING-”

You burst into laughter.

His eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

You curled in on yourself. “Oh my god-”

He sat up straighter. “Wait. Are you-"

You covered your face. “Spencer I'm sorry-" trying to hold your laugh in.

“You’re pranking me.”

“I AM!”

He looked offended. “You LIED?!”

You cackled. “You were about to start filing a psychological profile on me!”

“I was about to CALL GARCIA and ask for Jensen’s address!”

“THERE IS NO JENSEN-”

“ARE YOU SURE?! Because I was seconds away from looking up any male you’ve had contact with in the last ten years-”

You were sobbing from laughter now. “oh my god-you're actually insane-"

Spencer crossed his arms. “You’ve chosen violence. I will remember this.”

“Oh, you’re mad now?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m planning revenge.”

You froze. “Wait-what kind of revenge?”

Spencer leaned in, close, his voice low.

“I’m going to wait. Bide my time. And one day… I’ll introduce myself as Jensen to a waiter.”

Your eyes went wide.

He smiled, devilishly. “Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

A/N = I lowkey have no idea what this is.. random. But please check out my other better works if u enjoyed:) I'm starting to work on requests now, feel free to request more!! And please be specific about them 😭

[blaysreid]

You asked for a request and you shall receive

Fluff, fluffiest fluff I can have. Although I. Eed some order feelings in there si whatever else you want, angst, hurt/comfort, arguing as ling as it ends on a good note 🙏

Im think early to mid seasons spencer reid? Reader preferably another agent (not necessarily BAU if you want a change :) )

I might come back and if I do you can recognise me by 💿 :)

(May have gone overboard but oh well yolo unless you're one of em shifters) (I'm giggling)

A/N = this wasn't supposed to end up so long! But I hope it matches up to your expectations anyway. Lots of fluff and a super heated argument with spencer left appreciating and loving reader through apologies, sweet touches and words. THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST ANON!!

pairing = midseason!frustrated!spencer + forgiving!frustratedbau!reader

summary = After a messy argument, Spencer and Reader find comfort the next morning over pancakes and quiet affection. With Reader in his lap, they feed each other between kisses, gently unpacking their hurt and offering forgiveness in soft, unspoken ways. It’s tender, sticky, and full of love. A slow return to each other, one bite at a time.

The police station was too hot.

Not just temperature wise but emotionally, everything felt like it was about to crack open. You could feel it in the way Morgan nearly snapped his pen in half earlier, in the way Emily was pinching the bridge of her nose, in how JJ had barely said a word since morning. And especially in the way Spencer Reid was currently standing across from you, arms folded, jaw clenched, and refusing to look up from his goddamn notebook.

You weren’t even sure what started it. It had been a long three days. A kidnapped child. Barely any sleep. Constant movement between press conferences, house to house interviews, a suspect list that only seemed to grow. And now the corkboard. Red string. Timelines. Locations. Your own handwriting shaking with exhaustion.

You pointed at the board with one hand and gripped your coffee in the other. “The route makes sense. The second and fourth victims were last seen within a block of Route 19. He’s following the bus path, or something close to it. I think he’s watching them get on, or off. It’s too specific to ignore.”

Spencer didn’t even look up. “The second and fourth, maybe. But the first and third lived well outside that zone. You’re seeing a pattern that isn’t consistent across all four.”

You stared at him, waiting. Hoping he’d soften it, or at least look at you.

He didn’t. Just turned a page and jotted something down.

That’s when the heat started to rise in your chest. The kind that burned slow, creeping from the inside out.

“You’re not even listening.” you said tightly.

“I am.” he replied, still without glancing up. “You’re presenting a theory that doesn’t line up with all the geographical data. If I thought it had weight, I’d say so.”

That’s when it happened. The crack.

You dropped your coffee onto the desk with a louder thud than intended. “God, Spencer. Not everything’s about data. Maybe try thinking about the actual victims for once instead of the stupid spreadsheet in your head.”

That made him look up. And god, the look he gave you.

Cold. Sharp. Analytical.

He blinked once. “You’re letting your emotions get in the way. Again.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise but from how much it hurt.

You took a slow step forward, heart in your throat. “Don’t say that to me.”

He didn’t back down. That was the worst part. “I’m just trying to solve this case the right way. If we start throwing out logic every time it gets hard-”

“You think I’m being illogical because I care?” you snapped. “Because I don’t have your perfect, clinical detachment?”

Spencer flinched. Just slightly.

But you were already spiraling. “You act like emotions make someone less capable. Maybe if you actually let yourself feel something once in a while, you’d understand that gut instinct matters just as much as your numbers.”

He was silent. For a beat too long. Until he spoke up, coming out harsher and deeper than he intended to.

“I never said you were less capable,” he muttered. “Just… inconsistent.”

That did it.

You blinked hard, backing up as though the words physically hit you. “Wow,” you whispered. “Okay. You know what? I’m done.”

“Wait-”

“No,” you said, already turning away. “Finish your report, Reid. You don’t need me for this part.”

You didn’t hear what he said after that.

You didn’t want to.

When you were all settled in your seat the jet was too quiet.

Too many empty seats. Too much space between you and him. It was a small plane, but tonight it felt like a cold, hollow auditorium with only the sound of the engines to fill the silence.

You were seated near the back, pressed against the window as if you could escape through it. Arms crossed, headphones in, but no music playing. You didn’t want to hear anything. You just wanted to make it through the flight without crying.

Spencer had walked on a few minutes after you, his messenger bag slung tight to his side. He hesitated at the top of the stairs when he saw where you were sitting.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Saw the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could sit beside you. Or near you.

But then your eyes met. For one sharp second.

And you looked away.

When he took the seat across the aisle instead. Not too close, not too far, but it still felt like a mile.

Hotch didn’t come. He stayed behind to debrief with the local PD. Morgan, JJ, and Emily had all flown back early. But since you and Spencer were at the crime scene, it took a few hours longer to finish up.

NowIt was just the two of you and the pilot, and neither of you said a word for the first hour.

You could feel it though. Spencer kept shifting. Restless. Like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the thread to pull.

He didn’t know how to start.

So he didn’t.

You tried to focus on your file, but the words blurred. The same way his face did when you let yourself glance over at him. Face pale under the cabin lights, brow furrowed like he was doing calculus in his head. He hadn’t written anything for the past thirty minutes.

He was thinking.

And you hated that you still cared.

Eventually, you stood up to stretch your legs, walking past him without a glance. You felt his eyes follow you. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

But the silence was so heavy it made your chest ache.

When you sat back down, you gave in. Just for a moment. You looked at him and to your surprise, he was already looking at you.

And God, he looked like hell.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… haunted.

Like he’d been replaying every word over and over, and hated every single one.

He didn’t say anything. He just dropped his eyes and picked at the seam of his seat cushion like a nervous habit. It should’ve made it easier to stay angry.

But it didn’t.

Because no one looked that guilty if they didn’t mean it.

When the plane landed, the tension didn’t ease. It followed you both down the stairs, through the car ride back to Quantico, and up the elevator.

By the time you stepped into the BAU bullpen, it was completely empty. Everyone had already gone home.

You grabbed your go-bag and turned toward the exit.

But his voice, soft and shaky, cut through the stillness.

“…Wait.”

You froze.

His shoes tapped lightly across the floor. He didn’t rush. Didn’t demand. Just moved slowly and gently like he was afraid you’d vanish if he came too close.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

You didn’t turn around. Your eyes burned, and your voice was sharp when it came. “Which part?”

He exhaled hard, hands in his pockets. “All of it.”

You finally turned. And when he saw your face, exhausted, red-rimmed, tired of fighting and just then, his expression shattered completely.

“I didn’t mean you’re inconsistent. I-" His throat worked. “I was frustrated. With the case. And with myself. And you were right. You usually are, actually. And I-I took it out on you.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not good at people,” he continued, quieter now. “But that doesn’t excuse it. You didn’t deserve that. I know I hurt you.”

Your lip trembled.

He took a careful step closer. “Please don’t shut me out.”

Something in your chest cracked.

You blinked, and the tears finally slipped. “You made me feel small.”

“I know,” he said quickly, voice breaking. “And I hate myself for it.”

You swallowed. Looked down at your shoes. Then back at him. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know baby.” he whispered. “I know. And I pushed you away.” His heart swelled at your vulnerability. Seeing you so upset and still hearing him out made him appreciate you more than ever.

You nodded slowly. “You did.”

He took one more step, then stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth from his coat. “Can I… can I fix it?”

You hesitated. Then reached out, fingers brushing against his. He latched onto it like a lifeline. Held it so gently you could’ve cried all over again.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” you whispered.

“I don’t either.”

You looked up at him.

“You owe me a smoothie.”

His breath caught a short, stunned laugh and you could see the tear caught in his lashes.

“I’ll buy you three,” he promised.

You squeezed his hand.

And left the BAU together.

Hand in hand.

Heading for the nearest 24-hour smoothie shop like it was the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

After being tangled up in bed together for the rest of the night,soft whispers and gentle touches, morning came softly.

No alarms, no rush. Just the pale gold of sunrise filtering through the thin curtains, dust motes dancing in the air like the world had decided to move in slow motion.

You were warm.

Not from the blanket which had mostly slipped to the floor but from the man curled tightly around you. Spencer had somehow managed to wrap himself around every limb you owned. His legs were tangled with yours, his hand under your shirt but resting respectfully just above your waist, and his face… God, his face was nuzzled into the back of your neck like he belonged there.

You could feel his breath, warm and rhythmic. One of his curls had fallen into your ear.

You blinked slowly, adjusting to the quiet light. It was too early to be up but your body always knew when the sun rose. You shifted gently, stretching your legs.

He groaned.

A soft, pathetic little sound, like moving away from you physically pained him.

You bit back a laugh. “Spence…”

“Mm?” His voice was rough with sleep.

“I have to get up.”

“No,” he said immediately, tightening his arms around you like a sleepy octopus. “Stay.”

You huffed a gentle laugh. “Spencer.”

“Just five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

He didn’t answer and instead just buried his face deeper into your neck with an exaggerated sigh that tickled your skin. “You’re warm. You smell good. The sun is out. The world can wait.”

You tried to turn, but he held you tighter.

“Okay, philosopher,” you teased. “You get five minutes. No more.”

“Ten,” he bargained.

“Spencer.”

“Okay, okay.” He kissed the back of your shoulder. “Five. But I get to hold you like this all day.”

You smiled, your cheeks heating. You reached back to comb your fingers through his curls. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt him relax behind you. His breath slowed again. A little hum of contentment vibrated against your spine.

“You make it easy to feel okay again,” he mumbled sleepily.

You closed your eyes.

“So do you.” You comb your fingers through his messy hair, feeling him relax more and more within every second.

A scratched up pan, two mismatched mugs (one with Einstein’s face, the other with faded snoopy with flowers), and a fridge that hummed like it was overworked. But it was yours. It was quiet. And it was full of something soft and healing this morning.

Spencer stood at the stove in one of your hoodies, sleeves a little too short, hair still sleep-fluffy from earlier. He looked painfully domestic and painfully unaware that he was currently flipping a pancake with all the focus of someone defusing a bomb.

You leaned on the counter behind him, sipping coffee from your cherry blossom mug, trying not to smile too wide.

“I’m just saying,” he said suddenly, “the first pancake is always a disaster. That’s not failure, it’s science.”

You raised a brow. “You’re blaming physics for your burnt pancake?”

He turned to you with the spatula still in hand. “Well yes. The pan is still regulating temperature. Uneven surface heat leads to inconsistent Maillard reactions. It’s not my fault, it’s thermodynamics.”

You took another sip. “That sounds like something someone who just made a hockey puck would say.”

He looked mildly offended. “That pancake was brave. I'm proud of him.”

You laughed, a proper one, the kind that stretched through your chest like sunlight. God, you’d missed this after the past few days.

He turned back to the stove, mumbling something about “justice for pancake pioneers” while pouring more batter. You moved closer, setting your mug down on the counter and wrapping your arms around his middle from behind.

He stilled for half a second.

Then he melted into it, let out a breath like he’d been waiting to exhale all morning.

“You’re clingy,” he mumbled.

“You like it.”

“I love it.” He leaned his head back against your shoulder. “I really do.”

You pressed a kiss to his jaw, letting the quiet fill in the spaces between the moments.

He flipped the second pancake. Perfect golden brown.

“See?” he said proudly. “Told you.” A smug little smirk on his face appearing.

You peeked over his shoulder. “A scientific masterpiece.”

“Mmhm. Want the first one?”

You made a face. “Not if I want to live.”

He laughed softly. “We’ll bury it in syrup. You’ll never know.”

You didn’t even bother with plates. Just grabbed forks and ate side by side at the counter, knees bumping, syrup dripping on your fingers.

At some point, he turned to you, a bit of whipped cream on his nose.

“I was scared yesterday,” he said suddenly. “That I’d ruined it.”

You paused.

“Yeah?” you said softly.

He nodded. “I’m not used to someone staying after I mess up.”

You wiped the cream off his nose with your thumb, then leaned forward to kiss the spot you’d cleaned. “Good thing I’m not just someone.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

“You really aren’t.” He smiled at you, hand snaking around your waist, continuing feeding you.

At first you didn’t mean to end up in his lap.

It just sort of happened somewhere between the last stack of pancakes and the halfway point of your second coffee. Spencer had finished chewing a bite, looked at you like his brain had suddenly short circuited, and pulled you onto him with absolutely zero grace.

“You were too far away,” he mumbled like it explained everything.

Now your legs were straddling his thighs, knees bracketing either side of his hips, one of his hands resting at the small of your back while the other gripped a fork sticky with syrup.

His chair turned sideways next to the table so you can access his burnt pancakes.

“I’m literally right here,” you teased, stealing a strawberry from the side of his plate.

“Now you’re closer,” he said, deadpan but his eyes were warm, drifting lazily over your face like he still couldn’t believe you were here, touching him, his.

You reached for the next forkful he offered, leaned in to take it from his hand but not before quickly leaning up to his face, placing a soft, quick kiss on his lips.

He sucked in a breath through his nose. “That’s not fair.”

You grinned. “I’m not trying to be fair. I’m trying to ruin you.”

“You already have,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

Your smile softened. “Spence…”

He looked down, fork paused between you. “I said a lot of things yesterday I didn’t mean.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be like that with you,” he added, voice quieter now. “I don’t ever want to talk to you like you’re… an opponent. You’re not. And I never should've said those hurtful things to you.”

You tilted your head, let your fingers rest lightly on his jaw. “I’m not going to pretend we’ll never argue again. But I do know you. And I know you didn’t mean it.”

He looked up at you then, really looked. “You always say the right thing.”

“I don’t.” You leaned your forehead against his. “But I mean everything I say to you.”

He offered you another bite, and you took it without looking away from him. Something about sharing food like this. Knees touching, eyes locked, sugar on your lips — made the air feel thick with softness.

You scooped some whipped cream onto your finger and gently tapped it onto the tip of his nose.

He blinked.

You grinned.

Then leaned in and kissed it off.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he whispered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Just giving you a reason to stay alive.”

He held you tighter, his free hand running slowly up your back like he needed the reassurance of your bones. “I would’ve fallen apart last night if you didn’t let me come home with you.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. Letting his lips linger on yours for longer than a few seconds. "Then it’s a good thing I love you too much to let you fall apart alone.”

The fork clattered quietly onto the plate as he pulled you in fully, pressing his lips to yours in a way that said everything he was too scared to speak aloud. It wasn’t urgent. It was honest.

You fed each other in between kisses, alternating between giggles and deep, slow silences, syrup drying sticky between your fingers where they threaded into his hair. He looked at you like you were something rare. And you held him like he’d never been held right before.

Pancakes never tasted so sweet.

And neither did forgiveness.

[blaysreid]

HEARTS FULL

pairing = germaphobe!spencer + bubbly!extrovert!reader

summary = Her thing is linking arms. His thing is avoiding touch. For years, they’ve danced around it. Until one sleepy night when she finally reaches for him and finds that maybe he’s been hoping she would all along.

The case had finally broken. Not with a bang, but with the kind of exhausted silence that only came after too many days chasing shadows through a rural Midwest town. The unsub was caught. The paperwork signed. Another horror story catalogued and closed.

And now, the team was dragging themselves back toward the airstrip, the cold wind tugging at jackets and fraying what little energy they had left.

You were walking beside JJ, who you’d barely spoken to in three days, too many hours spent inside precinct walls, too many leads that went nowhere. The moment her elbow brushed yours, you naturally slipped your arm through hers and leaned against her.

She didn’t even flinch.

She just smiled tiredly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just ready to be horizontal for, like… seventeen years.”

JJ snorted. “Same.”

Spencer walked a few paces ahead, head ducked down slightly as he adjusted the strap of his bag. You caught yourself watching the way his shoulder rose and fell. The subtle tension he always carried right there. He looked tired, exhausted even.

Since Quantico. Since the first year of profiling classes and coffee fueled late night study sessions. Since sitting on a park bench with him after your first real field op, both of you too shaken to speak until you finally just leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, “We did it.”

That had been the only time you ever touched him like that. He hadn’t pulled away. But after that, he told you gently, so gently that physical contact just wasn’t his thing. That he appreciated you, that he trusted you, but he wasn’t comfortable being touched. Nothing personal towards you, it's with everyone.

So you never did it again.

Not even your signature move - the arm linking. You did it with everyone else. Even Hotch, sometimes, when he was in a rare good mood and you were bouncing with post case energy. Hotch gladly even held his arm higher so you can hold it comfortably. Derek would always grin when you grabbed him. Garcia would squeal and twirl with you.

But Spencer?

You kept a careful distance. Even now, after years since you joined together, years after he told you to not take his words personally.

Even though you ached to reach for him. Sometimes to close the space, to show him that whatever this was between you two, it mattered more than what either of you were willing to say out loud.

You weren’t stupid. You knew you had a crush on him. And years after being a profiler you can tell he doesn't exactly think of you as a friend either. But you were also patient. And subtle. And maybe a little scared, too.

You boarded the jet, leaned your head against the window, and watched the sky shift from gold to blue to dark velvet.

⸻⸻

By the time you landed and made it back to the BAU headquarters, it was past midnight. Everyone had peeled off quickly, with Derek leaving first, then JJ with a yawned goodbye, Garcia blowing a kiss as she disappeared into the elevator with hotch eagerly waiting to see Jack after the long case.

You stood in the hallway with Spencer, the hum of vending machines and flickering lights the only company.

“Are you walking?” he asked, shouldering his bag again.

You nodded. “Too keyed up to crash yet. You?” Your hands reaching to pay for your vending machine drink.

“I was going to stop at that bookstore on Jefferson in the morning. That's if we don’t get called in of course."

You smiled. “You still haven’t finished that obscure memory treatise, huh?”

He smiled back a real one, small and crooked. “I have. Twice. I just like the smell in there.”

You tilted your head. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.” He giggles stepping forward.

“It’s not. It’s an adorable fact.”

He didn’t look away.

And neither did you as you both started making your way out.

“So,” you said after a beat. “Wanna go together? If we’re free?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly. Then, quieter “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You walked side by side toward the building’s exit. Your footsteps echoed softly. The air outside was cool, city lights casting everything in silver and gold. You said something, probably a joke about Rossi falling asleep with his eyes open on the plane and Spencer laughed, this breathy little sound that always made your heart feel a size too small.

And then, without thinking, without planning, you reached out and looped your arm through his.

His entire body went still.

You froze.

“Oh,” you said quickly, already starting to pull back. “Sorry- I wasn’t- I didn’t think- "

But you didn’t get the chance to finish.

Because Spencer… didn’t let go.

His arm stayed linked with yours. Not stiff. Not cold. But delicate, like he was holding something breakable. His fingers brushed against the inside of your elbow.

You turned to look at him.

He was blushing.

He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. And then he just smiled.

The tiniest, shyest smile you’d ever seen from him.

“I didn’t think I’d like this,” he said quietly, almost like he was confessing something.

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding.

“But you do?” you asked.

He looked down at your arms, still joined. His hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “With you, I do.”

You didn’t say anything else for a while.

You just walked like that - two shadows under the streetlights, arms tangled, hearts full.

And maybe you’d never said it out loud.

Maybe the words hadn’t quite come yet.

But in that quiet space between heartbeats, between two people who’d always known they were different…

You both understood.

[blaysreid]

BURNING EVIDENCE - "PATTERN RECOGNITION

pairing = season3!spencer + trainee!reader

summary = reader is a new profiler in training, spencer has recently gotten over his drug addiction and finds it hard to communicate and speak his mind like he used to. His struggle becomes even more difficult when he finds out something he wasn't supposed to.

content warning = details of case, nothing too deep. In further chapters there'll be mentions of Spencer's drug addiction as this would be around season end of 2 to early 3.

a/n = if you're enjoying please check out my other works I'm super new and I'd appreciate a lot )

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO

Spencer doesn’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. Cause he lies down at some point, somewhere between three and four a.m. staring at the textured motel ceiling, listening to the low whir of the vent kick on and off. But his mind stays moving. Quiet, clinical. Looping through evidence.

Three victims. Three weeks. Three faces covered in blood and fabric.

The ritual is getting sloppier.

By sunrise, he’s back in the conference room they’ve taken over. Coffee in one hand, crime scene photos spread across the cheap table like playing cards. There’s a stain near victim number two’s corner. He avoids looking at it.

Morgan walks in, says something about the team reconvening after breakfast. Spencer nods, distracted by the case.

It’s truthfully the left-handed dominance that still bothers him.

Something about it doesn’t fit.

Not just the bruising she pointed out, though that had been an interesting catch. He would’ve noticed eventually too, of course. Probably. But the way she phrased it, almost casually, stuck with him. As if she hadn’t needed to prove she was right. Just needed to say it.

He taps a pen against his notepad. He still isn’t sure if he finds that useful or irritating.

The file for victim three lies open in front of him. The facial covering had been a ripped t-shirt. Torn from the victim’s own clothing, but tied deliberately. Almost ritualistic, but not quite consistent enough.

Spencer squints, leans in.

There’s a photo, barely in frame of the knot. He zooms in on the digital copy. It’s backwards. Not left-handed. Just… mirrored.

He frowns. Grabs the file for victim one.

Same knot. Same reverse twist.

He flips open the second.

There it is again.

Spencer’s spine straightens a little. This isn’t dominance. This is mimicry. Copycat behavior. Maybe even staged.

He pulls out his notebook and starts scribbling notes, connecting the patterns. There’s a strange consistency in the inconsistency.

And then, as he’s scanning the rest of the details and photos, ligature marks, entry points. Until he looks up, around the room, eyes landing on the board. He notices another handwriting in the margins of the evidence board across the room. Slanted. Small.

An observation about the alley angles. Something about routine garbage pickup disrupting ritual placement.

He pauses.

He knows that’s not Hotch’s handwriting. Not JJ’s. Not his. He has his team members handwriting memorised not by want, but it's simply a piece of information he could never forget.

He glances toward the other side of the room.

She’s sitting alone with a stack of interview transcripts, highlighter in one hand, glasses slipping slightly down her nose. She doesn’t notice him looking.

Spencer watches for a second longer than he should.

Then turns back to the board.

And quietly underlines her note.

⸻⸻

The marker squeaks as Spencer crosses out a line on the whiteboard. His handwriting—looped and deliberate—blurs slightly in the flicker of cheap fluorescent lighting.

You lean back in your chair, chewing the inside of your cheek. A pile of case files is spread between you, the kind of paper chaos that only looks productive. You’ve both been working in silence for the last twenty minutes. Not companionable silence. Tired, fraying, stretched-thin silence.

On the board: three names.

Three women.

Three weeks.

Same MO. Same staging. Same strange hesitation in the kill.

Spencer’s pacing now. You watch his reflection blur against the glass partition. He mutters something to himself, then turns sharply. “It doesn’t make sense.” he says.

You glance up. “Which part?”

He gestures vaguely. “The timing. It’s inconsistent. The first victim was found three days after the abduction, the second in under twenty four hours, and the third- This one took almost a week.”

You blink. “Could be escalation. Or cooling off periods. He might not be as compulsive as we think-”

Spencer shakes his head. “No, no. If he were cooling off, the violence wouldn’t increase. That’s- ”

“Not what the data suggests,” you finish for him. Quietly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Something shifts in the air between you. Like he wasn’t expecting you to track the thought that closely.

You stand. Step closer to the board, eyes flicking between the names, the locations, the pins and string and scribbled behavioral notes.

“I don’t think he wants to kill,” you say slowly. “Not really. I think he feels like he has to. Like there’s something ritualistic about it. Not religious. But psychological.”

Spencer frowns. “That’s not in the victimology.”

“No,” you admit, “but it’s in the positioning. He’s not posing them for shock. He’s covering their faces.”

He studies the board. Then you.

You press on, voice steadier now. “You said it yourself. The last victim had defensive wounds, but the killer still took the time to reposition her arms. Face covered. Hands folded. That’s not chaos. That’s remorse.”

Another beat.

You almost regret saying it. Almost.

But then Spencer’s voice cuts in lower, measured. “You think he knew them.”

It’s not a question.

You nod. “Or thought he did.”

He steps closer to the board. Takes the marker again. Draws a new column. Connections. “If he’s ritualizing, we need to look at his internal narrative. Not just the forensics. What story is he telling himself?”

You exhale, grateful he’s listening now.

“Maybe,” you say, pulling out the crime scene photos, “he thinks he’s protecting them. From something or someone worse.”

“Or from himself.”

You look up. That, that, wasn’t a throwaway line. There’s something in his voice. Not quite personal, but laced with a tension you recognize.

But you don’t comment. You just slide the photos toward him.

For the next twenty minutes, you work in rhythm.

Theory. Counter-theory. Corrections. Realignment.

He builds off your observations without defensiveness. You adjust your ideas based on his insights without pride. It’s the kind of intellectual lockstep that’s rare even in this job.

Until-

You spot it. In the third victim’s file. Handwriting analysis. The way she signed her name on a receipt two days before her death, it’s shaky. Panicked. You flip to the others. Same pattern. Not just victims. A shared link. All three had visited the same local shelter before they died.

“Here,” you say suddenly, breath catching. You tap the file. “This handwriting... It's rushed. Almost like she was afraid someone was watching.”

Spencer’s beside you in seconds. Eyes scanning the page. “You think they knew they were being followed?”

“I think they recognized the person following them.”

His hand stills on the edge of the paper.

“That would change everything.” he says, voice low.

He pulls the board back toward him. Starts writing again. This time, in a new color.

You watch the way his posture changes, tense but focused. There’s a momentum here now, an energy that wasn’t in the room before. Not just about the case. About you.

He steps back, eyes on the board. “This… this could be it. The shelter. That’s the anchor.”

You nod. “The killer’s hunting familiar faces. People who won’t scream until it’s too late.”

Silence stretches for a moment. The whiteboard is full now with lines connecting names, places, motives. You both stand still in front of it. Breathing. Thinking.

And then-

Spencer glances at you. Really looks. For a second longer than he needs to.

And says softly, “That’s… good work.”

You feel the compliment land somewhere deep. Not sugary. Not performative. Just honest.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “You weren’t too bad yourself.”

You start to step back toward your desk but he speaks again. Quiet. Not urgent.

“Stay.”

You turn. He’s not looking at you now, just the board.

“I want to go over this again,” he says. “With you.”

⸻⸻

Rain was falling gently when you and Spencer drove to the shelter's address that was given by Garcia. The world looked muted as pale streetlights casting soft halos through the mist, slick pavement reflecting fractured glimmers like fractured glass. The air smelled of wet earth and something faintly metallic, a quietness wrapping everything like a slow exhale.

You reached for the radio dial, fingers brushing the cold plastic, the faint crackle of static waiting beneath. Just as you were about to twist it, Spencer’s hand shot out, lightly resting over yours.

“Let it be,” he said softly, eyes on the road ahead. His voice was low, tentative, like testing a line in a conversation.

You blinked, surprised. He was usually so lost in thought you’d never expect this small interruption. You let your hand drop back to your lap, the silence settling between you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the patter of rain on the car roof the only sound.

Then, out of nowhere, Spencer’s eyes flicked to you. “Did you always want to be in this line of work?” The question wasn’t direct, not intrusive, but carefully measured, an invitation wrapped in casual curiosity.

You considered it, watching raindrops race down the windshield. “No,” you finally said, voice low, almost reflective. “Not really. But when it comes down to it, I guess I always wanted to make sense of the things people try to hide.”

Spencer nodded slowly, like the answer fit some unseen puzzle piece he hadn’t quite grasped before.

The silence grew again, but this time it felt less like a wall and more like a shared space.

Inside the shelter, the air smelled faintly of bleach and old wood. The woman behind the desk was nervy, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting something or someone. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of a scarf wrapped tight around her neck.

You stepped forward first, voice calm and steady, the kind that seemed to warm the room just enough to make the woman breathe easier.

“We’re here to understand, to help. Anything you can tell us about the victims, about that man who volunteered here, anything could be important,” you said gently.

Her eyes met yours. Something shifted, the tension easing.

“He… he was quiet. Kept to himself mostly,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “But all three of them knew him. They trusted him. I don’t understand why he’d just disappear.”

You exchanged a glance with Spencer. Then she said the name, the one that clicked.

Spencer’s eyes sharpened. No longer the distant, distracted gaze, but focused, alert. The final piece falling into place.

“He wasn’t hunting strangers,” he murmured under his breath, almost to himself. “He was saying goodbye.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle as you and Spencer stepped out of the shelter, the faint sound of water dripping from eaves punctuating the quiet night.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself and started walking toward the car without saying much.

Spencer fell into step beside you, his gaze flickering down at the slick pavement. After a moment, you heard him say, low and careful, “You were right about the ritual.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised, feeling the weight behind those words.

“And you were right about the remorse,” you replied softly.

Neither of you said anything after that. The rain continued its steady fall, washing over you both. There was no umbrella between you. Just the shared space of rain, the cold dampness pressing in.

You walked side by side, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. It was not a touch. Not a look. Just presence. A quiet understanding passing between you like an unspoken acknowledgment that, despite all the chaos, you were in this together.

Reaching the car, you slid in without glancing back.

Spencer started the engine and pulled out slowly, the windshield wipers slicing through the mist.

Before you could get comfortable, his voice broke the silence again, quieter this time.

“You don’t talk much about yourself.”

You smirked, the edge of tiredness in your chest easing a little.

“Neither do you.”

For a brief moment, something warm flickered in his eyes, almost like a crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

Then he looked forward, focused once more on the road ahead.

A/N = heh did u guys notice the subtle hint at reader...

[blaysreid]

COVER STORY

pairing = oblivious!spencer + headoverheels!reader

summary = While going through a restricted room for files, Spencer and Reader are nearly caught. To protect what they’ve discovered, she whispers one impossible request "kiss me". And suddenly what starts as a cover becomes something far harder to fake.

content warning = kissing and making out but no smut. just touchy Spencer being needy without realisation.

The precinct air felt heavier at night. The room light was harsh and sterile, the kind that made everything feel more exposed than it should be. You were leaning over the conference table, palms flat against the surface, pulse a little too fast for how still you were trying to stay.

Hotch stood at the head of the room, arms folded, jaw tight. His gaze kept flicking between you and Spencer. He could sense it, not just the tension from the case, but something else. You hoped he didn’t name it. You couldn’t afford to have it named.

Spencer was next to you. Too close, honestly. You could feel the heat radiating from his arm, the light pressure of his sleeve brushing yours when he shifted. It was stupid. Three years in the BAU and you were still like this. Still ridiculously aware of every small movement he made, every time his voice dipped low when he was thinking out loud, every time he met your eyes like he didn’t mean to, like he couldn’t help it.

You were here to talk about the case. That was the whole point. And yet all you could think about was how it felt standing beside him, how the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the paper and dust and tension hanging in the room.

You tried to focus.

“There’s something they’re not telling us Hotch" you said, your voice sharper than intended.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Specifics?”

You hesitated, just long enough to feel Spencer’s eyes on you. His silence wasn’t passive, it never was. It was heavy. Calculated. A sign that he was either about to say something you’d been trying not to admit to yourself, or that he wanted you to be the one to say it first.

So you did. “Something's off not just about this case but this whole secrecy between the officers.” you said. “The way they’re handling this… they’re not just uncooperative. It’s like they’re trying to control what we see.”

Hotch didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked on you, analytical, reading between the lines the same way he always did. You felt Spencer shift slightly beside you, hands in the pockets of his cardigan, brows drawn as he looked down at the files again.

“And there are gaps in every report,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but steady. “They’re too clean. Too consistent to be random. Like someone edited them before we even got access.”

He leaned in a little, fingers brushing lightly over the corner of the crime scene photo as he pointed to a timestamp. “This is the second scene. They said the footage was corrupted… but this mark.. see that? That’s from a recorder pause. Manual. Someone stopped the tape.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was pressure. The tight, growing weight in your chest that something about this case was much bigger than what was written in ink. Your heart was already pounding a little too fast, but not just because of the evidence. It was because of him.

The fluorescent light caught the soft angles of his face and the way his jaw tensed when he was concentrating, the small furrow in his brow. His hair had fallen slightly over his forehead again, and you felt that stupid, familiar ache start to crawl up your spine.

You’d liked him since the beginning truthfully. Since that awkward, rainy morning three years ago when you walked into Quantico for the first time and he offered you coffee without ever looking directly at you.

It had started slow with quiet admiration, long glances, late night case talks and his comforting words to make you feel better. He was in BAU for a few years before you joined, he knew how things worked and how badly it affects you in the beginning. Therefore he was always ready to show his support towards you. But it wasn't just calming words to you. It was something more.

Now, watching him piece together the parts of something dangerous, watching the way his brain worked through layers and lies, it hit you all over again. Hard.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced up.

His eyes met yours.

Sharp. Soft. Curious.

There was a flicker of something behind them, something unreadable but far from indifferent. And suddenly the air between you felt different. Not heavy. Not cold.

Just… charged. And you wonder if he feels that same feeling inside your chest like butterflies are everywhere and for a second everything but his fades away.

Then Hotch’s phone buzzed. The moment snapped.

He answered with that clipped, professional tone, then tapped the screen to put the call on speaker. Garcia’s voice crackled through, bright but serious.

“Okay, boss. You’re not gonna like this. I did a bit of digging after you sent me those scans and guess what our sweet little department’s been hiding?”

Hotch looked at you and Spencer, jaw set. “What did you find?”

“A whole ass room, that’s what I found,” Garcia said. “It’s buried in the building’s floor plans, looks like a completely normal room. No surveillance, no active logins. Just… nothing. Like it’s locked off from everyone. But someone’s using it. And I've found out It’s where they’re keeping files that don’t show up in their regular system.”

Spencer looked up sharply. You could already see the wheels turning in his head.

“Someone doesn’t want us in there,” he said under his breath.

“Exactly,” Garcia replied. “Which means you have to get in. The door should be open right now until 5pm. Which means you better hurry up before they close it off for the night”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “Reid. You’re going in. Take her with you.”

You blinked. Spencer looked over at you.

The weight of his eyes again. Not soft this time. Serious. And Something about the way Hotch said it felt heavier than it should’ve.

Spencer straightened his shoulders and nodded. “We’ll find it.”

You swallowed the nerves crawling up your throat. It wasn’t the hidden room that made your heart beat faster.

It was going in there with him.

The hallway beyond the main bullpen was poorly lit, lined with locked doors and empty desks that hadn’t seen use in years. You could still hear the low murmur of officers talking in the squad room a floor below. Too many bodies, too many eyes. But Hotch had bought you a window, and it wouldn’t last long.

Spencer walked ahead of you, quiet and quick. His posture was a little stiff, like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here but he was going anyway. That part didn’t surprise you. He always followed the rules… until he didn’t. You’d seen it more than once on cases like this when something about the math didn’t add up, when the facts refused to sit still. That’s when he changed. Still soft-spoken, still polite… but sharp. Focused. Unflinching.

The badge clipped to your hip swung slightly as you walked. It wouldn’t help you here. Not in this situation where everyone is hiding the reality of the case from agents.

“Wait,” you whispered, grabbing Spencer’s arm gently just before the corner.

He paused, turning his head just enough to hear you, and you could feel the warmth of his body even with the space between you. It was stupid, but your fingers tingled where they’d brushed his sleeve. You dropped your hand.

“Two officers coming down the west stairs,” you murmured.

Spencer nodded once, barely perceptible, then leaned in closer than necessary to point toward a side door you hadn’t noticed before. “Janitor’s closet. Connects to the file corridor. If we cut through, we can reach the archive wing from behind.”

You blinked. “You sure?”

He gave the faintest smile. “I memorized the blueprint Garcia sent.”

Of course he did.

You slipped in behind him, pressing the door shut just as footsteps echoed down the hallway behind you. Inside, it smelled like bleach and old paper towels. Dark. Cramped. Close.

You could feel his breath. Hear the tiny inhale he tried to stifle when your shoulder accidentally brushed his chest.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

By the time you reached the sealed corridor Garcia mentioned, your pulse was back under control.. barely. The hallway here was silent. No cameras. No badge scanner, just an old room with a cracked door.

Spencer stepped forward, fingers gliding over the handle pushing it down slowly until the door creaked open.

Inside, it was dusty like nobody's entered it in weeks. Room reeking of poor insulation and secrets. Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with unlabeled folders, worn tape reels, and scattered evidence boxes. At the side of the room, a waist-high counter stretched beneath a long strip of flickering fluorescent light.

“We won’t have much time,” you said, but your voice felt far away. You quickly started searching for the box of documents you needed to find.

Because the moment you stepped fully inside, something changed.

It was the silence. The proximity. The fact that you and Spencer were suddenly alone, surrounded by sealed truths and flickering shadows. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just another room, just another case, and that the flutter in your stomach was from adrenaline.

But it wasn’t.

"I found it." Spencer called out, his voice pulling you back to your feet as you make your way back to the front of the room.

You moved toward the counter, trying to shake it off. Focus. That’s all you had to do. You weren’t the type to swoon over someone just because they smelled like old books and stood too close in the dark. You weren’t seventeen.

You hoisted yourself up onto the counter, hoping your knees wouldn't feel so weak anymore. Boots thudding softly against the metal as you settled on the edge. Casual. Confident. Or so you hoped.

Spencer didn’t sit. He stood beside you, shoulder inches from your knee, fingers flipping carefully through the packet he’d pulled from the shelf.

“This is it,” he said, thumbing the corner of a faded document. “These files, none of them were scanned into the system. These are the originals.”

You leaned toward him without realizing it. The scent of his cologne — barely there, clean, something warm — hit you again, and you had to focus on the folder in your lap to keep from looking at him.

He kept reading, shifting a little closer without meaning to. His arm brushed your leg this time.

Neither of you moved.

The air felt heavier here. Not dangerous, just… charged. Like even though you were both focusing on the yet to be solved case, you understood there's unspoken words yet to be said.

You wondered if he noticed. If he felt it, too.

But Spencer was impossible to read. His eyes stayed on the files, mouth slightly parted in concentration. But there was a faint flush at the edge of his collar. Barely there. But real.

You turned a page, pretending not to notice. Pretending you weren’t thinking about how easy it would be to reach over. To tuck that curl behind his ear. To say something you couldn’t take back.

But instead, you cleared your throat.

“Anything useful?”

Spencer blinked, almost startled. Then nodded. “Very. Did you find anything?”

Still no distance between you. "Just the information we already have"

Still no words about it yet he hums in agreement.

The door had clicked shut behind you both just ten minutes ago. You and Spencer stood alone in the dim room, lit only by the buzzing fluorescents overhead.

“This is insane,” you muttered under your breath, flipping through one of the file boxes on the shelf. “I mean, this whole section’s been completely hidden from any reports.”

“Not just hidden,” Spencer said from beside you, pulling out another manila folder. “Look at this... These are from the original investigation. Some of these witness statements never made it into the official file we were given.”

You turned and leaned against the metal counter, trying to act unaffected trying to ignore how close he was to you now, how warm his voice was even when he was being clinical. "I can't believe they'd think that we wouldn't be able to find out about this."

He stood only a foot away. His eyes flicked over the page in his hands, jaw tensed, brows pulled tight. You’d known Spencer for three years now. Joined the BAU together. Watched him from the other side of glass, from across motel rooms, jet seats, crime scenes.

You wanted to say something, but you got distracted again just watching the way his lips moved while he read.

It wasn’t fair. You bottled up so many emotions towards him, of course sometimes there's gonna be cracks and you can't hold back.

But he was so focused. So serious. And all you could think about was how badly you wanted to run your thumb along the edge of his jaw. How your stomach kept flipping every time he looked at you for too long.

You were about to say something anything when footsteps echoed down the hallway.

You both froze.

Spencer’s hand tightened around the folder. You turned your head slowly toward the slightly ajar door — and that’s when you hear it.

An officer talking into a radio, his footsteps getting closer and closer with the keys dangling in his hand.

You didn’t even breathe.

His voice carried faintly as he muttered something into his mic maybe checking in with someone, maybe just stopping to listen.

The door was open enough that if he glanced in. if he took one step closer, he’d see everything.

The documents. The open drawers. You. Him.

Your pulse spiked hard in your ears. You looked at Spencer. His jaw was clenched, eyes wide but actions swift as he moved the documents behind the now closed box. As if not one document left that box in the first place.

But you both knew there's no excuse for you being there regardless of that closed box. There's no reason you could've went to a floor that's not in use, lights off, door barely open.

And then, without thinking, you grabbed his sleeve, pulling him between your legs and whispered:

“Spencer, kiss me.”

He turned so fast it was almost comical. “What?!”

“He’s gonna look in here,” you said in a rush. “We have no excuse, no way of leaving. Pretend we're- you know..”

Spencer’s mouth opened, stunned silent, eyes darting between your face and the doorway. “I—”

And then he moved.

He stepped forward, fast and sharp, and suddenly he was pressed up against you, hand braced against the counter beside your hip. The other one found your waist—awkward at first, but then steady.

Then his lips were on yours.

And just like that—your brain short-circuited.

You hadn’t thought it through. Not the part where his breath would catch. Or the way his fingers tightened slightly, unsure, until you kissed him back. The heat of his chest against yours. The way his lips were soft but nervous, like he didn’t know how to fake this kind of thing, because maybe he’d never wanted to fake it.

You heard movement outside.

But you didn’t stop. Because his hands became greedy, pulling you closer by your waist. Your legs now wrapped around him, hand tugging on his perfect curls as he whimpers into your mouth from the feeling.

He leaned in more. Letting you touch him, letting you feel his soft hair as your other hand slid up his chest, curling lightly into the collar of his shirt.

And that’s when the door creaked wide open. Right when his hands fiddled with the top buttons on your shirt, completely forgetting about the officer, the case, the documents and where you were. His mind was filled with you.

“Oh—uh—whoa.”

You barely pulled away, still taking one last second of that kiss to cherish when you've cleared your head.

The officer stood in the doorway, blinking at the sight of you tangled together.

“Well… that’s one way to kill time on shift,” he said, laughing under his breath.

You broke the kiss and turned quickly, trying to hide your red face in Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh my god Spence I told you we were being reckless,” you said, feigning flustered giggles. Trying to hide the reality between what was actually going on.

Spencer stammered something like, “Sorry.. uh-we didn’t mean to-”

The officer held up a hand, shaking his head. “You agents are all the same. I’ll let it slide, but this room’s off limits. Go somewhere else and take your, uh… moment, somewhere else too.”

You laughed nervously again, until you felt Spencer's hand tighten on you, picking you up before placing you back on the ground and pulling your hand in his. “C'mon.”

Spencer managed a crooked, helpless smile. the worst actor you’d ever seen and while you pretend to fix your clothes, the officer obviously feeling the need to face the other way, Spencer slowly slid one of the folders to the side with his sleeve as you shifted off the counter. Your hand stayed casually on top of the incriminating file, sliding it smoothly under your jacket.

The officer didn’t seem to notice.

Didn’t even glance at either of you anymore, simply focusing on locking the door the second Spencer stepped out the door.

As you two walked out, shoulders brushing, you could feel Spencer vibrating with tension beside you.

You kept your expression calm, playful. But your heart was still racing.

And behind the flush on his cheeks and the scatter in his breath, Spencer Reid looked like a man who was never, ever, going to forget that kiss.

A/N = if you enjoyed please check out my other works, im new and it'd really help out to see if I should continue if people are interested :)

[blaysreid]

RAINY WALK HOME

pairing = bf!spencer + gf!reader

summary = Spencer and Reader share a too small umbrella on a rainy walk home, full of clumsy hand holding, gentle teasing, and soft little moments that feel like falling in love in slow motion. Their new relationship starting to unfold slowly..

The umbrella was definitely too small.

Spencer had tried to argue otherwise, launching into a very Reid-like explanation about canopy diameter and standard measurements, something about a “42-inch radius” being “perfectly adequate” for two people walking side by side. But as another cold droplet ran down your shoulder and soaked into your hoodie, you gave him the driest look imaginable.

“Spencer,” you said, glancing pointedly at your soaked left side, “my entire torso is a wet sock.”

He blinked down at your sleeve, then reached out and gently pinched the damp fabric between two fingers, clearly baffled. “Okay… maybe it’s slightly inadequate,” he admitted, eyes darting to the edge of the umbrella.

You let out a dramatic sigh but smiled anyway, bumping into him playfully as you both kept walking. “It’s fine. You’re warm.”

“I’m not a space heater,” he replied quickly, adjusting his grip on the umbrella so it leaned a little more toward your side. Feeling bad for not noticing your already soaked up hoodie.

“You kinda are,” you teased, slipping your hand around his forearm where his coat had bunched slightly. His skin was warm beneath the wool, steady and reassuring. “A very tall, overeducated, slightly neurotic heater who quotes statistics in the rain.”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief, but you saw the way his mouth twitched like he was trying very hard not to smile. It was always like that with Spencer. Laughter felt like something he wasn’t quite used to yet, but loved it more every time it showed up.

The sidewalk glistened under the streetlights, wet from the steady drizzle, and the world around you was calm in that late-evening way that felt secret and safe. The puddles on the curb reflected golden halos of lamp posts and blurred red brake lights, like the whole city had turned into a watercolor painting. Spencer walked slightly closer to the road, instinctively positioning himself between you and the edge like he always did, his arm brushing yours with every step. He didn’t say anything about it, but the gesture said more than words ever could.

As you reached the corner, you paused beneath an overhanging tree — one of those rare late-blooming cherry blossoms that still clung to its petals despite the cold. You stopped without thinking, lifting your gaze toward the pale pink flowers dusted with rain, and Spencer followed your line of sight. Without a word, he reached up and plucked a blossom from your hair that had drifted down with the wind.

For a moment, he just held it in his fingers, eyes lowered, caught in some quiet spell.

“You always smell like books and vanilla,” he murmured, voice soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure it was okay to say something like that aloud.

You felt your heart stutter in that soft, weightless way. “You smell like rain,” you answered honestly, then added, “and something kind. Like… an old study with a fireplace and old pages and a big armchair by the window.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard by the image. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Welcome to my brain.”

There was a silence after that, not awkward but full. Like standing in a warm pool of everything unspoken. He looked at you, really looked at you and then, with a small hesitation, offered his hand. It wasn’t smooth or confident. It was a little clumsy, like he’d thought about it the whole walk and was just now building up the nerve.

You didn’t hesitate. You slid your hand into his, lacing your fingers with his like it was something you’d done a thousand times before.

Spencer’s grip tightened, just a little. And then he didn’t let go.

The rest of the way home felt quieter, but not because no one spoke. It was because nothing else needed to be said. The umbrella stayed crooked between you, Spencer’s hand stayed in yours, and the rain kept falling, soft and steady and sweet, like the kind of night you knew you’d remember years later, reminding each other of how it all started.

A/N: isn't cozy Spencer the cutest..? :(

[blaysreid]

COFFEE SHOP DATE

Pairing = bf!spencer + fem!reader

Summary = Spencer and Reader escape the rain for a cozy coffee shop date full of teasing, soft laughter, and warm drinks — where lavender lattes are romantic, chai means loyalty, and they're holding hands the whole time.

The coffee shop smelled like cinnamon and rain soaked pavement. All warm and hazy, like a memory you want to bottle. Spencer held the door open for you, glancing over the rim of his scarf with the faintest smile tugging at his lips. His hair was still damp from the drizzle outside, a few strands curling against his forehead.

“You know,” he said, tugging his scarf looser, “statistically, ordering the same drink every time shows cognitive rigidity.”

You squinted at him, dramatically offended. “Are you calling me rigid?” You reach for his hand like it's muscle memory as he pulls you closer.

“I’m just saying,” he replied, raising an eyebrow, “you always get the same chai with oat milk and exactly one pump of brown sugar. Even on the hottest days.”

“That’s called loyalty, Doctor Reid.” You squint your eyes at him, trying to prove your point.

He let out a breathy laugh — rare, real — and shook his head. “Loyalty or caffeine dependency?”

You shoved him gently as you moved up in line. He leaned into it like he wanted to be closer anyway, grabbing your hand in his again.

When it was your turn, you did order your usual, just to be petty.

Spencer looked at the menu like it was a math problem. “Uhh… do you have a… um… a lavender honey latte?”

The barista nodded.

“With almond milk, please,” he added quickly, then looked to you, clearly waiting for some sort of judgment.

You blinked. “Did you just order the most romantic drink on the menu?” Not letting go of his hand but crossing your arms like you're interrogating him.

Spencer looked horrified. “No—I didn’t mean for it to be—what? Lavender is just—”

“Soft, Spencer.”

He went pink, looking down on the ground to avoid your eyes for a split second before looking back.

You couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re a little lavender latte boy.”

“I take it back.” Him being the petty one now, he lets go of your hand, crossing his arms and turning away from you as if you just hurt his feelings.

“Too late. You’ve revealed your true self." You both collapsed into laughter as you try and hug him around his waist to prevent him from going any further. The place was small, tucked into the corner of a quiet street — all wooden beams, fairy lights, and mismatched chairs.

You picked a cozy armchair while Spencer took the one beside you, knees brushing against each other as he pulls your chair right next to his to feel your warmth.

“Okay,” you said, once you had your drinks, cradling your cup like it was holy. “Let me guess your rating out of ten based on the first sip.”

He arched a brow. “This is scientific now?”

“Aren't you happy I'm the one being the scientist this time?"

Spencer hesitated, then took a slow sip, pinky raised in mock sophistication.

You watched him intensely.

He set it down. “Eight-point-six.”

You gasped. “Exactly what I was going to say! We’re synced.” Shoving your hands on his shoulder acting surprised to make it believable.

“I think you just said a random decimal,” he teased, interlinking his hand with yours.

He takes a sip of his drink tasting the sweet drink as he giggles the second he hears you sentence. "You’re just jealous because we’re psychically bonded.”

“You mean psychologically?” He smiled at you sweetly, unconsciously leaning closer.

“No. Psychically. I’m in your head now, Reid.”

He blinked, paused, then whispered, “Get out.”

You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your drink, and he gave you a sheepish grin like he hadn’t meant to be funny — like your laugh surprised him every time.

The rain started again outside, tapping gently on the window. You pulled your legs up in the chair and leaned your head against the back cushion, looking at him sideways.

“You look warm,” he said quietly, voice barely above the hum of jazz playing overhead.

“I am. Cozy. Happy.”

Spencer’s expression softened, like your comfort was its own reward. Like you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

And then, quietly, like it was a secret just for the two of you, he said, “Me too baby.”

You tilted your head. “Do you say that to all your lavender lattes?”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “Only the pretty ones.”

Your heart did a full somersault.

And in that little corner of the world — under golden lights, with rain painting the windows. Everything felt soft. Silly. Safe. Like a moment you could live in forever.

[blaysreid]

BURNING EVIDENCE - "Blurry Lines"

pairing = season3!spencer + trainee!reader

summary = reader is a new profiler in training, spencer has recently gotten over his drug addiction and finds it hard to communicate and speak his mind like he used to. His struggle becomes even more difficult when he finds out something he wasn't supposed to.

content warning = basically nothing but small details of their case, nothing too deep, but eventually there'll be more angst. This is around season 2/3 after Spencer had to deal with his drug addiction so bear in mind if I continue this as a series, there'll be subtle mentions towards this. ENJOY, PLEASE INTERACT AS IM VERY VERY NEW HERE:(

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO

You’d been warned about the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The cases, yes. The hours. The impossible paperwork. But also the people. The unshakeable ones. The ones who lived too long in the dark without blinking. The ones who never really let you in.

You’d expected that.

What you didn’t expect was him.

The first time you see Dr. Spencer Reid, he doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t look up when Hotch introduces you to the team with a firm nod and a folder already in your hands. Doesn’t even blink when your name is said aloud, just flips the page in front of him and makes a quiet note with a blue pen.

You’re not sure he even heard it.

You’re a profiler-in-training. You’ve studied him. Not directly since there’s no file on him but you’ve read the old cases. The lectures he gave on pattern theory and geographic profiling. You know the way people talk about him: genius. Eidetic memory. PhD at 23. The kind of mind you admire from a distance but don’t touch. But what people don't see through is how he's still a person behind all that IQ.

And yet here you are. Sitting diagonally across from him at the conference table, file open between you both, trying not to look like you’re sneaking glances.

He still hasn’t spoken. And from the way he pays no attention to anyone but the case makes you think he won't even think about it anytime soon.

⸻⸻ Conference room.

The case is brutal.

Three victims in as many weeks. Left posed in alleyways, faces covered. Each one more violent than the last. You’re trying to contribute after Garcia gave the details to the case, offer a theory that isn’t surface-level, but the way Reid reads the room and you is unnerving. Not hostile. Just… unreadable.

At some point in the middle of the briefing, he speaks.

“There’s hesitation in the second kill,” he murmurs, voice low but clear. “Not uncertainty—physical restraint. Like they were holding back on purpose.”

You glance over, surprised. He’s looking down, not at you, just tapping his pen once against the edge of the table. Thoughtful.

“Could be ritualistic,” you offer carefully.

Hotch nods in agreement before the usual "Wheels up in 30" While Reid also hums once in agreement. Doesn’t look at you. But he hears you.

It feels like passing a test.

⸻⸻ Plane.

You don’t really speak to him until Quantico is behind you and the jet is in the air to California.

You’re seated across from him again—of course you are. He’s rereading the ME reports, legs folded under him on the leather seat, cardigan sleeves pulled halfway over his hands. There’s a lull in conversation. Everyone else is dozing or zoned out. You force yourself to take the chance.

“I didn’t realize you were the one who did the Vegas case in ‘06.”

Spencer looks up sharply, like he wasn’t expecting to be addressed.

“I mean—” You falter. “The unsub with the chess piece markers. You predicted his final move almost exactly. It was… impressive.”

He blinks. “I don’t think anyone’s brought that case up in a long time.”

You shrug, sheepish. “I read a lot. Research. Patterns help me understand motive better.”

He pauses. You can feel him evaluating that subtly, not obvious, but precise.

“Patterns are only as useful as the anomalies inside them,” he says after a beat. “You know that, right?”

You nod once. “I’m learning.”

That earns the smallest twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. But it’s gone before you can be sure.

Then he says, quieter:

“You noticed the rings.”

You freeze. “What?”

“In the autopsy photos. You looked twice at the bruising on the right hand. You weren’t sure what it meant, but you clocked it.”

You sit back a little. “Were you… watching me?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch. Just meets your eyes for the first time since you met.

“I watch everyone.”

It’s not flirtation. Not teasing. It’s just a statement.

But something about it makes your throat dry.

⸻⸻ Later that night, at the motel.

You’re brushing your teeth when you hear footsteps stop outside your room. A soft knock. When you open the door, he’s there.

Holding a case file.

His hair’s messier than before. There’s a crease in his button-down. He looks like he hasn’t slept—probably hasn’t.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, eyes not quite meeting yours. “I just… couldn’t stop thinking about the phrasing in the letters. You mentioned it might be deliberate misdirection.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Like the unsub’s pretending to be less articulate than he is.”

Spencer’s eyes flick up to yours. “That’s good. It’s subtle. But it works.”

You feel your pulse pick up. “Thanks.”

A pause. A long one.

He shifts, almost like he might say something else. But then he just hands you the folder.

“I thought you might want to annotate the original transcript. I already made a copy.”

You look down at the file in your hands. Then up at him. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here for that.”

His eyes are unreadable in the low hallway light.

“I know.” And then he’s gone.

“I watch everyone.”

But it didn’t feel like that.

Not with you.

The door shuts with a soft click behind him.

You stand there a moment longer, file in your hands, the silence humming around you. The hallway’s already empty. You didn’t hear his footsteps after he turned away, but somehow you know he didn’t linger.

You don’t move.

Not until the chill from the AC unit starts to bite at your arms.

You place the folder on the desk, sit down slowly, and flip it open again—not because you’re ready to work, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

His handwriting is neat. Small and slanted. He’s annotated in margins, drawn lines between thoughts, highlighted phrases in a dull yellow. There are parts he’s circled and put question marks beside—like he’s talking to himself on paper. It feels weirdly intimate. Not romantic, just… private. A look into a mind that rarely lets anything leak out.

There’s a note paperclipped to the last page. Just four words, scribbled quickly:

“You were right. -S.”

That night you don’t sleep much. Nothing entirely because you're curious about his behaviour but because of the brutality of the case. Sure you've read plenty about how this is gonna work, but experiencing it first hand is what nothing could've prepared you for.

You leave the light on. Keep rereading the case file even when your eyes blur. You half expect another knock-some other reason he might come back. He doesn’t. So you keep reading and analysing until you drift off, hoping to find a temporary escape from reality.

⸻⸻ Next morning

You’re the second to arrive at the precinct. Hotch is already reviewing the latest update with the local PD, and you quietly offer to help with the latest victim’s background report. You don’t ask where Spencer is.

You don’t need to.

He walks in twenty-three minutes later with a cup of coffee and dark rings under his eyes.

He nods once at the room. Avoids everyone’s eyes. And then, without hesitation, sets the coffee down on your desk. A second cup. The one in his hand, he keeps. The one on the desk—he leaves without a word.

You stare at it. Should you thank him? Ask why? Pretend nothing happened? Buy one for him next time?

No one else seems to notice.

⸻

It becomes a pattern.

Not overnight, not instantly, but steadily—like something being measured out in teaspoons.

First he offers to swap files with you during late review sessions then you catch him rereading your notes even when he pretends he isn’t. He stops correcting you mid-sentence not because you’re always right but because he wants to hear the full thought.

Once, you’re both the last to leave the precinct, and as you pass each other in the parking lot, he mutters, barely audible, “You don’t seem new.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs like it didn’t matter. “You don’t act like a trainee.”

You can’t tell if it’s praise or analysis.

But it sticks.

⸻

It’s been four days since the start of the case.

You’ve been through two crime scenes, six witness interviews, and three all-nighters. You’ve eaten more takeout than your stomach can handle. You’ve seen Spencer disappear for hours into the evidence room without explaining why.

And tonight, back at the motel, you crash onto your bed fully clothed, arms splayed, file dumped on the nightstand.

You expect the day to end like all the others.

But at exactly 11:32 p.m., there’s a knock.

Not your door this time.

You’re walking past the vending machines when you hear it. Your name.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You turn, and he’s standing in the hallway again. Same cardigan. Same slight mess in his hair. This time, no folder in hand.

“I, um…” he starts, scratching the back of his neck. “I wanted to ask—when you noticed the bruising on the dominant hand… was that instinct, or training?”

You raise a brow. “You tracked me down to ask that?”

Spencer shifts, uncomfortable. “Yes. I mean-no. I just meant…”

There’s a pause. He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair.

“I just… think you might be right. About the left-handed dominance being faked. And I wanted to say it out loud. Before the profile gets rewritten.”

You study him for a moment.

And then, because the hallway’s quiet, and the vending machines hum like white noise, and your head’s too tired to overthink it—you say softly:

“You always this indirect, or is it just with me?”

Spencer freezes. Looks at you.

And for once, he doesn’t look away.

A/N : first series??? yes no..?

[blaysreid]

pairing = cuddly!spencer + cuddly!reader

summary = late night after a case, he missed you so much he can't stop showing his love for you. late night cuddles!! <3

Spencer’s arm was draped over your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles that made your skin hum with warmth. His head nestled just beneath your chin, the heat of his breath brushing softly against your neck. You could feel the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat, steady and sure, grounding you in a way words never could.

“I always forget how much I like this,” he murmured, voice low and soft, almost a secret meant only for you.

You smiled, pressing your cheek gently to the top of his head. “What do you like?”

“The quiet. The closeness. The way everything else just… falls away when it’s just you and me.” His fingers tightened their gentle grip, just enough to remind you he was there, real and present. “I’m not always great at being quiet. But with you, it feels right.”

You traced little circles on his shoulder with your fingertip, feeling the tension in his muscles ease under your touch. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His lips pressed a soft kiss just beneath your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Me too.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The world outside the window was quiet, but inside your small bubble, there was a language far more intimate, the brush of skin on skin, the shared warmth, the unspoken promises held in every breath.

You shifted slightly, your hand finding his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. He sighed contentedly, tilting his head into your touch.

“Do you ever think about the future?” you asked quietly, the words barely more than a whisper.

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes still closed. “With you? Yeah. I do. I think about the small things—the mornings, the late-night talks, the quiet.. the quiet moments like this. The way your hand fits in mine.”

You laughed softly, heart swelling. “I think about those things too.”

Spencer opened his eyes, meeting yours with a softness that made your chest ache. “I want to be here. Like this. For a long time.”

You squeezed his hand, the warmth spreading through you like a gentle fire. “Well you have no choice but to be here with me.. You didn't think I'd consider letting you go right?”

He giggled at your teasing tone, but in a confident tone he started "I wouldn't let you consider baby. You're my everything" with full seriousness that made your heart flutter, cause you know he meant every word.

your fingers tightening around his hand.

He smiled, that soft, shy smile that made you wanna kiss him all over his silly handsome face. “You know, I read somewhere that oxytocin—‘the cuddle hormone’—gets released when people touch like this. So technically, we’re just being very scientific.”

You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder. “Trying to sound smart while being adorable. Classic Spencer.”

He chuckled, nuzzling into your neck. “Hey, it’s an art.”

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment. After a beat, you murmured, “Do you think people like us, who overthink everything, can just… be?”

Spencer’s hand paused for a second, then he gave your hip a gentle squeeze. “I think we have to learn to be. Because moments like this—they don’t happen by accident. We have to choose them.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “Then I choose you. You're always my first choice Spence.”

He nodded, eyes soft but confident. “You know you're always my priority pretty girl. I couldn't imagine not being with you in this moment right now”

He hugged you impossibly close, his head resting on your shoulder, hands rubbing your back to soothe any discomfort you might feel from the long day before. "I love you"

And as the quiet stretched between you, full and real, you realized how lucky you were—cuddled up with the smartest, sweetest man you’d ever known. "I love you pretty boy"

a/n - If you enjoyed. Please check out the rest of my new works! Im new and it'll help a lot please.

IS THIS GOOD GUYS???? I got my first like on my other post, couldn't stop smiling LOL

[blaysreid]

pairing = season9!spencer + shy!reader

summary = He brushes your thigh like it’s nothing, like it's muscle memory. He whispers about ocean creatures and shares sea otter facts like it’s everything. And you realize: this is him flirting. Spencer Reid style.

a/n = i thought of season 9/10 Spencer but early Reid in long term rs would prolly be similar to this.. 💔

You’re trying to focus on the ocean documentary. Truly. The narrator is saying something about coral reefs and the delicate balance of marine ecosystems, and the footage is stunning.. For sure! But Spencer’s hand resting on your thigh is making concentration physically impossible.

Not in a wild way. Not blatant. Just… casual. Light. Soft. His fingers brush slowly now and then, like he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s just muscle memory. But you know better.

“Did you know octopuses have three hearts?” he says softly, voice far too close to your ear, like he’s just sharing a fact, not actively setting your whole nervous system on fire. “Two pump blood to the gills, one to the rest of the body. And when they swim, the heart that serves the body actually stops beating.”

You blink. “I—what?” Looking away from his hands and to his face, trying your best to show your focus on his favourite oceanic documentary.

He looks at you, all innocent. “It’s true. It’s one of the reasons they prefer crawling to swimming. Less strain.”

His fingers shift just slightly higher on your thigh.

You inhale a little too sharply.

“Are you even watching the documentary?” you manage to whisper, trying not to squirm.

“I am,” he replies with a small smile, eyes still on the screen. “You just… make it hard to focus sometimes.”

He says it so matter-of-factly you short-circuit. I'm making it hard to focus? No, he's making me go insane while acting so casually.

Your voice comes out small. “You’re the one touching me…”

He glances at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh. I didn’t realize I was being distracting.”

Liar.

His thumb draws slow, barely-there circles on your leg. “But, if it helps, did you also know sea otters hold hands while they sleep so they don’t drift apart?”

You reach for his other hand smiling at his fact, "that's cute, it's like us right?"

“Kind of. I'd never even get close to drifting away from you though.” he says, voice all soft and amused, pulling you closer so your legs are now on his lap.

You’re blushing so hard you can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks, and he finally turns to look at you fully, his grin softening into something almost tender.

“I like watching you get flustered,” he murmurs. “You’re cute when you're all shy, looking so pretty for me.”

He leans in, brushing a kiss to your jaw, then goes right back to watching the screen like nothing happened.

You’re not going to remember a single fact about the ocean.

A/N?? If you enjoyed. Please check out the rest of my new works! Im new and it'll help a lot please.