ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

is it your birthday if no one knows? s reid x fem!reader

reader's birthday party is interrupted by a last minute case. only, the team doesn't know that they were the only ones invited.

choose your adventure... every choice has consequences.

warnings: reader wears a dress and makeup, drinking, crying, loneliness a/n: something silly to celebrate my birthday!! please have fun and i'm not responsible for the ending you get..

You presume you’re self absorbed or maybe a plain old attention whore.

Every birthday you’ve ever had was meticulously planned to ensure not one thing could go wrong. Today, in a new city, with no friends, you invited only your coworkers.

It’s been your dream to fight crime in a big city, wind in your cape, cops in your phone. When you figured out that you could do that, (albeit less glamorously) you put your entire life into the pursuit of your dream.

Except your flawed mind forgot that, in order to achieve what you wanted, you’d have to leave your old life behind in favour of your new one.

As silly as it sounds, as silly as it is, your birthday was the one day a year that you could force everyone around you to like each other. You could scrounge up people you don’t talk to just for the sake of having a group to celebrate with. Moving here, as much as you wanted it, is proving harder than you thought. The only good you can think of is that you have a great team that wouldn’t miss your party. 

So you do what you’re meant to and sit in front of your mirror, pretending everything is fine.

You place a flimsy dollar store tiara atop your head that correctly identifies you as the birthday girl. You brush your lashes with black product to enlarge your eyes. You swipe pink sparkly gloss across your lips to make it so your smiles glimmer.

You slip a satin mini dress on so, even if no one shows, you’re still pretty.

The ringing of your phone almost goes unnoticed.

A case.

Followed by an immediate private message from Hotch. Take this one off. It's your birthday.

Except is it really your birthday if nobody knows?

The only people you invited were whisked away by someone rude enough to kill on someone’s birthday.

Your feet bring you to your plush sofa in which you melt into.

What do you do?

Call your coworker that’s already in another state.

Fuck the party and go to a bar.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

happy birthday queen

thank you angel:)

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

beg him to stay and eat birthday cake. start here

“Spencer.”

Of course you’d called him but you figured he’d call you when he got to his hotel room. The last thing you’d assume was that he’d get on a plane back just to see you.

“I thought you could use a friend right now.”

Is that what you are?

You were never one to define a relationship in your head. It always led to crushed expectations.

Though, you think you want Spencer to be your friend.

You ignore the rational, people pleasing side of you and push down the urge to spew an apology. You go back to your original opinion on birthdays. Your day. You can be immature and selfish. Just for one day.

“How was… New York?” you ask gently.

“It’s New York.”

A stupid question considering he was only there for an hour.

“I’ve been before. I don’t mind missing it.”

The pity in his voice burns through you, penetrating a hole right through your stomach. You clutch the make-believe wound. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Spencer.

But you ignore the phantom pain and give in to your desire with a weak statement.

“I have cake.”

Like a kindergarten teacher, he waits for you to ask for what you want, brows raised in silent question. 

You continue, “do you want to eat some with me? I thought it was too cliché to eat it by myself.”

His eyes light up and he extends a chipper, “sure!”

The funny thing about birthdays is that, despite the expectations, they’re always a royal, annual disappointment. Perfectly planned outings and gatherings crumble the second the clock strikes twelve. You work yourself up, slip into your prettiest attire, but it never pans out. Something colossal occurs and you’re reminded that you’re still the little girl with no real friends. You end up with a blood soaked gown, tear stained cheeks, and cake on your face.

Almost never do you have someone there to wipe the frosting from your nose and give you a pep talk. Something about how birthday candles were originally rejected as a pagan ritual.

“Did you know that, originally, birthday candles were rejected as a pagan ritual?”

Spencer shovels a fork of purple icing into his mouth.

“It was?”

“It was!”

You think about how, with the amount of knowledge he has, there’s bound to be some factoids hidden away in the back of his head. He’s mentioned how many kernels of corn are on a singular cob. If nobody ever told him to stop talking, you wonder how much more you’d know.

“You have cake on your face.”

For a quick second, you don’t process his words. In that second, he takes it upon himself to fix the issue.

His thumb brushes the tip of your nose to rid the frosting from it. But it’s Spencer, nothing he does is subpar. He brings his face closer to yours to ensure no mess left behind. 

He catches your wide eyes instead. The confusion and anticipation seeps from you.

For the first time ever, you’re close enough to kiss.

So he kisses you.

Your lips meld together in a sickly sweet mess. His nose presses into yours. His hand holds the side of your face like it’s delicate porcelain.

Spencer isn’t the type to make the first move. With every soft gesture of his mouth, he’s stepping out of his comfort zone a little more.

For you, he doesn’t mind.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

give in to the shame and ask him to leave. start here

“Spencer.”

His eyes are shiny and hold pity that you can’t stand to look at. His shirt is rumpled and covered with a cardigan.

“I know you didn’t ask me to come.”

You think the sentiment is preposterous. You can’t imagine a singular universe in which you’d be upset by his presence. The only thing is that you wish his presence wasn’t caused by your own petulance. You feel bad for bringing him here.

“You didn’t have to. I think you should go back to the team…” You look at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer watches you carefully and shakes his head, easily coming to the conclusion that you’re not telling the truth. “You’re lying,�� he says with a confidence that’s offensive.

“I overreacted. It’s not a big deal!” Your arms cross childishly.

He only stays with your lie and clearly states, “It obviously is if you’re acting this way.”

His words hit harder than you’d like to say. You fight your body when it tells you to argue against his proclamation. But what would you argue?

He’s right.

“I can’t ask you to stay.”

“Yes, you can.” He says it like it’s apparent to anyone and everyone but you. Because you’re on the outside, unable to see even the simplest things. You’ll never be as crucial to the team as you want to be. You’re just another replacement. When you go, nobody will blink. They’ll merely wait for the next person to fill your spot, maybe even fill it better. You’re not the genius, or the leader, or the mom. You’ll never be.

“But I can't.”

It’s stupid of you to be so stubborn but you fear you can’t help it. You’ve never been one to give up so easily and now is hardly the time to start. “Please, leave, Spencer.”

You place a hard hand to his chest to push him back. His hand only covers yours and you can feel the pressure you’re using decrease. It’s like he has the magic ability to soften you.

Two pairs of eyes meet until you give up on your mission to push him away. You let him win this fight.

“I have something…” he fights to not get lost in the intensity of the eye contact between you, “for you.”

Momentarily, you don’t respond or lose all capability to.

And then he pulls a wrapped box from his satchel so you ask, “what is that?”

It’s placed cautiously between your hands, intentionally covered with purple gift wrapping and a big bow.

“Open it.”

Carefully, as though it might break from the smallest shift, you peel the bow off, treating it like a delicate bomb that could explode and swallow you whole. 

Torn purple scraps fall onto the floor with your reservations. Inside the box lies a framed printed picture of the team.

You being a part of it.

Garcia, with her arm around Morgan, Rossi, Hotch, JJ, Emily. And then you, with the biggest smile on your face, Spencer’s hand on your waist.

“Turn it over,” he utters softly.

So you do.

A message on the back reads “The Family.”

“I know you don’t feel like you’re a piece of our puzzle yet… but you are.”

You look up to meet his stare.

Shakily, you ask, “really?” 

Any other day, you’d wonder how he knew what you were upset about. Today, on your birthday, you’re just glad you didn’t have to say it out loud.

“Yes. Always.”

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

fuck the party and go to a bar. start here

tw: brief mention of rape (just the word is used)

In what is probably an attempt at escape or possibly a petulant fit, you grab your keys and put your tiara back on.

You leave the place you don’t feel like is your home yet in favour of a crowded bar.

At the very least, you know you’ll get attention here.

You take your sorrow to the bar with you when you ask for a shot and some fruity cocktail that matches your dress. You usually wouldn’t care for a place like this. But you figure, your whole life has changed, why shouldn’t you?

Besides, who is it hurting?

So you like drinking with strangers in heels that hurt… so what?

So what, you started accepting drinks from odd men?

God forbid you try to figure out who you are for once. God forbid you do something unlike your perfect, flawless self.

And God forbid you allow yourself to forget about whatever it was you were so upset about.

If you can even remember what that was.

Because now you’re drinking your fourth concoction with a group of guys you assume are here for a bachelor party. Their hands raise frequently to ask for another beverage. You’d have an issue with how many they’re giving you if they weren’t paying.

The speakers blare the finishing notes of a party song before a new one takes its place. With your cocktail in hand, you stand and make your way clumsily to the dance floor.

You let your body find the rhythm without a care.

“Having fun?”

You whip around to see a stranger. His hair is shorter than you like and he looks like he finds violence amusing.

“Mhm!”

“Want to have more fun? Me and my friends are going back to our place. There’s air hockey.”

You think he also finds balloons amusing.

But you don’t think, you act.

“Sure!”

⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡

You convince yourself you want to be here, squished between two large guys in the back seat of an old truck. You convince yourself this dress is comfortable and you’re totally comfortable alone with four men.

The house is big when you pull up to it. It has huge steps leading to the tall front doors and a fountain. Loud music plays out from the house.

Your heels click on each step in.

Before you get a chance to recognize the song, the guy that asked you here pulls you aside.

The strange man grins, not taking his paws off your hips. “Want to go upstairs?”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, um,” he mumbles like it’s an unfair question or like girls never ask him that before sleeping with him. “Logan.”

“Do you have a bathroom I can use, Logan?”

“Upstairs.”

Dumbly, you nod and follow him up the stairs. You don’t think about it when he takes your hand in his. You’re confused when he opens the door and you see a bed.

Who has a bed in their bathroom?

“Right through there,” he points to a slightly ajar door in the corner.

You make a spot for your purse on his dresser and find the toilet.

Your eyes, while no longer puffy, still reveal how your day went. Mascara crusted in the corners of your eyes. Cheeks red and stained with tears.

Cocktail goggles inhabit your ability to care.

Logan’s muffled voice brings you out of your muddled thoughts. 

You open the door to see him on the phone.

You don’t hypothesize or even wonder who he’s talking to.

Not until you curiously follow the sleeve of his shirt to his hand and then the phone in it. It has a sparkly case and your initial on it. Because it’s yours.

“Why do you need to know?”

A familiar muted voice comes through the other end.

And then the sound of being hung up on.

“Your boyfriend is coming,” he grumbled.

Boyfriend?

⊹ ࣪ ˖🍰₊˚⊹♡

Spencer dials Garcia’s number at the speed of light, head in his hands.

“Genie in a bottle here! You rubbed my lamp, your wish is now my command.”

“Hey, Garcia, I need you to track someone down for me.”

She sits, fingers at the ready. “Just give me the name.”

“Uh…”

Now, Garcia would never rat her friends out but, when Spencer said you could be in trouble, she didn’t mind using her powers for evil.

The first flight out from New York is what he takes. With no hesitation or intention to ask for permission.

He ignores all the drunk idiots and searches every room to find you.

It doesn’t take long for him to spot your slouched but shimmering silhouette. Your childish, hopeful eyes rise to meet him.

“Let’s go,” he sternly speaks.

He takes your hand in his and basically drags you through the crowd.

Like a dad forcibly escorting his wasted daughter home.

You stumble down the front steps behind him and pull your hand from his grip. He turns to face you. 

Your words come embarrassingly, “why are you here, Spencer?” weak and cracked.

“You’re serious?” he scowls.

“Yes!”

A scoff leaves bitterly, echoing in your ears.

“You’re here… under the influence, with a bunch of guys you don’t know. Do you think I don’t recognize destructive behaviour?”

Destructive? This bitch.

“Excuse me?!” you gawk.

“You heard me.”

His palm rests flat on your back to push you towards his car.

You swat him away.

“Spencer, tell me why you’re here.”

A long exhale of breath comes from his open mouth. “I care about you, okay?”

You pause, standing absently and waiting for more.

He continues, “I don’t want you to get hurt or raped or worse!”

The thought that you could become one of the pictures on the bulletin at work never once occurred to you.

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.”

The last time you felt this embarrassed and small was when you were a teenager.

An apology isn’t right. But neither is standing here in shoes that are comparable to torture devices.

Another year older but not necessarily wiser.

So what do you do?

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

call your coworker that's already in another state. start here

Your fingers tap on the icon of your coworker that probably doesn’t care about your stupid birthday.

The phone rings and you feel a pit form in your stomach.

“Hello?”

“Spencer… hi,” you sniffle, “I, uh, don’t know what to say but…”

Spencer’s voice presses you to spill more than you thought it would. “It just sucks we got a case. Well, you got a case.”

His concern seeps through his words, “I know, I’m really sorry… Are you okay?”

You consider telling him about how these parties mean more than you care to admit. How the team were the only attendees. How you don’t have any friends in D.C. and you don’t think you can handle the reminder.

Instead, you mutter a false, “yeah,” voice breaking from the pressure you put on yourself.

You know he doesn’t buy it when silence falls.

“Stay there.”

And he hangs up.

It’s not like you’re the bestest of friends but, since you joined the team, he’s been the one to watch your back most. He sits next to you on the jet, pours knowledge unto your willing ears. He speaks about his books, the characters within them and how his mom always told him that books are really whole worlds thought up by the author. 

He ensured you felt comfortable as the newest member of the team. You’re the two members closest in age so, of course, you get along. At first you thought it was strange how protective he is of you. A case would hit home and he’d spout information about coping mechanisms, using each member of the team as an example.

JJ takes care of Henry how she couldn’t take care of the victims. Morgan uses music to escape. Emily dissociates and puts herself in a state of denial. Garcia overcompensates with her bright personality and optimism. Hotch doesn’t let himself feel because it’s easier that way.

You now realize he was showing you your options. He was showing you what you could do to cope.

In his own way.

You were made aware of everything that comes with being the resident genius. By him and the others.

It started to make sense why he gave everything to ensure your safety.

Realistically, you know he would have a problem with a case presenting itself on your birthday but you never imagined he’d care so much.

Or maybe you’re picturing it wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t care and it’s in your head like most of your life.

You mean, he has no connection to you that would make him wig out over something as superficial as a birthday. A party.

A stupid

stupid

stupid

party.

You bring yourself to the bathroom to clear the signs of distress from your face. When you stare into the mirror, all you seem to find is puffy eyes and ruined makeup.

You attempt to wash away the despair with water. When that doesn’t work, you give up and leave your mirror self behind.

Only, the second you walk through the doorway, you’re interrupted by the presence of the person you were just shamelessly daydreaming about.

But this time it’s not a daydream and you do feel shame.

What do you do?

Give in to the shame and ask him to leave.

Beg him to stay to eat birthday cake.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

is it your birthday if no one knows? s reid x fem!reader

reader's birthday party is interrupted by a last minute case. only, the team doesn't know that they were the only ones invited.

choose your adventure... every choice has consequences.

warnings: reader wears a dress and makeup, drinking, crying, loneliness a/n: something silly to celebrate my birthday!! please have fun and i'm not responsible for the ending you get..

You presume you’re self absorbed or maybe a plain old attention whore.

Every birthday you’ve ever had was meticulously planned to ensure not one thing could go wrong. Today, in a new city, with no friends, you invited only your coworkers.

It’s been your dream to fight crime in a big city, wind in your cape, cops in your phone. When you figured out that you could do that, (albeit less glamorously) you put your entire life into the pursuit of your dream.

Except your flawed mind forgot that, in order to achieve what you wanted, you’d have to leave your old life behind in favour of your new one.

As silly as it sounds, as silly as it is, your birthday was the one day a year that you could force everyone around you to like each other. You could scrounge up people you don’t talk to just for the sake of having a group to celebrate with. Moving here, as much as you wanted it, is proving harder than you thought. The only good you can think of is that you have a great team that wouldn’t miss your party. 

So you do what you’re meant to and sit in front of your mirror, pretending everything is fine.

You place a flimsy dollar store tiara atop your head that correctly identifies you as the birthday girl. You brush your lashes with black product to enlarge your eyes. You swipe pink sparkly gloss across your lips to make it so your smiles glimmer.

You slip a satin mini dress on so, even if no one shows, you’re still pretty.

The ringing of your phone almost goes unnoticed.

A case.

Followed by an immediate private message from Hotch. Take this one off. It's your birthday.

Except is it really your birthday if nobody knows?

The only people you invited were whisked away by someone rude enough to kill on someone’s birthday.

Your feet bring you to your plush sofa in which you melt into.

What do you do?

Call your coworker that’s already in another state.

Fuck the party and go to a bar.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

hey swift insiders... gossip girl here

turns out our fav girl has received a diamond ring. maybe they really are a girl's best friend.

let's just hope it's real and doesn't rust...

xoxo gossip girl

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

why is this hoe at 1k notes she sucks

teach me how to scream - s reid x fem!reader

spencer saw how nervous you were to truly express yourself during sex... so he taught you a thing or two

genre: smut wc: 400 warnings: unprotected piv, clit pinching, established relationship, boyfriend!spencer, reader embarrassed to be heard, spencer forcing her to be loud a/n: little blurb while i write something actually good<3 inspired by this edit LOL

Your mouth was sewn shut by embarrassment. You feared being too loud and having the entire building learn Spencer’s name.

Your hand came up to cover your parted lips as your boyfriend’s cock rammed into your cervix. Small whimpers were the only sounds you allowed yourself to spill. Something about your guy was that he liked hearing what you were feeling.

His fingers pulled your hand away from your face and pushed it against the sheets. “Spencer—”

“What?” he panted.

“It feels too good, I can’t—”

“Let it out. Please.” You didn’t think you’d ever heard him so desperate.

You whined, “I can’t.”

His fingers moved to your clit in an instant, pulling a moan from you. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip so hard it hurt.

His other hand grabbed your chin to force your jaw open. Heavy sighs filled the room.

When he started to get impatient, he pinched your clit between his thumb and index finger to force a scream from you. And then came a frustrated huff. “Spencer, please!” you grumbled with your jaw still held open.

He brought his head down to yours and kissed you deep. His tongue pressed against yours while his tip repeatedly found your cervix.

“Tell me.”

Your eyes fogged over as you murmured a dead, “what?”

“Tell me how it feels.”

If you had a better working brain you’d have rolled your eyes.

“You know,” you slapped his bare shoulder.

“I don’t,” Spencer breathed, “tell me.”

“Good,” you whined. “Fuck, it feels good.”

He nodded as heavy pants forced their way out of his lungs. “Show me.”

With frustration, you groaned. 

Again, he roughly toyed with your sensitive clit. And once again, you yelped. You cried out his name loud enough for his neighbors to hear.

“That’s it, good job.” His words were mostly air at that point. His body ached from the exertion and holding back.

“Spencer, please, I’m gonna cum.”

As if uttering, “I know,” he nodded and switched to far gentler passes on your throbbing cunt.

Embarrassingly quick, your orgasm hit you. Your legs shook around his waist as his own cum started to drip from your hole.

He crashed against you, lips pressed to your shoulder. “Not so bad, right?”

You softly smacked the top of his head. 

“Shut up.”

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

michaela, where the hell have u been loca😔

goonville.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

mwah mwah thank you angel

favorite spencer reid x reader blurbs/headcanons

~under construction~

amnesiac!reader by @raekensluver baby fbi spencer by @luveline boyfriend!spencer by @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat cat dad!spencer by @spidercatweb comforting spencer by @dawajlanek dad!spencer's commonalities with child by @raekensluver depressed!reader by @brattyspence drunk!spencer by @brattyspence exhausted!spencer by @thefirstwhisperingmuses for science by @lov3lyl3tters gentle spencer reid by @reidrum how would spencer react to soft-spoken reader by @missarchive i hope you're scared of all the ordinary shit! by @stepsofthefbi spencer painting reader's nails by @dearlenore spencer reid headcanons by @minswriting spencer reid, the singer of all lovers by @mothswan supportive!spencer by @petrichoravis touch starved reader by @luveline touchy spencer reid by @secretlovezz what it is to love someone? by @multifandomlover01

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY

THANK YOU SM

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ❤️🥰🎉

THANK YOU

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

season 10 is rudely underrated

Spencer Reid in every episode of Criminal Minds:

Season 10, Episode 2, ‘Burn’

Masterlist ✰

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

First, the message. Uncomplicated, but not arrogantly direct. Then the meeting itself, first the door to his apartment, stepping inside and the meeting. The conversation, which sometimes felt as if he was having it as a punishment. But only when he felt like pretending that he respected you, such a sadistic role play or just a simple variety. Or when you, at all costs, needed to feel that way.

I'M SO PAINED BUT SO HAPPY. THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME FEEL.

ps it's hard to be mad at a fic with shirtless spencer...

sweet strawberries and bitter sneezes

summary: breathing dreams like air is harder to put into practice when a blocked nose makes it difficult to breathe, and the man who is the object of your nighttime sweet fantasies only wants you in the dark, in cool sheets, back-to-back, instead of on meadow pillows, tangled on a checkered blanket.

contents/tw: spencer reid x reader, implied intimacy, flangst (don’t let that cute header and pastel colors fool you) lowkey ooc spencer, but honestly, that man was sometimes a jerk even in canon, so here he is ×5

who to blame? @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat 'cause i wrote it for her birthday and i have proof it was her idea. besides, happy birthday to the most gorgeous, most hilarious girl in the world!

Spencer Reid made you fall in love with routine.

That didn’t automatically mean he was a complete control freak with a strict, unchanging daily schedule, but he definitely had certain preferences. He always added the same number of teaspoons of sugar to his coffee (5) (part of his yearly routine also included very regular dentist visits), liked to wear that specific tie on Thursdays (paisley pattern, solid color, purple), and maybe he didn’t go to bed at exactly the same time, he had trouble with that, but he always spent time in bed before falling asleep reading.

You yourself used to cringe whenever you heard that word. Routine, that is, not reading. Reading, you loved it with all your heart. It simply reminded you of nothing but unpleasant things. The necessity of getting up at the same time, too early, for work. The inevitability that after your favorite season came the next one, the hated one.

Some people found comfort in repetition. You weren’t one of them, but Spencer did. He had told you that himself, to which you gave him a skeptical look. Repetition? Pleasant? To you, it meant boredom, especially in a relationship. At least, that’s how it seemed to you before you met him. Before you slowly started creating your little relationship routine. Little things, little gestures, coming and going, anticipated and adored by you.

Like how on Saturday nights you always ended up on the floor. You had a very, very comfortable couch in your apartment. But also a floor with a pull as strong as gravity on Earth, or maybe simply tempting for what it offered. Tempting with the idea of sliding onto it with laughter, the way your heads touched, and one hand found the other, forming the letter A. A like Affinity, Italian Amare, or Turkish Aşk, not Anthrax or Autopsy, to be precise.

Or your favorite restaurant literally around the corner, where you’d drop in regularly, but it never got boring. The same with the walk over that one specific bridge you always crossed, and how, for some unknown reason, you always ended up talking about F. Scott Fitzgerald then.

Or the nights when each of you had your designated side of the bed. With fluid boundaries, but boundaries nonetheless. And even though you had to get up too early, at least you got up early every day with him, always the first one, able to watch his relaxed features in sleep.

A small life with small celebrations of love, without fireworks unexpectedly cutting across the sky or romantic wildness. Sweet, comforting routine could brighten even the gray and dull, make it shine with gold.

So Spencer appearing in the doorway of the apartment on a sunny mid-August day, holding a large picnic basket in his hands, was a kind of display of spontaneity.

You wrapped yourself in your sweater, tilting your head to the side with a smile.

“So, no dinner out tonight and we’re not going to talk about The Great Gatsby once again?” you teased lightly, feeling a pleasant warmth in your stomach. Warmth mixed with a tingle of excitement about where you were going.

“I think we’ve tried every dish on this place’s menu already. And we’ll probably try again, but there won’t be many more opportunities this summer for chocolate to melt in the sun by itself,” he replied, shifting the basket from hand to hand, dressed in a light white shirt with an almost old-fashioned cut. “Sorry, Mr. Gatsby.”

“We chose strawberries with chocolate over you,” you added. You sighed with mock guilt. “We’ve betrayed him. He’s probably tearing his hair out, crying into his pillow right now.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Spencer said, reaching out his free hand, the one not holding the basket.

You closed the door, and without taking anything with you, you slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers. “It’s hot. Our hands are going to sweat, and one will slide in the other. I repeat, they will sweat. You’re ready for this sensory ordeal?” you asked as you walked toward the car.

Spencer let out a soft snort of laughter, almost like a slightly louder exhale. “There are some sensory ordeals I can handle. Otherwise, I’d never be able to hold your hand again.”

You wrinkled your nose. “You’re so romantic today.”

He slowed your shared pace so he could lean in and kiss the little crease on your nose, instantly smoothing it out and creating two more at the corners of your eyes. 

“It’s the weather,” he explained with a murmur.

You raised an eyebrow.

 “The weather makes you romantic?”

“The weather made you notice it. I’ve always been like this.”

“Mhm. I don’t recall you ever planning a surprise picnic for us before. With strawberries and…what else do you have?” You wanted to peek into the picnic basket to see what else was inside.

Spencer pulled it just out of your reach, a teasing smile flashing across his lips as he shook his head. “It’s a surprise. You’ll find out when we get there.”

“Get where?”

He looked at you with his dark, warm eyes but didn’t answer. You sighed, though in reality, the uncertainty thrilled you. It made the drive more than just about the destination, you actually noticed the scenery outside the car window. And that day was so beautiful that even the air seemed worth admiring. If it weren’t for the slight cold bothering you and your nose not being in the best shape, you might have tried to slowly breathe it in, savoring the summer mix of freshness and something almost dense.

The meadow was covered in tall grass, a mix of green and yellow. Sometimes its dry blades brushed against your calves, causing a slight, harmless scrape. Spencer walked two steps ahead of you, his hand behind his back in your grasp, the other holding the picnic basket. You hold onto each other as if this grass, barely reaching your knees, could suddenly become a labyrinth of Daedalus, confuse you, make you lose your way. To be separated—that would be the worst.

Sunlight fell on your backs, as if pushing you forward.

You found your spot under a solitary tree. The checkered blanket, thrown on the grass, lay oddly because of the height of the blades, but when you lay on your back, it molded beneath you like a pillow. You deliberately chose to lie on your back so you could watch Spencer, bathed in sunlight, kneel on the blanket, straightening it to perfection and placing the box of strawberries on it. From time to time, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, as if habitually, unconsciously, not expecting you to return the gaze.

You did. He slowed in place, his lips lifting into a smile.

One moment he was kneeling before you on the blanket, the next he was hovering just above your body, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips, tasting so sweet himself. Strawberry-sweet. He must have tried one while you weren’t looking, but the proof rested right there in his mouth. To make sure, you deepened the kiss, placing your hand on the back of his neck, warm from the sun along the way.

A tickle in your nose.

You pulled your face back from his; he let out a protesting hum. You raised a finger, signaling him to wait. Then it came—a sneeze. Spencer sat down next to you while you lay on your back. Your hands were intertwined on your stomach in a little basket, and he covered them with his, brushing hair from your face with the other.

“A cup of hot tea would do us good,” he said. “It’d help with your illness. Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“It’s just a cold, Spence,” you replied gently. “Funny that it caught me in summer, but oh well. You couldn’t have known.”

“I want to take care of you. Somehow.”

You looked at his face, more tanned than usual lately, more alive. You blinked slowly, focusing on his hand covering yours. “Just be here with me.”

“I am. And I will be.”

“And don’t leave. And don’t make me leave.”

Spencer shook his head with sudden amusement, leaning over you once more. Only a brush of your lips. “How did that even cross your mind, silly?” he murmured into your lips.

You shrugged, because you really didn’t know—maybe the heat was affecting your speech, making absolute absurdities fall from your lips. You closed your eyes for a moment, sniffing. “And feed me strawberries,” you added.

Above you, Spencer snorted. “As you wish.”

You propped yourself up so that you could be face-to-face. You didn’t know where he had gotten the strawberries, but they were huge and deep red, looking so juicy. “Here you go,” he murmured, bringing one slowly to your lips.

Carefully, like a fruit critic, you bit into it. Juice immediately ran out, which wasn’t so common for strawberries and spoke to its incredible ripeness. You murmured in surprise and tried to wipe the trail of juice from your chin, but Spencer let out a quiet shh and wiped it himself with his thumb. You finished the strawberry, and his finger returned to your face.

Gently brushing your lower lip, probably stained red. Your eyes stayed on his as his stayed on your lips, in absolute focus. His thumb traced their length twice before brushing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek—and then, finally, your eyes really met.

“You look so beautiful today,” he said, his voice, as always, hovering on the edge of a whisper. He didn’t need to speak loudly when he was this close. And his words were meant for you, not the world. “Like an angel, really.”

“An angel?”

“Mhm. My angel.”

“Your angel.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm.”

Spencer let out a quiet laugh again, lowering his gaze and leaning in for another lazy kiss, holding your face in both hands like a warm cup of tea. Lazy, like the whole day had been. Or maybe a better word was unhurried. Immersed in the moment, fully present in it, not rushing anywhere else. Thoughts, plans, intentions. Only there, only with you. Fully present with his whole self, and all of yours—whispered I love you in that same quiet, private tone, meant only for the two of you.

Then, you sneezed.

🍓

You stirred, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, your bare skin brushing against the cold, white sheets. Cold sheets, despite the fact that you’d both spent the entire night in them. Somehow their chill never faded, as if mocking you. Two people in the same bed, lying on opposite sides, no longer touching. Between you—cold. So much cold.

You shifted again, sniffing with some difficulty. You’d caught your first cold of the autumn, feeling fine just yesterday and quietly hoping it would pass. It never did—it only came back stronger the next morning. And it wasn’t the only thing advancing on you in formation, along with it came memories of last night.

Not last night in the literal sense—not the physical, not what really happened, again, because that was a dull and repetitive subject by now. You were thinking of your dream—of its warmth spread across you just moments ago, still lingering, still resisting the chill of the sheets.

You rolled onto your side. It made it easier to breathe through your stuffy nose. Another sniff; well, there was nothing you could do about it. You blinked, eyes still heavy with sleep.

In front of you stretched a back, ending in a tousled mess of brown hair. He was close. Spencer was close to you. When you reached out, your fingertips could just graze the surface—softly, so as not to wake him—tracing lightly along it. You weren’t writing anything in particular. Well, the first letter somehow came out as a P, just like the word pathetic. An instinct, a reflex, half-asleep mind shaping it without conscious thought, running on whatever the subconscious fed it.

You and Spencer had your routine.

First, the message. Uncomplicated, but not arrogantly direct. Then the meeting itself, first the door to his apartment, stepping inside and the meeting. The conversation, which sometimes felt as if he was having it as a punishment. But only when he felt like pretending that he respected you, such a sadistic role play or just a simple variety. Or when you, at all costs, needed to feel that way.

Then the mattress beneath your back, the first chill of the sheets taken on like a shield in the form of clothing, but soon you got rid of that form of defense. Loud breaths, never in sync, though sometimes you tried. You didn’t know why—there was something seemingly romantic about it. Breathing the same air, some illusion of spiritual connection, devotion, dedication, warmth, Orpheus turning back for Eurydice, love songs from the eighties, a big mishmash of your definition of love filling your head for a moment, allowing a few drops of delusion.

You sniffled twice, stifling an oncoming sneeze.

“Can you stop?” a question in the dark, a murmur, his morning voice hoarse. Irritated.

You froze, only then realizing your finger was still tracing along his back. You sniffled and nodded, though of course he couldn’t see it, turned away as he was. But you stopped, and that’s what mattered.

“The nose thing too,” he added.

“What?” you croaked, maybe too sleepy to understand. Or maybe it was because you were talking to his damn back, which made basic communication significantly harder.

“It’s keeping me from falling asleep.”

“I can’t breathe any other way. You want me to suffocate?”

He exhaled through his nose — you heard it. “At least do it less often.”

Morning grumpiness. That’s just how he was, something you’d learned a long time ago. Sometimes it was afternoon grumpiness too. And evening. But last week, when you’d also stayed the night and taken a shower at his place in the morning, there had been a TV show playing that you both liked, and you’d even laughed together as the sounds of a fully awake city drifted in through the cracked balcony door. You knew how to cling to those scraps of good memories like a life preserver, and ride them straight into the depths of the Mariana Trench. Optimism or stupidity. Sometimes you asked yourself that question, then flipped a coin. The answer was, therefore, variable.

You tucked your hand under your cheek, drawing your knees closer to your body. Spencer was silent, and the silence filled his half-shadowed bedroom. You kept your eyes on his back, on the movement of his shoulder blades as he breathed. Uneven, a sign he wasn’t asleep.

You could picture his dark eyes, almost absent but open, fixed on some point in front of him. Maybe he was staring at a wrinkle in the sheets and thinking it looked like a giraffe. No, scratch that. This was Spencer Reid. Maybe he was staring at a wrinkle in the sheets and thinking it looked like the Greek letter lambda.

That he was awake didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to talk to you. But you did want to talk. And you so rarely put yourself first that he ought to forgive you for it. You sniffled — quieter this time.

“I had a dream,” you said.

At first, he didn’t answer. You weren’t even sure you wanted to tell him about it. Maybe not on your own, but if he asked—

“Like all people, sometimes.”

You closed your mouth. The position you were lying in had grown uncomfortable, but you stayed in it anyway. “You had one too?”

A moment of silence and stillness. His neck moved slightly, as if he’d tried to shake his head no.

“Not today.”

You bit the inside of your lower lip, briefly summoning the warm memory of the dream and the few rare shared memories you could even loosely compare it to. He’d never fed you strawberries or told you he loved you — but still. The bedroom was cold, and you wanted to fill it with that fleeting warmth, to use it, even if it would serve only you and annoy him.

You drew in a breath through your clogged, barely-working nose.

“And you were there too. I opened the door, and you were standing there with a basket, and you said you were taking me on a picnic. And you were wearing one of those old-fashioned white shirts.”

You added that part as though it were essential to the dream’s plot. Maybe it simply helped you recall as many details as possible before they slipped away.

Spencer’s back didn’t move for a long moment — a moment that made you start to accept that you were going to be ignored, not for the first time. But then, with a quiet sigh, he turned onto his back, the blanket reaching about up to his ribs.

It brought you slightly closer to each other. You didn’t move, so with your cheek still resting on your flat palm, you found yourself right next to his shoulder.

“How old-fashioned?” he asked. In a strange tone. Both interested and as if he couldn’t care less.

Trying to ignore it, you didn’t understand the meaning of his question, letting out a short huh? You saw him roll his eyes.

“I’m asking how old-fashioned the shirt was. Like a founding father type of shirt?”

“Oh,” you murmured in understanding. You immediately made a face. “No, ew, no. If you were dressed like a founding father, I wouldn’t have gone with you.”

“No?” he asked, somehow more gently, as if certain of the answer.

You pushed out your lower lip. You would have gone. You would have cursed his choice of outfit, but you would have gone.

“Anyway,” you cut in a bit more firmly, sniffing again. “We went to a meadow. In this dream, I mean. We sat under a tree on a checkered blanket and ate strawberries. With chocolate. Melted chocolate.”

You had a view of his profile, you could see that for a moment he didn’t blink, lost in thought.

“That sounds kind of good” he finally said, slowly, weighing each word.

Something stirred strangely in your chest. It even seemed as if some kind of warmth was born there. A faint smile on your lips.

“Really?”

He shrugged, as if unfaithful to his own opinion, holding onto it only because he couldn’t be bothered to change it.

“Really. Strawberries and chocolate. That sounds good.”

The cold of the bedding between you, the sound of you swallowing.

“Right,” you murmured under your breath. Louder, you added, “That combination’s as old as the world, Spence.”

You saw it — that subtle grimace on his face. He didn’t like it when you called him Spence.

“Neither strawberries nor chocolate are as old as the world. Do you even know how old the world is?”

You raised your hand, moving it like a mouth. A mouth that was saying one big blah, blah, blah.

He tried to grab your hand to make you stop the gesture, but you quickly pulled it back.

His quiet snort, the faint twitch of the corners of your lips.

“And then,” you began to continue, somehow more animated, your thoughts returning to your dream. So suddenly. Right with your words, Spencer shifted in bed, reaching to grab something from the nightstand on his side, his brows furrowed. You didn’t watch him too closely, focused on what you were telling. “You were feeding me strawberries. Cliché, I know, but the director of my dream was my brain, not some guy with three Oscars in his pocket, so. Oh, and one more thing. Then you told me something.”

You trailed off in your words, as if forgetting you were saying this to him.

“You told me you lo—”

A hand covered your mouth. Firmly. You lifted your eyes upward. Spencer was sitting up in bed, the blanket having slipped from his stomach, his posture slightly hunched. He wasn’t looking at you — his attention was on the phone pressed to his ear.

“Now?” he asked, making sure. You let out a quiet sigh of understanding, still into his hand. He sighed too. “Alright. I’ll be there soon.”

Only after he finished the call did he remove his hand from your mouth, sending you a quick, questioning glance.

 “What were you saying?”

You shook your head slightly from side to side. Nothing.

He nodded faintly, then got up from the bed, the mattress uncovered where he had just been sitting. Lying there, you watched as he hurriedly dressed, saying nothing, giving you no explanation. Really, he didn’t have to. You guessed they probably got a new case to work on, sudden, important.

You began scanning the floor for your pants somewhere near the bed. Honestly, you didn’t really know what to do with yourself in this situation. “Should I go?” you asked, propping yourself up into a sitting position.

Spencer froze, motionless, pants pulled up but still with the belt unfastened, shirtless. He looked at you for a moment without a word, clearly thinking. He fastened the belt buckle.

 “No. You don’t have to,” he finally said.

You relaxed slightly. It was good to know he wasn’t kicking you out.

 “Just…don’t be here when I get back. And close the door when you leave.”

Then he opened the closet in search of a fresh shirt, while you stayed in the same position for a moment longer, taking a deeper breath that trembled at the very top as it passed through your mouth.