hhhwnr

[hhhwnr]

ꨄThe Girl Dad Chronicles — S.R

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

genre: fluff/ domestic comfort word count: 1,1k warnings: none!

summary: You asked for something low-maintenance. Spencer brought home something better—with a shell and sleepy eyes.

author’s note: wrote this because I miss my turtles I had back in 2016… I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions / feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨𓆉୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You and Spencer had talked, vaguely and often, about getting a pet. Something to take care of. Something that would be waiting at home when the world felt sharp and chaotic. But with your work schedules— 3 AM flights, last-minute debriefs, crime scenes—it never seemed practical. Dogs were too energetic, cats too proudly indifferent. You both needed something… simpler. Something softer and still.

So you shelved the idea, telling yourselves maybe one day, and apparently, for Spencer, that day was today.

You didn’t know anything had changed until you walked through the front door after an exhausting case and were greeted—not by Spencer, but by a quiet bubbling sound coming from the coffee table.

“What the—“

A glass tank sat beneath the window, lined with smooth river stones and a single, sleepy-looking turtle blinking slowly under a tiny basking light.

You blinked back at it.

“She’s still adjusting,” Spencer called from the kitchen. “Don’t look her directly in the eyes, she’s shy.”

You turned, stunned. “You—bought a turtle?”

“She found me,” he corrected, appearing in the doorway with two mugs of tea. “I was getting groceries. She was sitting in this sad little tank by the register, and—well, she looked like no one had ever told her she was brilliant.”

You stared at him.

He added quickly, “Her name is Mary Shelly. With one ‘e’ and two L’s. I thought it was fitting.”

Your lips twitched. “Because she has a shell.”

“And because you love Frankenstein,” he said, with that soft-eyed certainty that always made your chest ache. “Thought it might make you happy.”

You crouched in front of the tank, watching Mary Shelly stretch one tiny foot and blink as if in slow, careful approval. “She’s kind of perfect.”

Spencer settled beside you on the floor, knees bumping yours. “She listens better than most people. I told her about the whole cognitive interview process while setting up her tank.”

You glanced sideways. “And what did she think?”

“She blinked.”

You grinned. “A scholar.”

“She’s a Reid,” he said solemnly.

Later, you found yourself chopping vegetables in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair hastily pinned back. The familiar rhythm of dinner helped ground you again after a long day — knife against cutting board, pan warming slowly, the low hum of music playing a playlist you and Spencer shared.

Spencer drifted in behind you. “Are you using all of those?” he asked, nodding toward the neat pile of carrot tops and leafy ends you’d set aside.

“Planning to eat the stems now?” you teased without looking up.

“For Mary,” he said simply.

You paused for a beat, then smiled, pushing the little pile toward him with a flick of your wrist. “Knock yourself out, Dr. Doolittle.”

He took them gratefully and padded over to the tank like it was some sacred altar. “You’re going to love these,” he said to the turtle, crouching down so he was eye level with her.

You didn’t look, but you could hear it in his voice—the warmth, the affection, the care he didn’t always show people but had no trouble giving to a reptile with stubby legs and sleepy eyes. You peeked over your shoulder as he delicately placed the carrot tops inside, and Mary blinked once. Then twice.

“She blinked once. Then twice,” Spencer narrated reverently, still crouched by the tank. “That’s practically a standing ovation.”

You snorted gently, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Careful. She might start clapping next.”

Spencer turned, face lit with that quiet kind of joy that only ever peeked out in the safety of soft moments. “I think she likes me.”

You raised a brow. “I think she likes the food.”

“She’s a woman of refined taste,” he countered, rising to his feet and gently, gently reaching into the tank. “And I think she deserves a change of scenery.”

“Spence—”

“She needs enrichment.”

You didn’t argue—mostly because he was already setting her down carefully on the kitchen counter, just to the side where you’d finished prepping. Mary blinked slowly in her new surroundings, extending one tiny leg forward with dramatic determination before… slowly retracting it again and staying perfectly still.

Spencer gasped like she’d just performed a ballet solo. “Did you see that? She explored. That was exploration.”

You leaned against the counter, biting back a grin. “She took one step.”

“One meaningful step.”

Mary, as if to prove a point, took another slow-motion inch toward the pile of discarded cilantro stems, nosed them gently… and sneezed. Or, at least, made a noise that could’ve passed for a sneeze in turtle language.

Spencer lit up. “She rejected it. She has preferences.”

“She just dissed my cilantro.”

He turned to you, eyes shining. “She’s got taste.”

You laughed softly, folding your arms as you watched the two of them. Spencer’s gaze hadn’t left the turtle. He crouched again, chin practically resting on the edge of the counter as he murmured, “Don’t worry. Next time I’ll bring you dandelion greens. Or zucchini. Something bold.”

You pressed your shoulder gently to his. “You know you’re not actually her dad, right?”

“She lives under my roof,” he said, with a mock-stern expression. “She eats my food. I think that counts.”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re a girl dad now.”

Spencer blinked, then looked down at Mary like the concept had just been officially handed to him on government letterhead. Slowly, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth—wry and deeply fond. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

You chuckled, nudging him gently with your elbow. “Next thing I know, you’ll be making her a tiny science fair project and showing up to parent-teacher conferences.”

“If she ever enrolls, she’s going to have the most thorough book reports the class has ever seen,” he said solemnly. “She’ll be banned for making the other turtles look bad.”

As if on cue, the turtle lifted her head and extended her neck toward Spencer’s voice, blinking in slow, sage approval before nosing a small piece of carrot closer to him like an offering.

Spencer gasped quietly, placing a hand over his heart. “She gave me something. That was a gift.”

“She’s bonding with you.”

“We’re imprinting,” he whispered, still awed.

You giggled. “Spence, she isn’t a duck.”

“She doesn’t know that,” he whispered back.

And then, without even thinking, he reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side as if that was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t resist—just leaned your head against his shoulder and watched the turtle blink once more like she approved of this too.

“She’s gonna be spoiled, isn’t she?” you murmured.

“Well… how is that a bad thing?” Spencer laughed softly, kissing your cheek.

Thank you for reading! ♥︎𓆉

[hhhwnr]

ꨄThe Girl Dad Chronicles — S.R

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

genre: fluff/ domestic comfort word count: 1,1k warnings: none!

summary: You asked for something low-maintenance. Spencer brought home something better—with a shell and sleepy eyes.

author’s note: wrote this because I miss my turtles I had back in 2016… I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions / feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨𓆉୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You and Spencer had talked, vaguely and often, about getting a pet. Something to take care of. Something that would be waiting at home when the world felt sharp and chaotic. But with your work schedules— 3 AM flights, last-minute debriefs, crime scenes—it never seemed practical. Dogs were too energetic, cats too proudly indifferent. You both needed something… simpler. Something softer and still.

So you shelved the idea, telling yourselves maybe one day, and apparently, for Spencer, that day was today.

You didn’t know anything had changed until you walked through the front door after an exhausting case and were greeted—not by Spencer, but by a quiet bubbling sound coming from the coffee table.

“What the—“

A glass tank sat beneath the window, lined with smooth river stones and a single, sleepy-looking turtle blinking slowly under a tiny basking light.

You blinked back at it.

“She’s still adjusting,” Spencer called from the kitchen. “Don’t look her directly in the eyes, she’s shy.”

You turned, stunned. “You—bought a turtle?”

“She found me,” he corrected, appearing in the doorway with two mugs of tea. “I was getting groceries. She was sitting in this sad little tank by the register, and—well, she looked like no one had ever told her she was brilliant.”

You stared at him.

He added quickly, “Her name is Mary Shelly. With one ‘e’ and two L’s. I thought it was fitting.”

Your lips twitched. “Because she has a shell.”

“And because you love Frankenstein,” he said, with that soft-eyed certainty that always made your chest ache. “Thought it might make you happy.”

You crouched in front of the tank, watching Mary Shelly stretch one tiny foot and blink as if in slow, careful approval. “She’s kind of perfect.”

Spencer settled beside you on the floor, knees bumping yours. “She listens better than most people. I told her about the whole cognitive interview process while setting up her tank.”

You glanced sideways. “And what did she think?”

“She blinked.”

You grinned. “A scholar.”

“She’s a Reid,” he said solemnly.

Later, you found yourself chopping vegetables in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair hastily pinned back. The familiar rhythm of dinner helped ground you again after a long day — knife against cutting board, pan warming slowly, the low hum of music playing a playlist you and Spencer shared.

Spencer drifted in behind you. “Are you using all of those?” he asked, nodding toward the neat pile of carrot tops and leafy ends you’d set aside.

“Planning to eat the stems now?” you teased without looking up.

“For Mary,” he said simply.

You paused for a beat, then smiled, pushing the little pile toward him with a flick of your wrist. “Knock yourself out, Dr. Doolittle.”

He took them gratefully and padded over to the tank like it was some sacred altar. “You’re going to love these,” he said to the turtle, crouching down so he was eye level with her.

You didn’t look, but you could hear it in his voice—the warmth, the affection, the care he didn’t always show people but had no trouble giving to a reptile with stubby legs and sleepy eyes. You peeked over your shoulder as he delicately placed the carrot tops inside, and Mary blinked once. Then twice.

“She blinked once. Then twice,” Spencer narrated reverently, still crouched by the tank. “That’s practically a standing ovation.”

You snorted gently, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Careful. She might start clapping next.”

Spencer turned, face lit with that quiet kind of joy that only ever peeked out in the safety of soft moments. “I think she likes me.”

You raised a brow. “I think she likes the food.”

“She’s a woman of refined taste,” he countered, rising to his feet and gently, gently reaching into the tank. “And I think she deserves a change of scenery.”

“Spence—”

“She needs enrichment.”

You didn’t argue—mostly because he was already setting her down carefully on the kitchen counter, just to the side where you’d finished prepping. Mary blinked slowly in her new surroundings, extending one tiny leg forward with dramatic determination before… slowly retracting it again and staying perfectly still.

Spencer gasped like she’d just performed a ballet solo. “Did you see that? She explored. That was exploration.”

You leaned against the counter, biting back a grin. “She took one step.”

“One meaningful step.”

Mary, as if to prove a point, took another slow-motion inch toward the pile of discarded cilantro stems, nosed them gently… and sneezed. Or, at least, made a noise that could’ve passed for a sneeze in turtle language.

Spencer lit up. “She rejected it. She has preferences.”

“She just dissed my cilantro.”

He turned to you, eyes shining. “She’s got taste.”

You laughed softly, folding your arms as you watched the two of them. Spencer’s gaze hadn’t left the turtle. He crouched again, chin practically resting on the edge of the counter as he murmured, “Don’t worry. Next time I’ll bring you dandelion greens. Or zucchini. Something bold.”

You pressed your shoulder gently to his. “You know you’re not actually her dad, right?”

“She lives under my roof,” he said, with a mock-stern expression. “She eats my food. I think that counts.”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re a girl dad now.”

Spencer blinked, then looked down at Mary like the concept had just been officially handed to him on government letterhead. Slowly, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth—wry and deeply fond. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

You chuckled, nudging him gently with your elbow. “Next thing I know, you’ll be making her a tiny science fair project and showing up to parent-teacher conferences.”

“If she ever enrolls, she’s going to have the most thorough book reports the class has ever seen,” he said solemnly. “She’ll be banned for making the other turtles look bad.”

As if on cue, the turtle lifted her head and extended her neck toward Spencer’s voice, blinking in slow, sage approval before nosing a small piece of carrot closer to him like an offering.

Spencer gasped quietly, placing a hand over his heart. “She gave me something. That was a gift.”

“She’s bonding with you.”

“We’re imprinting,” he whispered, still awed.

You giggled. “Spence, she isn’t a duck.”

“She doesn’t know that,” he whispered back.

And then, without even thinking, he reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side as if that was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t resist—just leaned your head against his shoulder and watched the turtle blink once more like she approved of this too.

“She’s gonna be spoiled, isn’t she?” you murmured.

“Well… how is that a bad thing?” Spencer laughed softly, kissing your cheek.

Thank you for reading! ♥︎𓆉

[hhhwnr]

ꨄInk-stained affection — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/mutual pinning word count: 1,1k

pairing: post prison!Spencer Reid x sunshine!reader

warnings: brief mentions of prison.

summary: Some things are easier to write than say. Especially when he has forgotten how to say anything at all. But you were patient—and paper listens just as well as you do.

author’s note: post prison!Spence is my beloved. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It started with a journal — not as some grand romantic gesture, but something quieter, simpler, something that didn’t demand too much. After prison, words weren’t easy for Spencer, not in the way they used to be. He still talked, of course, still rambled sometimes about quantum theory or 18th-century handwriting, but even those rambles were slower now, more deliberate, like each word had to be checked and weighed before leaving his mouth. Conversation felt like walking across a rope bridge in the wind — possible, but uncertain — and some days, no matter how much he wanted to connect, the space between thoughts and speech felt too wide to cross. So you didn’t ask him to talk. You just left a blank notebook on the edge of his desk one afternoon, nothing fancy, just a soft-covered journal with a post-it on top that read: In case speaking feels too loud today. You didn’t expect him to use it, but two days later it reappeared on your chair, opened to a page written in small, careful handwriting: Do you want to get coffee after work? That was all. But it was enough.

Over time, the journal stopped being just a bridge and became a home for the quiet parts of your connection—the kind of things too soft or too strange to say out loud. You took turns without rules, slipping it into desk drawers or messenger bags like a secret waiting to be found. Sometimes it was practical—grocery lists, book club notes, flight times for a shared case. Other times it was tender: a pressed flower from a walk you’d taken apart but thought of each other during; a doodle of his cardigan draped over your chair with a tiny “missing you” written in the pocket; a smudged coffee ring beside a scribbled line of poetry neither of you could quite finish. It was a slow, careful accumulation of small things—anecdotes, quotes, quiet thoughts in the margins. You looked tired today, but beautiful still. I thought of you when I saw a crow with a limp. This passage reminded me of the way you fidget with your sleeves. The kind of notes you don’t say aloud in case they sound too big or too honest, but that, written down, felt just right.

Spencer stared at the open page for a long time before writing anything. The journal sat between his hands like it always did—familiar, worn at the corners, faintly smelling of lavender and ink. He tapped the pen against the edge of the paper, like the rhythm could pull the words out of him. He’d written so much in this journal—facts and fragments and safe little glimpses of affection—but this felt different. This felt like crossing some invisible line he wasn’t sure he could uncross.

Still, he wrote.

You were humming in the elevator today. I didn’t know the tune, but it stayed with me all day. I think that’s what love does sometimes—slips in without a sound, nestles between your ribs, and makes a home there before you’ve even noticed.

I used to think of you when I was still inside. Not often at first. Just… little things. Your voice in meetings. The way you held a pen. How you always had a hair tie on your wrist, even when your hair was up. I think I was clinging to whatever felt normal, whatever reminded me that the world was still going even if I wasn’t really in it. But somewhere in those small, quiet thoughts, you became a kind of comfort. A light that wasn’t too bright, but steady. Familiar. You were one of the few things I let myself keep.

And now, here you are. Reading my bad handwriting, correcting my book quotes, drawing ridiculous doodles in the margins like it’s your full-time job. And I still don’t always have the words when I need them. Even when I talk, it’s slower now. Softer. I second-guess things I never used to. But you never make me feel like I have to perform. You listen like it’s second nature. Like I’m worth listening to. And that… that does something to a person.

So I guess I’m writing it here, because I still don’t trust my voice not to tremble: I am in love with you. Tell me in ink.

The next morning, he brought you coffee—your favorite, made exactly how you liked it, which he somehow always remembered even when he forgot to eat lunch or where he last put his keys. He didn’t say much, just set the mug beside your hand and lingered there a moment longer than usual. The notebook followed, placed gently on top of the folder you’d been reviewing, its familiar spine worn soft. He didn’t look at you when he left it there—just gave a quiet little tap against the cover with two fingers and mumbled something about paperwork. But his ears were pink, and you could swear he smiled when your hand brushed his knuckles in thanks.

He didn’t expect it back so soon.

But there it was, sitting neatly on his desk that afternoon like it had been waiting for him all along. The cover still smelled faintly like your hand cream—coconut and something citrusy—and there was a tiny yellow post-it stuck to the front, a smiling sun doodled in the corner. He opened to the next blank page and found your familiar handwriting, looping and full of warmth.

Spence, I read your note three times. Not because I didn’t believe it—but because I wanted to feel it over and over again. You don’t know what it means to me that you let me into your heart like that.

I think I’ve loved you in small ways for a while now—like how I always look for your face first in a crowded room, or how I find myself smiling when I see your name on my phone. It didn’t hit me all at once. It was like the warmth of the sun sneaking through a window on a cold day—soft, unexpected, and completely impossible to ignore.

And even if you’d never said it, I think I still would’ve kept writing to you. Because even before I loved you, I liked you so very much. And being liked by you in return? That’s already one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

So… meet me after work? You can tell me in words this time. I’ll bring your favorite muffins. You bring that smile I like.

And there it was—at the bottom of the page, a soft lipstick mark, right where your signature might have gone.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his fingertips tracing the edge of the page like he could hold the feeling steady just a little longer.

He couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

ꨄInk-stained affection — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/mutual pinning word count: 1,1k

pairing: post prison!Spencer Reid x sunshine!reader

warnings: brief mentions of prison.

summary: Some things are easier to write than say. Especially when he has forgotten how to say anything at all. But you were patient—and paper listens just as well as you do.

author’s note: post prison!Spence is my beloved. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It started with a journal — not as some grand romantic gesture, but something quieter, simpler, something that didn’t demand too much. After prison, words weren’t easy for Spencer, not in the way they used to be. He still talked, of course, still rambled sometimes about quantum theory or 18th-century handwriting, but even those rambles were slower now, more deliberate, like each word had to be checked and weighed before leaving his mouth. Conversation felt like walking across a rope bridge in the wind — possible, but uncertain — and some days, no matter how much he wanted to connect, the space between thoughts and speech felt too wide to cross. So you didn’t ask him to talk. You just left a blank notebook on the edge of his desk one afternoon, nothing fancy, just a soft-covered journal with a post-it on top that read: In case speaking feels too loud today. You didn’t expect him to use it, but two days later it reappeared on your chair, opened to a page written in small, careful handwriting: Do you want to get coffee after work? That was all. But it was enough.

Over time, the journal stopped being just a bridge and became a home for the quiet parts of your connection—the kind of things too soft or too strange to say out loud. You took turns without rules, slipping it into desk drawers or messenger bags like a secret waiting to be found. Sometimes it was practical—grocery lists, book club notes, flight times for a shared case. Other times it was tender: a pressed flower from a walk you’d taken apart but thought of each other during; a doodle of his cardigan draped over your chair with a tiny “missing you” written in the pocket; a smudged coffee ring beside a scribbled line of poetry neither of you could quite finish. It was a slow, careful accumulation of small things—anecdotes, quotes, quiet thoughts in the margins. You looked tired today, but beautiful still. I thought of you when I saw a crow with a limp. This passage reminded me of the way you fidget with your sleeves. The kind of notes you don’t say aloud in case they sound too big or too honest, but that, written down, felt just right.

Spencer stared at the open page for a long time before writing anything. The journal sat between his hands like it always did—familiar, worn at the corners, faintly smelling of lavender and ink. He tapped the pen against the edge of the paper, like the rhythm could pull the words out of him. He’d written so much in this journal—facts and fragments and safe little glimpses of affection—but this felt different. This felt like crossing some invisible line he wasn’t sure he could uncross.

Still, he wrote.

You were humming in the elevator today. I didn’t know the tune, but it stayed with me all day. I think that’s what love does sometimes—slips in without a sound, nestles between your ribs, and makes a home there before you’ve even noticed.

I used to think of you when I was still inside. Not often at first. Just… little things. Your voice in meetings. The way you held a pen. How you always had a hair tie on your wrist, even when your hair was up. I think I was clinging to whatever felt normal, whatever reminded me that the world was still going even if I wasn’t really in it. But somewhere in those small, quiet thoughts, you became a kind of comfort. A light that wasn’t too bright, but steady. Familiar. You were one of the few things I let myself keep.

And now, here you are. Reading my bad handwriting, correcting my book quotes, drawing ridiculous doodles in the margins like it’s your full-time job. And I still don’t always have the words when I need them. Even when I talk, it’s slower now. Softer. I second-guess things I never used to. But you never make me feel like I have to perform. You listen like it’s second nature. Like I’m worth listening to. And that… that does something to a person.

So I guess I’m writing it here, because I still don’t trust my voice not to tremble: I am in love with you. Tell me in ink.

The next morning, he brought you coffee—your favorite, made exactly how you liked it, which he somehow always remembered even when he forgot to eat lunch or where he last put his keys. He didn’t say much, just set the mug beside your hand and lingered there a moment longer than usual. The notebook followed, placed gently on top of the folder you’d been reviewing, its familiar spine worn soft. He didn’t look at you when he left it there—just gave a quiet little tap against the cover with two fingers and mumbled something about paperwork. But his ears were pink, and you could swear he smiled when your hand brushed his knuckles in thanks.

He didn’t expect it back so soon.

But there it was, sitting neatly on his desk that afternoon like it had been waiting for him all along. The cover still smelled faintly like your hand cream—coconut and something citrusy—and there was a tiny yellow post-it stuck to the front, a smiling sun doodled in the corner. He opened to the next blank page and found your familiar handwriting, looping and full of warmth.

Spence, I read your note three times. Not because I didn’t believe it—but because I wanted to feel it over and over again. You don’t know what it means to me that you let me into your heart like that.

I think I’ve loved you in small ways for a while now—like how I always look for your face first in a crowded room, or how I find myself smiling when I see your name on my phone. It didn’t hit me all at once. It was like the warmth of the sun sneaking through a window on a cold day—soft, unexpected, and completely impossible to ignore.

And even if you’d never said it, I think I still would’ve kept writing to you. Because even before I loved you, I liked you so very much. And being liked by you in return? That’s already one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

So… meet me after work? You can tell me in words this time. I’ll bring your favorite muffins. You bring that smile I like.

And there it was—at the bottom of the page, a soft lipstick mark, right where your signature might have gone.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his fingertips tracing the edge of the page like he could hold the feeling steady just a little longer.

He couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

ꨄPublic Display of Awkward — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/comfort word count: 1,1k

paring: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings & summary: no warnings. Spencer isn’t used to public displays of affection—but with you, he wants to learn.

author’s note: lots of tenderness and public displays of affection! I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Spencer wasn’t the hand-holding type.

Not because he didn’t want to be, but because he wasn’t sure how.

In the quiet privacy of your apartment, he could press a kiss to your shoulder without overthinking it. He could hold your hand for hours on the couch, curled together beneath a shared blanket. But out there—in public, surrounded by eyes and assumptions and attention—it felt different. It felt… observed.

You were walking side by side, close enough that your jacket sleeves brushed now and then, but not touching—not really. The crowd around you moved in waves: parents tugging along kids, couples snapping photos, a street musician playing something jazzy near the café. Spencer kept glancing around, his posture a little tense, as he always was in bustling spaces.

You noticed the way his fingers twitched sometimes near his coat pocket—like maybe he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if it was the right moment. So you made it easier. You slipped your hand into his without a word, letting your fingers lace gently through his. A silent offer, no pressure. Just a question with skin instead of words.

Spencer went still for a beat. Not in panic, but in calculation. He looked down at your hands, then at your face, like he was double-checking your intent. You didn’t look back—just kept walking, giving him space to choose what to do with it.

And he did. Carefully, Spencer curled his fingers between yours and gave the faintest squeeze. Then, as you reached the edge of the sidewalk and paused to wait for the light, you felt it: his thumb brushing slow and deliberate across the back of your hand.

A small movement — thoughtful, almost fragile.

“Do you like when I do that?” he asked, voice soft, as if he might stop if the answer was anything but yes.

But you could only smile, feeling your heart thudding. “I do,” you said simply. “Very much.”

And he nodded—just once—like he was storing that information away somewhere important.

He thought about it later that night. He thought of how easy you made it look. How holding hands in public wasn’t a statement for you—it was just affection, simple and honest. How when people passed by, you didn’t drop his hand or change the subject or pull away. He thought about all the reasons it had always been hard for him: the scrutiny, the exposure, the fear of not doing it right. But more than that, he thought about how proud you looked when you had him close.

And he realized: if you weren’t ashamed of him, maybe he didn’t have to be ashamed of showing it either.

The next morning, while the two of you stood in line at your favorite little corner café—him reading the day’s specials with furrowed brows like he was reviewing a thesis, you gently swaying on your feet behind him—he reached for your hand again. No hesitation this time. His fingers found yours with a quiet certainty, warm and steady, and before you could so much as glance at him, he lifted it slowly to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Soft, casual even. Like he’d done it a hundred times, like it was something he did on every slow morning, in every line, surrounded by the half-asleep city.

“Spence?” You blinked, surprised, and tilted your head with a smile tugging at your lips.

He glanced down, eyes warm, a hint of mischief dancing there like sunlight on water. “What?” he asked, though he definitely knew.

“That’s… new,” you replied, grinning now.

He hummed, pressing another feather-light kiss to your knuckles—less hesitant, more familiar this time. “Well,” he said softly, “it’s what people do sometimes. When they’re in love.”

That startled something tender in your chest. You stared at him, caught off guard in the best way.

It happened again, days later, in the grocery store—aisles too bright, music too soft to recognize. The place was quiet for a Thursday evening. You were standing in front of the greens, comparing bunches of parsley like it was a life-altering decision, when Spencer drifted over to you.

He didn’t say anything, just came to stand beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You felt him there more than saw him—his quiet, comforting presence, the way he always fit next to you without effort.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. A slow, thoughtful kiss. No hesitation, no awkward pause. Just his lips against your skin, gentle and grounding.

You didn’t move. Just closed your eyes for a second, let it happen, let yourself feel the way he was starting to settle into you—more confident in the way he loved you, in the way he showed it.

He pulled back slowly, hand grazing your lower back for a moment, and then wandered off toward the cereal aisle, as if he hadn’t just made your whole chest feel like it was glowing.

The “payoff for his efforts”, as Spencer later named it, was different — you were halfway home from dinner down the sidewalk when Spencer just… stopped walking.

It was subtle—just a quiet pause, like he’d remembered something important mid-step. You turned to look at him, brow slightly raised, but he wasn’t looking at the street or the sky. He was looking at you. Really looking. And not in that intense, cataloging way he sometimes had when he was working.

His hand found yours again, fingers lacing without effort, like muscle memory. There wasn’t a sound in the world except the soft clink of a spoon stirring coffee from a café behind you, the wet hush of tires on damp asphalt. And then Spencer leaned in—slow, hesitant for half a second—and kissed you.

It was soft, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything. That didn’t rush, didn’t take. Just… offered. The press of his lips against yours was gentle, steady, like he’d taken all the words he could never quite say and folded them into the space between you. It wasn’t his first kiss with you, not by far—but it felt like a beginning anyway. His fingers moved to your waist, squeezing it once, as if grounding himself. Your hand came up to rest lightly against his chest, where his heart beat quick and certain beneath your palm. And when he finally pulled back—just slightly, just enough to breathe—he stayed close, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

You were smiling. You hadn’t realized you were until he did too.

“I think I get it now,” he whispered.

You tilted your head. “Get what?”

“Why people do this kind of thing in public.”

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

ꨄThird time’s the charm — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: hurt/comfort, angst (with happy ending!)

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings: none. word count: 1,7k

summary: Spencer’s always been good at showing up for the world. This time, he’s learning how to show up for you, and a third chance that you give him might be just enough.

author’s note: currently posting daily because I genuinely have nothing better to do. first time writing over 1,5k words, hehe. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You always knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Dating Spencer, that is.

You’d been friends long enough—met at a science conference three years ago, had long conversations about memory and metaphor over plastic coffee cups, and laughed over the mutual awkwardness of hotel mixers. The kind of friendship that came easy, like slipping into an old hoodie: warm, loose, no expectations. And maybe that’s why it lasted so long before either of you admitted there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Friends didn’t owe each other explanations. Friends didn’t have to arrange candlelit dinners or schedule around jet lag and crime scenes.

But love—love was more complicated. Love came with the hope of having someone there, and the quiet ache when they weren’t.

You knew what you were signing up for. You knew Spencer Reid was brilliant and kind and unlike anyone else you’d ever met. You also knew that the BAU didn’t exactly take holidays, not for anniversaries, not for birthdays, not even for Christmas. Still, you thought maybe—with enough time and care—you’d learn to live in the space between his absences.

You hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So when Spencer called to say he was back in D.C. and wanted to finally go on a proper date—just the two of you, no profile reports, no phone calls, no interruptions—you’d said yes without hesitating. You dressed up. Chose a restaurant with dim lighting and a soft jazz quartet in the corner. You smiled into your wine glass when he said you looked beautiful and teased him gently for overanalyzing the appetizer menu.

And then his phone rang. Not just a text. A call.

You saw it in his eyes before he even looked at the screen—the shift from soft to sharp. From yours to theirs.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, already pulling his wallet out, fumbling through apologies as he stood. “They need me to give an emergency lecture—someone dropped out, and it’s really time-sensitive—”

You nodded, of course. What else could you do? You kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and watched him walk out the door.

You didn’t cry, but you didn’t finish your meal either.

The second time, a week later, was supposed to be the redo. He made the reservation himself this time, texted you little updates throughout the day about how excited he was. It was raining when you met him, your umbrella half-broken and your coat damp from the metro. Still, he looked at you like you were a work of art. And for an hour, it really felt like you were getting your shot. You were halfway through telling him about a new project at work when his phone buzzed on the table.

You saw it again. That same shift. A case. Emergency flight.

He looked wrecked about it, eyes flicking over your face like he already knew he was letting you down. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I swear I didn’t know—if I don’t go—”

You stopped him before he spiraled. Smiled tightly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But this time, you didn’t wait until the server returned. You gathered your bag, kissed him on the cheek like you were still okay, and left before the hollow feeling in your chest could settle in too deep.

Over the next week, you let the space grow.

You didn’t call as often. Left his texts on read longer than usual. When he tried to video call, you said you were busy. You didn’t bring up another date. You weren’t angry—just tired. Tired of trying to schedule time with someone whose life could be pulled away from you with one phone call. Tired of trying not to make him feel bad for something he couldn’t control. So you made it easier for both of you by stepping back.

Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the shift in your voice over text—shorter replies, longer delays. The way you didn’t ask when he was coming back this time. The way your usual “goodnight” didn’t come with a heart emoji, or anything at all. It wasn’t dramatic, not even really pointed. But it was enough. It was enough to make him sit alone in his hotel room three nights into the case, phone resting in his palm, thumb hovering over your contact while he stared at the blinking cursor in the message box, unsure what to type. He’d rewritten the same sentence five different ways before giving up and pressing “call.”

He never liked making phone calls—never liked the way his voice could sound too eager or too nervous when it wasn’t in person. But silence? That was worse.

It rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey,” You sounded small. Tired in a way that didn’t come from sleep.

“Hi, love,” he breathed, sinking back against the headboard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. Your voice was quiet — quieter than usual. And cracked just barely at the end, like it had been recently worn thin. From crying, probably. He could tell. Spencer could always tell.

Still, he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I saw something today. In the bookstore near the precinct.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he waited. Eventually, your voice came, softer now. “What did you see?”

“They had a copy of The Little Prince. Original French edition.” His voice warmed a little. “It was worn, kind of falling apart. It reminded me of the copy on your shelf.”

That made you smile, just barely. He heard it. Or maybe imagined it. Either way, he kept going.

“I thought about buying it for you. But I wasn’t sure if it’d survive the flight.”

You didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It’s the thought that counts.”

And there it was again — that sadness, thick between the syllables. He could feel it, even through the phone. The weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The heaviness in your throat that didn’t need a name. But he didn’t push. That wasn’t what you needed right now. You didn’t want to talk about why you hadn’t reached out, or how this second failed date in a row had taken the wind out of your hope.

So he told you about a bakery next to the station that made bread shaped like hedgehogs. About the cab driver who insisted on giving him a playlist of 80s jazz fusion. About how the team was tired, but safe, and how JJ had threatened to confiscate his sixth cup of coffee.

He talked gently, letting his voice fill the silence so you didn’t have to.

You didn’t say much. Just murmured in agreement here and there. But Spencer knew you were listening. And you knew that he was choosing every word with care — not to avoid the topic, but to love you without asking anything in return.

Eventually, you said, “I missed your voice.”

Spencer smiled into the receiver. “I missed yours too. A lot.”

Another pause. One of those full ones.

“I think I just need a little time,” you said finally. “Not away. Just… quiet.”

“I get it,” he said. And he did. He always did.

You both fell silent again. Not the heavy kind — this one was soft. Laced with understanding.

Before you hung up, he said, “That book in the window… I’ll see if I can get it shipped. I think it’d be nice on your shelf.”

And you whispered, “Thank you,” like it meant more than he’d ever know.

He didn’t need you to say more. He already knew.

When you turned the key in the lock and tiredly kicked the door of your apartment open, you didn’t expect him to come back early. You didn’t expect to walk into your apartment and find the lights dimmed low, the smell of your favorite takeout wafting from the coffee table, and Spencer sitting on your couch surrounded by a small army of snacks, two soft blankets, and three carefully stacked DVD options: The Princess Bride, Arrival, and Dead Poets Society.

When he heard your keys jingle, he rushed from the couch to wrap his arms around you tightly — warm, steady, and there.

“Surprise,” he whispered into your ear, his voice soft enough to make your knees tremble a little. He held you for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish.

You blinked, caught between a breathless laugh and a lump in your throat. “What… is all this?”

Spencer pulled back only enough to look at you, hands still resting gently on your arms. “I figured if restaurants are cursed, maybe the third time’s the charm.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I wanted to make it up to you. I know I haven’t been here… really been here, and I hate that. I hate letting you down.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Your chest ached with too many emotions trying to surface at once. He reached behind the couch and retrieved a small paper bag. Inside were two of your favorite chocolate bars and a tiny potted plant — slightly crooked, clearly picked out with care. A label stuck out from the soil, handwritten and slanted “Date Night Survivor #3.”

Your throat clenched.

“I know it’s not exactly candlelight and violins,” he added, voice lower now. “But it’s what I’ve got. And I did it because… you deserve someone who shows up. And I want to be that person. Even if I have to keep trying until I get it right.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks before you could stop them — quiet, unannounced, like your body had decided it was safe now to finally let go. Spencer noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to the glint of moisture on your skin, but he didn’t say a word. He just reached for your hand and pulled you in again, gently, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come sit,” he whispered, like you were something precious, breakable, and not already breaking. “Food’s still warm.”

And just like that, the ache inside you softened. It didn’t vanish, but it eased. Because he was here. Because he tried. Because this — all of this — meant something.

It felt like breathing again. Like maybe love wasn’t about perfect plans or unbroken promises—but about choosing each other, over and over again, even when the world gets in the way.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

Two characters who couldn’t say I love you to their girlfriends before they died

[hhhwnr]

ꨄSoft hands, steady heart — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/domestic word count: 675

pairing: soft!Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings & summary: no warnings. You never had to ask Spencer to treat you right — he just did. Maybe that’s what made him different.

author’s note: this is my second one-shot in two days and I feel so fuzzy and warm after writing this <3. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The thing about Spencer was… he never acted like anything was beneath him.

Not the laundry he was folding right now—your laundry, by the way—or the groceries he helped you carry, or the way he always took the time to untangle the delicate necklaces you forgot in a bowl on your nightstand. He was the kind of man who remembered how you liked your tea and never needed to be reminded which side of the bed you liked best.

You leaned against the doorway of your living room, watching him sitting on the edge of your couch, a small pile of socks beside him. His long fingers moved with that careful, deliberate kind of patience as he sorted through the laundry pile—pairing socks, folding shirts, smoothing out corners like he’d done it a hundred times before. He didn’t make a show of it. He wasn’t even aware you were watching. He just did it, because it needed to be done, and because he loved you. He didn’t do it like a favor. He didn’t announce it or wait to be thanked. And that was the sort of man Spencer Reid was.

You’d dated before. Men who saw domesticity as a favor, not a shared rhythm. Men who weaponized their competence—who burned toast and bragged about it like it was charming. Men who wanted credit for being “good guys”, yet never actually were. Men who talked over you, over-explained things you already knew, and rarely, if ever, asked how your day went with the intent to really listen. Men who saw kindness as currency, not an instinct.

But Spencer?

Spencer brought you snacks when you were on your period and was never ashamed to buy feminine hygiene products. He recommended books he knew you’d like, not just ones that made him look smart. He remembered what brand of detergent you used and bought it without being asked. He helped you organize your things when you moved apartments without blinking when he came across your most personal items.

And he didn’t make you feel small for the things you didn’t know.

You were still standing there, warm and achey with the weight of all these thoughts, while Spencer was matching your socks with that little furrow in his brows like it was a math problem he wanted to get just right.

You smiled, a slow, heart-deep thing, before curling your arms around his neck from behind, resting your chin gently on his shoulder. He leaned back into you instinctively, tilting his head so your cheek could brush his temple.

“I love you,” you whispered. “You know that?”

Spencer turned his head slightly, looking up at you with a puzzled sort of warmth. “I love you too,” he said softly. “But… where did that come from?”

You kissed the crown of his head. “You’re just so thoughtful. So kind. You do things most people don’t even notice. I guess I just needed to say it.”

He smiled—one of those small, surprised ones that made the corners of his eyes crease.

“But thoughtful in a normal way? Or, like… in a ‘has three PhDs and organized your spice rack by volatility’ kind of way?”

You laughed and pressed your cheek against his hair. “No. I mean… you’re just different.”

“Different how?”

You didn’t answer at first, pausing. Your heart was swelling, mouth full of words that suddenly felt too small for the feeling. So instead, you let your thoughts flow.

You asked if you could kiss my cheek — while other men were already trying to get into my pants.

You sat beside me while I did my makeup and handed me my eyeliner, instead of telling me I didn’t need it because I looked “better natural.”

You listened like it was an act of love — like everything I said mattered, even when it didn’t.

Finally, you whispered, “Just… different. The good kind.”

And Spencer—bless him—didn’t ask again. He just reached back to squeeze your hand before going back to folding socks with the same concentration as before.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

❦ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 (𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭)

Statistically speaking, people who read fan fiction have higher levels of empathy.

— Hannah. she/her

— New to tumblr & writing in English, be gentle with criticism

— Mostly short, light and sweet pieces for Spencer Reid x Reader

— Requests are open for any Criminal Minds ships/dynamics (except nsfw)

— DNI: bigotry of any kind, proship / weird / unsafe/ problematic content, rude or condescending energy (!!!)

❦ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

(this girl DOES NOT know how to label her work...)

༅ Spencer Reid (x Reader):

Sweet enough — fluff, domestic

Not about knowing — fluff, comfort

Soft hands, steady heart — fluff, domestic

Third time’s the charm — hurt / comfort, angst

Public Display of Awkward — fluff, comfort

Ink-stained affection — fluff, mutual pinning

The Girl Dad Chronicles — fluff, domestic comfort (latest)

❦𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 are super open! Feel free to send ideas my way — just a heads up that I won’t be engaging with NSFW/suggestive prompts. They’ll be gently ignored.

Tickle science & southern trouble (S.R ft. William LaMontagne jr x m!reader) — fluff

[hhhwnr]

ꨄNot about knowing — S.R

masterlist + navigation

author’s note: fluffy little something about a brainiac reader who “matches Spencer’s freak”. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

genre: fluff/comfort word count: 770

pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (established relationship)

warnings: none ! He talks, you listen.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Spencer never believed that there’s a reliable and accurate way to measure intelligence.

While he was, indeed, a “genius” by society’s standards — IQ of 187, reading twenty thousand words per minute, high school graduate before he could hit puberty, eidetic memory along with 3 PhD’s ans 3 BA’s. But despite all that, he was always modest — sometimes awkward — about his achievements.

“She must be a hell of a woman to keep up with you,” Morgan once teased, back when you and Spencer had just started dating.

Spencer appreciated that you were, in fact, able to keep up with him and his whirlwind mind — and so did the rest of his team. But they might have been underestimating how much.

Maybe it was because Spencer didn’t talk about you much, choosing to keep your connection private, something sacred. Or maybe it was because he himself hadn’t yet seen you in full force — not because you were hiding, but because you were focused on making him embrace everything that made him extraordinary.

You weren’t a certified genius, yet Spencer never made you feel lesser than him. You were brilliant in your own right — well rounded, curious, thoughtful. You had a wide range of hobbies, high intellectual pursuits, but what mattered most to Spencer was that you were endlessly open-minded.

You and Spencer learned a lot from each other, always growing, and your relationship never felt like a competition.

Sure, he beat you at chess three times in a row. But by the fourth game, you’d reworked your entire strategy, and when he lost, he stared at the board with a satisfied smile.

“A crashing defeat,” he called it.

And he meant it with admiration.

Spencer breathed facts — erratic, beautiful facts — whether it was about the unique ratios in your coffee or historical inaccuracies in movies. And while most people would’ve tuned him out, you didn’t. Even if you already knew what he was saying, you listened. You wanted to listen. Because he mattered.

And you never wanted him to feel like you’d be happier if he just shut up.

Just like now.

The light low and golden, the hum of the city outside your window barely breaking the stillness. Spencer is tucked against you, the collar of his shirt wrinkled, his tie long discarded on the floor. He’s tired — not just physically, but in the way that settles in the stiffness of his shoulders when a day has demanded too much and offered too little in return.

You run your fingers through his curls gently, and that’s all it takes.

“Did you know,” he begins, voice hoarse from hours of disuse, “that the Library of Alexandria had a policy where every ship that docked in their port was required to hand over any scrolls or books on board so they could be copied before being returned?”

You smile softly. You did know. You could recite the footnotes from memory. But you don’t say that.

“No way,” you whisper, letting the wonder hang in your tone. “That’s kind of genius. I mean, inconvenient, but clever.”

Spencer shifts, just enough to rest his chin near your collarbone. “Exactly. It was one of the first recorded efforts to centralize and preserve knowledge — though some argue it was more about control than curiosity. The original texts were often kept, and copies returned.”

You hum thoughtfully, encouraging him. “I wonder how many ideas were saved that way. Or lost.”

His eyes light up, the exhaustion peeling away just a bit. “Lost, mostly. Fires, conquests. Caesar’s siege of Alexandria in 48 BCE damaged a lot. But some of that knowledge, in fragments, still exists today — quotes in other texts, secondary references. It’s like… like archaeology of thought.”

He talks for a while. About lost knowledge, about how fragile history is when it’s left in the hands of people who don’t value it. His voice fades and swells like a tide, and you nod along, ask the right questions at the right time, follow his rhythm even when it’s familiar.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve already read the same paper he’s referencing, once annotated it in a grad seminar, or that your bookshelf has a volume with his exact phrasing highlighted.

Because this isn’t about facts. It’s about him unwinding, about being heard.

So you stay there, half in shadow, fingers in his hair, and you listen — like it’s the first time you’re hearing about Alexandria, like he’s handing you something fragile, and you’re lucky just to hold it.

Thank you for reading ! ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

THIS IS SO CUTE

🎈First Days

OKAY SO you know that one post and its the husbands first day of college and their sons first day of school? Spencers first day as a professor and babies first day of school‼️

also my patreon i post cool stuff there!

[hhhwnr]

If you are comfortable could you do a poly Spencer Ried x William LaMontagne x male reader pure fluff, comfort and tickle fight, with William's southern accent

You got that! :)

ꨄTickle science & southern trouble ! — S.R (ft. William LaMontagne jr)

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x William LaMontagne x male!reader (established polyamorous relationship).

word count: ≈1k genre: fluff

Warnings & summary: no warnings. Pure fluff about lazy morning and tickle fight !

author’s note: I have never been in a polyamorous relationship nor seen one amongst people I know, so I had to do my research about it and Will’s accent since I had no idea how to transfer it into my writing, but I hope I managed to create something remotely accurate… English is not my first language and I am experimenting here, so please be kind. (Needless to say I had some much fun researching and writing this !)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of pages turning. The morning is quiet, heavy with sleep, the kind of soft silence that only exists when the world outside is still wrapped in morning fog and distant hurry of strangers. But not yours, because Spencer is already awake, propped up against the headboard with a book balanced on his chest, lips moving silently with the words. Will is stretched out beside you, warm and solid, one arm tucked beneath his head and the other curled loosely around your side.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” Will drawls, voice thick with sleep and that unmistakable sweet accent. His lips brush your temple, and you hum, half-asleep and entirely comfortable.

“Did I sleep in?” you murmur.

Spencer glances over the edge of his book. “Technically speaking, yes. But you needed the rest.”

Will chuckles. “He’s been sayin’ that for the past twenty minutes. Kept pokin’ me to make sure you didn’t stop breathing or somethin’.”

You smile sleepily, rubbing your eyes, caught somewhere between their affection and the weight of the blanket still draped over you. “You guys already had coffee?” You whisper lazily, stretching your limbs under the sheets.

“Sort of,” Spencer says, adjusting his glasses as he slips a bookmark between the pages before putting it back on the nightstand. “Will drank his. I’m still emotionally preparing to leave the bed.”

“You say that like you didn’t drag yourself out of it at seven,” Will says, his hand now tracing light, slow circles against your stomach. “He was tryna read in the kitchen but kept checkin’ on you every three minutes.”

Spencer gives a small, unapologetic shrug. “There’s a difference between letting someone sleep in and making sure they’re not slipping into a coma.”

You chuckle, burying your face into Will’s shoulder for a second before turning toward Spencer. “That’s very sweet in a wildly clinical way.”

Spencer leans in, brushing his knuckles along your jaw. “You’re very important data.”

“You both are,” Will murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair, voice still scratchy with sleep. “But you gotta admit, you looked real cute snorin’ like that. Like a lil’ broken air conditioner.”

You lift your head with a groan. “Again with the slander.”

“I’m just sayin’, if this was a competition for Most Dramatic Sleeper, you’d take gold and Spence would be banned for excessive flailing.”

“I don’t flail,” Spencer says quickly, mildly offended. “I reposition.”

“You smacked me in the face with a pillow at 3AM.”

You laugh, the kind that bubbles out unfiltered and easy. “Okay, okay,” you say, propping yourself up on one elbow. “That’s enough pillow slander before breakfast.”

Will raises a brow, voice thick with mischief. “You threatenin’ me, darlin’?”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, curious and amused. “Because that sounds like the beginning of an ambush.”

You narrow your eyes. “That was a threat.”

Will lets out a slow, theatrical whistle. “Now, now. You sure you wanna go there, sugar? ‘Cause I am from the South. We invented revenge… and hospitality.”

Before you can respond with something clever, Spencer moves with quiet precision, shifting onto his knees with suspicious calm.

“Spence?” you ask warily, glancing between them.

“Oh no,” he says, voice dangerously calm. “Don’t stop now. I’m just getting into position.”

“For what?” you ask, already retreating backward—too late.

Spencer pounces with gentle accuracy, fingers landing at your sides, scribbling in the exact place that makes you let out a choked laugh. You yelp, trying to squirm away, but Will’s already rolling in with a devilish grin, catching your ankle and dragging you back toward them like a prize.

“You traitors!” you shriek, kicking wildly between gasps of laughter.

Spencer’s curls fall into his face as he leans over you, delight painted across his features. “I warned you. Indirectly.”

“Stop! I’m delicate!” you manage between snorts, as Will joins in, tickling just above your knees—his touch slower but just as effective.

“Delicate?” Will echoes, chuckling low. “You sure didn’t sound delicate last night when you elbowed me and Spencer in your sleep.”

“That was self-defense!” you squeal.

Both of them are laughing now, entirely pleased with themselves and the mayhem they’ve caused. But eventually, mercy finds you. Spencer relents first, easing his fingers off with a breathless smile and smoothing your hair away from your damp forehead. Will follows, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as you collapse between them, panting and flushed, limbs tangled and giggles still stuck in your throat.

“Y’all are the worst,” you whisper, voice wrecked with laughter.

Spencer presses a kiss to your lips. “Objectively untrue. We’re your favorite people.”

Will hums in agreement. “And your best wake-up call.”

Eventually, your breathing evens out again, and the laughter fades into a soft, shared quiet. You’re nestled between them like a favorite pillow—Spencer tracing absentminded shapes on your forearm, Will’s fingers laced loosely with yours beneath the covers.

But then your stomach growls. Loudly.

Will snorts. “Well, I reckon that’s our cue.”

“I second the motion,” Spencer says, though he makes no move to get up.

You groan dramatically. “You two are closer to the kitchen.”

“And yet,” Spencer says, already slipping out of bed with a stretch, “it seems the responsibility falls to me.”

Will stays sprawled out beside you, grinning. “That’s ‘cause you’re the only one who measures coffee grounds to precise molecular perfection.” He leans in, whispering like it’s a scandal. “If I make it, it tastes like mud.”

“Because you use a tablespoon the size of your ego,” Spencer calls from the hallway.

You laugh, already missing their warmth, but the promise of caffeine—and pancakes, hopefully—is stronger than your desire to stay in bed.

You drag yourself up into the kitchen, just in time to see Spencer carefully pouring water into the French press while reading the back of the pancake mix box like it’s a dissertation. Will’s behind him, rummaging through cabinets in search of the syrup, still in his sleep shirt and with pillow lines creasing his face.

“You guys ever considered opening a breakfast café?” you ask, leaning on the counter, completely in awe of them.

“Only if you’re the one doing the advertising,” Will grins. “You’d be the face of the whole operation.”

Spencer hands you a mug, warm and perfect. “And we’d call it Statistically Sweet.”

Will groans. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s charming,” you defend, sipping your coffee. “Just like the both of you.”

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[hhhwnr]

ꨄSweet enough — S.R

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author’s note: a soft little scene I couldn’t get out of my head <3. This is my first time writing in tumblr format and in English, which isn’t my first language, so please be kind. I will appreciate any input on how to improve my writing/ tips / etc, but only in a respectful manner ! :)

genre: fluff/domestic. word count: 774.

pairing: soft!Spencer x reader. (established relationship)

Warnings: none! Just domestic fluff about Spencer and reader cooking together on their day off. Reader is a scientist in research but I’m not sure if it’s relevant to the story.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

“You know baking is a science, right?”

Spencer asks, raising one eyebrow as you crack an egg into the bowl with reckless confidence.

“I thought I could get away from work for one day,” you say with a smile. “But no—science still finds me.”

It was the first quiet moment you’d shared in weeks. Between his cases, your research, and flights across the country—not for vacation, unfortunately —this lazy afternoon at your place felt like stolen, precious time. Domestic, slow, and completely yours.

“You know, back in the 1960s, boxed cake mixes were really popular because they were quick and convenient,” Spencer says, handing you a spoon. “Originally, you didn’t even need to add an egg—the mix had everything included. But sales started to drop because many women felt like they were cheating, like they weren’t really baking. So, companies changed the formula. They made it so you had to add an egg, just to give people the feeling they were more involved in the process. And it worked—sales went back up.”

You smile as he talks. God, how you loved his facts. You let him ramble non stop, even if you were a little lost in the amount of information he had reserved in his mind, you made sure to listen.

Most people don’t. They dismiss his excitement, call his facts useless and tune out attempts to share those little pieces of knowledge— like that time on the jet when Agent Seaver said, “Sorry for asking,” right as he started one of his rambles you would’ve found fascinating. It stung, even if Spencer didn’t say anything.

Besides, it’s Spencer Reid, your boyfriend we’re talking about here. How could you dismiss the ramblings of the love of your life, standing in your kitchen with a ridiculous pink apron on, rolled up sleeves that revealed his absolutely beautiful hands that you adore so much.

“I think that’s stupid,” you chuckle, looking up at him. “People complained about baking being too easy?”

“Apparently,” he says, laughing softly.

You pour the batter into the dish and slide it into the oven, brushing a bit of flour off his chin. “Good thing we’re doing it the hard way. Just for the authentic experience.”

“Very authentic,” Spencer agrees, leaning lightly against the counter. “Flour everywhere, questionably measured ingredients, and a complete disregard for time.”

You bump your hip into his. “It’s called freestyle baking. You wouldn’t get it, Doctor.”

“On the contrary,” he says, his voice softening. “I think I’m starting to like it.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, but familiarly charged, in the sweetest and most domestic way. The kitchen hums around you, the oven ticking, the warm smell of vanilla starting to fill the room.

You glance up at him, already watching you with that look—gentle, curious, like you’re a puzzle he’s happy never solving.

“What?” you whisper.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head slowly. “You just look really… happy.”

“I am,” you say, stepping closer. “Are you?”

“Mhm, very.” He almost purrs.

And then he kisses you—soft and unhurried, like there’s nowhere else to be. You taste sugar on his lips and warmth on his fingertips as they slide to your waist, his palm settling there with easy familiarity.

Your hands glide up to his shoulders, pressing yourself closer, closer, closer — so there will be no way to tell where you end and he begins.

Spencer’s kisses are never rushed, never urgent. Just good. Familiar. The kind of kisses that makes you want to forget the cake entirely and just stay in the moment.

He holds you close, one hand warm and steady on your waist, the other one on your cheek, caressing it like the slightest pressure might break you. His lips move in slow tandem with yours, and you can taste the sugar and the raw, sweet batter he insisted on trying “for research purposes”.

Spencer’s tongue brushes against your lower lip in a silent question for slipping in, and you let him. You don’t devour each other — not really. Rather slicing piece by piece from each other — gently, tenderly, incredibly sweetly so, like you’re the most precious thing in the world, and so is he.

Eventually the natural need for oxygen wins, and both of you pull away — slightly flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

“You know,” you whisper, your voice hoarse a little. “You’re going to make me burn this cake. No chance it turns out edible.”

Spencer’s grip on your waist tightens slightly, and his hand returns to your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

“I’ll eat it anyway, even if it’s terrible.” He says with a boyish grin.

Thank you for reading ♥︎