#cup and handle pattern

[10bmnews]

Bitcoin Following ABCD Pattern? Analyst Sees Path To $137,000

Reason to trust Strict editorial policy that focuses on accuracy, relevance, and impartiality Created by industry experts and meticulously reviewed The highest standards in reporting and publishing Strict editorial policy that focuses on accuracy, relevance, and impartiality Morbi pretium leo et nisl aliquam mollis. Quisque arcu lorem, ultricies quis pellentesque nec, ullamcorper eu…

[abhifinowings]

Cup and Handle Pattern: A Classic Setup with a Modern Twist

The cup and handle pattern is one of the most recognized and reliable chart formations in technical analysis. First popularized by William O’Neil in his book “How to Make Money in Stocks”, this pattern signals a potential continuation of an uptrend and often precedes strong bullish breakouts.

But beyond its classic structure, the cup and handle pattern offers unique insights into market psychology, accumulation, and breakout timing—making it a favorite among swing traders and position investors.

 What is the Cup and Handle Pattern?

As the name suggests, this pattern visually resembles a tea cup:

The “cup” forms a rounded bottom, resembling a “U” shape.

The “handle” appears as a small pullback or consolidation on the right side of the cup.

Once the price breaks out above the resistance level formed by the top of the cup, the pattern is considered complete.

Key Features of a Valid Cup and Handle Pattern

Prior Uptrend: The pattern generally forms after a healthy rally. It’s a continuation pattern, not a reversal one.

Rounded Cup: The bottom should be smooth and gradual, not a sharp “V”. This indicates accumulation, not panic buying or selling.

Handle Formation: The handle often slopes downward and should not fall more than 15–20% from the top of the cup.

Volume Confirmation: Volume often decreases during the cup and handle formation, then spikes at the breakout.

 What Makes the Cup and Handle Pattern Unique?

What sets the cup and handle pattern apart from other bullish patterns is its ability to trap impatient traders during the handle phase. This brief consolidation or minor dip often shakes out weak hands—setting the stage for a powerful breakout driven by strong hands.

Moreover, this pattern reflects a shift in market sentiment: from correction, to stability, to anticipation, and finally to bullish conviction.

 Why Traders Love the Cup and Handle Pattern

Clear Entry Point: The breakout above the resistance line (top of the cup) is a well-defined entry.

Predictable Target: Many traders set the target by measuring the depth of the cup and projecting that above the breakout point.

Strong Momentum: Breakouts from this pattern are often supported by volume, suggesting institutional interest.

 Common Mistakes to Avoid

Misidentifying the Pattern: Not every “U” shape with a dip qualifies as a valid cup and handle. Look for proper volume behavior and structure.

Entering Too Early: Jumping in before the breakout can lead to false starts. Always wait for confirmation.

Ignoring Market Context: The broader market trend plays a role. This pattern works best in bullish or recovering markets.

 Final Thoughts

The cup and handle pattern may look simple, but it reflects complex behavior—from fear and uncertainty to renewed buying confidence. It tells a story of consolidation followed by conviction. When recognized correctly and used with discipline, it can become a high-probability setup in any trader’s toolkit.

Whether you’re just starting out or looking to refine your chart-reading skills, the cup and handle pattern is a classic you can trust—with plenty of modern relevance in today’s fast-paced markets.

[topinformationforyou]

Cup And handle Pattern

Master the Cup and Handle Pattern with FundedElite. Learn how to recognize this bullish chart pattern for better market predictions and enhance your trading strategy. Start your profitable trading journey today with FundedElite!

[tradingtips]

The cup and handle pattern stands out as one of the most reliable and widely recognized chart formations. It’s a pattern that is both simple to understand and immensely powerful when it comes to identifying potential price breakouts. More: https://fundedelite.com/cup-and-handle-pattern/

#bestpropfirms #cupandhandlepattern #forex #fundednext #forextrading #trading #riskmanagement #proptrading #propfirm #usa #fundedelite

[trading435]

Understanding the Cup and Handle Pattern in Stock Market Trading

In the world of technical analysis, chart patterns play a significant role in helping traders predict future price movements. Among these, the cup and handle pattern is a well-known bullish continuation pattern that suggests the potential for an upward trend in a stock's price. This blog will explore what the cup and handle pattern is, how to identify it, and how traders can effectively use it in their trading strategies.

What is the Cup and Handle Pattern?

The cup and handle pattern is a chart formation that resembles the shape of a tea cup. It consists of two parts:

The Cup: This is the larger, rounded part of the pattern that looks like a "U" or a bowl. It forms after a stock's price declines and then gradually recovers, creating a rounded bottom.

The Handle: The handle appears after the cup is formed, usually as a short period of consolidation or slight downward movement. It typically forms on the right side of the cup and is followed by a breakout to the upside.

The pattern generally signals that the stock is likely to continue its previous uptrend after the consolidation phase represented by the handle.

Key Features of the Cup and Handle Pattern

To identify the cup and handle pattern effectively, it's important to understand its key features:

Shape and Depth of the Cup: The cup should have a rounded, "U" shape, indicating a gradual recovery in the stock's price. A V-shaped cup is less ideal as it suggests a more volatile movement. The depth of the cup should be around one-third to two-thirds of the previous price rise.

The Handle: After the cup forms, the handle usually slopes slightly downward or moves sideways. It represents a period of consolidation where the stock may face temporary resistance. The handle should not be too deep; ideally, it should retrace no more than one-third of the cup's depth.

Volume Patterns: Volume typically decreases as the cup forms and the price bottoms out. During the formation of the handle, volume may also decrease. A significant increase in volume often accompanies the breakout from the handle, confirming the pattern.

How to Trade the Cup and Handle Pattern

Trading the cup and handle pattern involves several steps:

Entry Point: Traders usually enter a position when the stock price breaks above the resistance level formed by the handle. This breakout is a strong signal that the stock is likely to continue its upward movement.

Stop-Loss Placement: To protect against potential losses, place a stop-loss order below the lowest point of the handle. This helps manage risk in case the breakout turns out to be false.

Profit Target: A common method to set a profit target is to measure the distance from the bottom of the cup to the breakout point and project that distance upwards from the breakout point. This gives an estimate of the potential price move.

Example of the Cup and Handle Pattern

Imagine a stock that has been in a strong uptrend. The price then declines over several weeks, forming a rounded bottom (the cup). After recovering to a level near the previous high, the stock trades sideways or slightly downward, creating the handle. Volume decreases during the handle formation, but as the price breaks out above the handle's resistance level, volume spikes, confirming the pattern.

A trader enters a long position at the breakout, sets a stop-loss below the handle, and targets a profit based on the cup's height. The stock continues to rise, reaching the trader's profit target.

Conclusion

The cup and handle pattern is a powerful tool for traders seeking to identify bullish continuation patterns in the stock market. By understanding its structure and how to trade it effectively, traders can improve their chances of capturing profitable opportunities. As with any trading strategy, it is important to combine this pattern with other technical indicators and sound risk management practices to enhance overall success.

[mutange12]

Learn Forex: Cup and handle Pattern

Cup and handle pattern The Cup and Handle pattern is a bullish continuation pattern used in technical analysis within the stock market, forex trading, and other financial markets. Here’s a detailed breakdown: What is the Cup and Handle Pattern? Cup: The “cup” portion of the pattern resembles a bowl or rounding bottom and represents a consolidation period where the asset’s price levels out…

[finance-880]

How Shooting Star Candles and Cup and Handle Patterns Signal Market Reversals

Understanding market trends and potential reversals is crucial for traders and investors. Two common patterns used to predict these reversals are the shooting star candle and the cup and handle pattern. These patterns help traders identify potential turning points in the market, enabling them to make informed decisions. This article delves into how these patterns signal market reversals and their significance in trading.

What is a Shooting Star Candle?

A shooting star candle is a bearish candlestick pattern that typically occurs at the top of an uptrend. It is characterized by a small body, long upper shadow, and little to no lower shadow. The long upper shadow indicates that the price tried to rise significantly but was pushed down by sellers, showing potential weakness in the uptrend.

Key Features of a Shooting Star Candle

Small Real Body: The body of the candle is small, indicating that the opening and closing prices are close to each other.

Long Upper Shadow: This shadow is at least twice the length of the body, indicating strong selling pressure.

Little to No Lower Shadow: There is minimal lower shadow, highlighting the price's inability to sustain higher levels.

Importance in Trading

The shooting star candle is a significant indicator of a potential reversal from a bullish to a bearish trend. Traders often use this pattern to identify selling opportunities, especially when it appears after a prolonged uptrend. Confirming this pattern with other indicators, such as volume or additional technical analysis tools, can increase its reliability.

Understanding the Cup and Handle Pattern

The cup and handle pattern is a bullish continuation pattern that suggests a pause followed by a breakout. It resembles a tea cup, with the "cup" part showing a rounded bottom and the "handle" part representing a small consolidation before the breakout.

Formation of the Cup and Handle Pattern

Cup Formation: This phase shows a U-shaped recovery, where the price initially declines and then gradually recovers to form a rounded bottom.

Handle Formation: After the cup, the price enters a consolidation phase, forming the handle. This phase is typically shorter and represents a mild pullback or sideways movement.

Breakout: Following the handle, the price breaks out above the resistance level, signaling a continuation of the prior uptrend.

Importance in Trading

The cup and handle pattern is a reliable indicator of bullish continuation. Traders look for this pattern during an uptrend as it suggests the market is taking a brief pause before resuming its upward movement. The breakout from the handle often leads to significant price increases, providing an excellent opportunity for traders to enter long positions.

How These Patterns Signal Market Reversals

Shooting Star Candle as a Bearish Reversal Signal

When a shooting star candle appears at the top of an uptrend, it indicates potential exhaustion of the upward momentum. Traders interpret this pattern as a sign that the market may be ready to reverse direction. The long upper shadow suggests that buyers tried to push the price higher but were met with strong resistance from sellers. This imbalance often leads to a shift in market sentiment, causing prices to decline.

Cup and Handle Pattern as a Bullish Continuation Signal

In contrast, the cup and handle pattern signals a bullish continuation rather than a reversal. After forming the cup, the handle represents a period of consolidation where traders digest the prior gains. The subsequent breakout from the handle indicates that the market has built enough momentum to resume its upward trend. This pattern is particularly valuable in identifying entry points during an ongoing bull market.

Practical Application in Trading

Identifying and Trading Shooting Star Candles

Confirmation: Wait for confirmation from the following candle. If the next candle closes below the shooting star candle's body, it confirms the bearish reversal.

Stop Loss: Place a stop loss above the high of the shooting star candle to manage risk.

Target: Set a target based on previous support levels or a predefined risk-reward ratio.

Identifying and Trading Cup and Handle Patterns

Entry Point: Enter a long position when the price breaks above the handle's resistance level.

Stop Loss: Place a stop loss below the handle's low to protect against false breakouts.

Target: Set a target based on the depth of the cup. A common approach is to project the height of the cup from the breakout point.

Final Words

The shooting star candle and cup and handle pattern are valuable tools for traders to identify potential market reversals and continuations. The shooting star candle provides a clear signal for bearish reversals at the top of uptrends, while the cup and handle pattern indicates bullish continuations during uptrends. By understanding and applying these patterns, traders can enhance their market analysis and improve their trading decisions. Remember to use these patterns in conjunction with other technical analysis tools for the best results.

[stockexperttrading]

Unlock the Secrets of Trading with Top Chart Patterns! Explore the world of chart patterns with Funded Traders Global. From understanding the basics of technical analysis to recognizing common chart patterns like head and shoulders, double tops, and flags, our blog equips you with the knowledge to enhance your trading skills. Discover advanced patterns like pennants, wedges, and harmonic patterns, and gain practical tips for effective trading. Improve your risk management, pinpoint entry and exit points, and combine chart patterns with technical indicators. Start your journey towards trading success today with Funded Traders Global!

[truedatafinancialpvtltd]

How to Trade Using Cup and Handle Chart Pattern

The cup and handle pattern is a decades-old chart pattern that was popularised by William J. O'Neil, a well-known investor and the founder of Investor's Business Daily. He introduced this concept in his book How to Make Money in Stocks, published in the 1980s. O'Neil observed that this pattern often appears in stocks before they make significant upward moves, especially when supported by strong trading volume during the breakout. 

This pattern is used to identify potential bullish trends in stocks, commodities, or other financial instruments. The pattern gets its name due to its distinct resemblance to a cup with a handle when viewed on a price chart. The pattern begins with a rounded, U-shaped decline and recovery, forming the ‘cup’. After the cup is formed, there is a smaller, sideways or slightly downward consolidation phase, creating the ‘handle’. This handle typically represents a brief pause before the price breaks out in an upward direction.

Read More: https://www.truedata.in/blog/what-is-cup-and-handle-pattern-and-how-to-trade-it

[s0lidar1ty]

soft/frat!rafe taking care of drunk!reader after bumping into her at a party

The party music rings off the walls of your head. Your eyes blur, fading in and out as you hug the wall to help yourself toward the kitchen.

You've never been here. At least you don't remember it. Sarah invited you, but you lost her a few minutes earlier in the sea of bodies and flashing lights.

Your hand fumbles with the handle of the fridge door, the icy air spouting out as you open it and take the first bottle you see. Clear liquid moves inside, and you don't even think before you tilt it back. But what's in it is anything but water. The burning fire of the vodka shoots down your throat.

You hiss, dropping the bottle on the floor with a dull clunk, wincing through the sting. The floor shifts under your feet when you turn around, and you stumble right into someone.

"Shit—'m sorry," you mutter, words slurring. You try to step around them, but a hand wraps around your forearm, firm but not hard.

You know it's Rafe before you even raise your head.

 You know the way his hands feel.

His fingers tighten further around your wrist as he pulls you out of the crowd, through a doorway, and into a quieter room. As soon as you're in, it's familiar. The tall, mahogany desk, the bookshelves full of books—yeah. You've been here before.

The study.

Rafe turns you around to face him, fingers cupping your face, thumbs rubbing across your cheekbones as he attempts to focus your eyes on him. "Hey," he whispers, voice low and smooth. "How much did you have to drink?"

"I don't know. How much did you?" you snap back, your bratty nature emerging from the fog. You don’t mean to be hostile, but you are. You can’t help it.

He mocks a laugh, lifting your chin high with two fingers. "How much?" he repeats, slower now, his tone harder.

You swallow. He's upset. You can tell from the tightly drawn line of his jaw, hear it in the fall in his voice. He's not angry—he'd never hurt you—but the disappointment radiates off him in waves.

And that scares you. You never want to disappoint him. Ever.

Your back straightens automatically. "I don't remember," you confess, voice softer now, eyes flicking anywhere but his.

"Fuck you mean you don't remember?" His tone hurt more than he meant it to, his eyebrows creasing. "What are you even doing here?"

You feel tears threaten to well up in your eyes before you can catch them. You blink frantically, trying to make them disappear, but one slips out anyway. You rub it away quickly, annoyed with yourself. "I came with Sarah," you mutter.

His expression of anger flickers away, replaced with something gentler. His hands fall to your shoulders, moving in slow circles as he breathes in through his nose. "Hey, hey." His voice is soft now. "I'm not angry with you, princess—Im sorry for my tone, but I just wanna make sure you’re okay." He leans down, kissing your forehead. "I'm taking you home, okay? You need to have some water and get sobered up."

You nod, too exhausted to fight it.

And then you're home.  

You wake up, and you're on the couch in your apartment, the cushions molding around you as you move on top of them. The hazy glow of the kitchen light casts shadows on the floor, covering the room in warm, muted blackness.

Rafe is lying beside you, your face in his chest, his fingers drawing lazy patterns across your back. "You hungry?"

“I'm drunk,” You mutter.

He snorts. "So that's a yes." A hesitation. Then, with a knowing smile, "Chicken Alfredo?"

You hum back to him, the only response he receives.

"Okay," he whispers, kissing you on your forehead once more before getting up and heading into the kitchen.

The clang of the pan against the stove, the gentle clink of silverware, the distant rumble of the fridge door opening—it's all strangely soothing. You close your eyes, and you hear his periodic thuds as he moves about.

Rafe turns back over his shoulder to steal a glance at you, a slow grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You good, baby?"

You sigh softly, your voice heavy with tiredness. "You look good."

He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah? Your eyes are closed, baby, how can you see me right now?"

“I mean in general, smartass,” you shoot back, opening your eyes finally to back up your statement. “See? Eyes are open, and there’s still a handsome man in my kitchen.”

Rafe laughs, shaking his head in embarrassment. No matter how many you give, he’ll never get used to you giving compliments.

After a while, he puts two plates on the counter and walks over to the living room, kneeling next to the couch. He reaches out, his fingers tracing over your cheek, pushing a piece of hair behind your ear. "C'mon, baby. Eat first, then you can pass out, yeah?"

You take a deep breath, face buried in the pillow. "Don't wanna move."

"I'll feed you if I have to," he jokes, but there's a gentleness beneath.

You look up at him, a sly smile on your face as you tease, "That supposed to be a threat?"

He smiles. "It's a promise."

[not-soap73]

₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ Mark ‘Invincible’ Grayson ₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

nsfw/smut oneshot, afab!reader, p in v, creampie, no protection

“Just…fuck-“

His hands gripped your hips, stopping you from moving up against him.

Why did he stop? Probably because you finally letting Mark fuck you raw for the first time since you started taking birth control. Finally…no barriers, no latex between you, just pure, raw sensation. It short-circuited his brain, wiped out every shred of restraint he thought he once had.

He could feel everything. The overwhelming heat from the way your bare walls clung to him, slick and greedy, it was too much for him to handle.

“Stop…”

“Stop what?”

“You know exactly what. Stop…sucking me in like that.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. Mark was absolutely adorable when he was flustered — his cheeks and the tips of his ears flushed a deep red, shaky breaths spilling from his lips as he stared down at you with wide, blown out pupils. He looked like a love-struck fool, completely undone by you and your pussy swallowing him whole.

His fingers dug into your waist, leaving faint nail marks as he began moving his hips into you again. Inch by inch sinking deep within you before slowly pulling out to repeat the motion. A pitchy moan erupted from him, his forehead making contact with your shoulder as he fought to keep himself together, his inky black hair tickling the crook of your neck and cheek.

You whimpered sweetly beneath him, your walls fluttering again, and he cursed low under his breath. Every pulse of your body around him had him teetering right on the edge, his muscles trembling with the effort not to cum inside you too soon. Fuck, why did going in raw feel so good? It shouldn’t feel this good.

“Shit…”

He whined out into your ear, nibbling onto the sensitive bit of your neck.

You let out a soft mewl, legs wrapping around his hips, heels pressing into his ass to press him fully down against you. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your skin as his hands roamed down your sides, pawing at your plush skin, desperate to feel more of you. One hand cupping your breast, rolling your perked nipple between two fingers before softly pinching the bud.

His hips ground into yours with a slow, needy roll, and you gasped, nails raking lightly down his back. Every movement, every breath between you was thick with heat.

“Mark…go faster…”

“I’m going to cum if I do.”

He was half Viltrumite. You would think he would have some sort of crazy stamina, right? To last longer than the average person. That was completely wrong. Here he was, trembling above you, looking like he could barely hold himself together. Every roll of his hips grew sloppier, more desperate, like he was chasing the high he was so close to falling over.

It was almost funny— someone bred for strength and endurance, completely undone by the way your body clung to him, pulling him deeper. Your pussy clenching around his throbbing dick made his eyes roll back, a little bit of dribble running down his lower lip.

“You feel…so good…”

He cooed into your ear.

You tightened your legs around him instinctively, coaxing him deeper, and the broken sound he let out was nearly enough to make you cum. His hips jerked, losing their rhythm as he rutted into you, more faster this time. His hand slid between your bodies, fingertips clumsily searching until they found your puffy clit, circling it in tight, messy patterns that made your back arch off the bed, a low moan leaving you. It was almost too much.

"Come with me."

He rasped against your throat, and the way he begged — soft, wrecked, and completely vulnerable — sent you hurtling straight over the edge, dragging him down with you.

“Please…I can’t hold it in any longer…”

The knot completely broke, your body trembled as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Every muscle tightening around him as your pussy clenched, drawing a deep, guttural moan mixed with a whimper from his lips. He came into you with a final, helpless thrust, burying himself as deep as he could, filling you with his seed, clinging to you like his life depended on it as his body collapsed on top of yours.

For a few long moments, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your mingled, ragged breaths and the frantic beating of his heart against your chest.

Slowly, he softened inside you before slipping out, his dick pulsing at your inner thigh, cum seeping from the tip. His body still slumped against yours, heavy and warm and utterly spent. He pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder, murmuring soft, unintelligible praises against your skin before he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent after sex. His fingers massaged your sides, earning a tired hum from you.

“Hey…do you think I could…eat you out?”

How could you say no.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Every Shade.

Spencer Reid x Avoidant!BAU!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Your perfect boyfriend says a fun fact about the standards of beauty, and suddenly his words hit you harder than they should.

Words: 6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of insecurities, beauty canons, serial killers, death and the reader wearing makeup. established relationship. spencer being an inexperienced boyfriend. lack of communication but happy ending. hurt/comfort. angst?. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I can seriously think of my inexperienced boy being a foolish or careless boyfriend even without meaning to be, so enjoy this!

Spencer Reid never thought of himself as the careless type of boyfriend. In fact, before you, the very idea of being someone’s boyfriend had never seemed possible, let alone something he could do well. He had always been more comfortable with facts, numbers, and patterns. Relationships had always been a different kind of mystery to him, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to solve. But when you came into his life, something shifted. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt an overwhelming desire to be not just a partner, but a good one. A thoughtful one. A boyfriend who paid attention to the details.

He knew your favorite coffee order without you ever having to tell him. He knew the exact shade of blue that made your eyes sparkle in a way that made him catch his breath and the way you furrowed your brows in concentration when you were diving deep into thought. He noticed the little things, like the way your fingers gripped the edge of your sleeve when you were lost in a difficult problem or how you would laugh softly at jokes you didn’t find funny just to make others feel comfortable. Every habit, every subtle movement, every fleeting comment you made was something he absorbed like a sponge, collecting the pieces of you that made you you. And it made him feel closer to you, more connected than he ever thought was possible.

But it wasn’t just the light moments he noticed. Spencer also understood the weight of your darker days, the ones where the world seemed to shift into shades of gray, where the air held a bite that wasn’t harsh but still cut through you. He knew when the seasons teetered between autumn and winter and how those melancholic in-between days clung to your spirit. On those days, the ones where you wore your sadness like a cloak without ever saying a word, he was there. He noticed when your smile didn’t reach your eyes, when your usual energy seemed dimmed. So, without fail, he would show up with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a soft blanket, and arms that enveloped you like a cocoon. He would be your shelter, your quiet refuge from the world, without needing any words to fill the silence.

He loved knowing you this well, loved that he could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. It made him feel closer to you, like he had earned a place in the most hidden corners of your heart. And to Spencer, there was no better feeling in the world.

He knows you; he sees you. He does it.

That morning, in the quiet hum of your office, was one of those moments where your boyfriend’s watchful eyes made all the difference. The soft glow of your desk lamp illuminated your face, casting a warm, golden light that contrasted against the coolness of the winter air outside. Before you, your makeup bag lay open, a chaotic yet familiar spread of tools—brushes, tubes, powders—all of them scattered like tiny pieces of armor you would need for the day ahead. You were preparing for the press conference, the one where you would stand in for JJ during her maternity leave. The pressure felt immense. It wasn’t just any press conference; it was the moment you had to prove you could handle the spotlight, the cameras, and the ever-watchful public eye. The weight of one of your best friends’ trust sat heavy on your shoulders, but it was a weight you were willing to carry.

As you smoothed foundation over your skin with careful, practiced strokes, you felt the weight of Spencer’s gaze on you. It wasn’t intrusive, never demanding, just there, steady and grounding, as if his attention alone could keep you tethered. He had a way of watching you that made you feel both seen and safe, as though he was quietly committing every little detail of you to memory.

Still, you glanced up, unable to resist.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—told you everything. He was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world, his quiet reverence sending a warm, familiar hum through your chest. It made your pulse stutter, your breath catch just slightly.

Because, oh God, how much you loved feeling his eyes on you.

You swallowed, dragging your focus back to the mirror. Focus. Get it together. You’ve got this. JJ had entrusted you with this press conference, and you weren’t about to let doubt creep in, not now.

But from the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Derek Morgan, leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, wearing that signature smirk of his. It wasn’t just amusement playing at the edges of his mouth; it was something more entertained, more knowing. His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, and you could practically hear the teasing remark forming before he even opened his mouth.

You sighed. Here we go.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow as you reached for your concealer. “Never seen someone put on makeup before?”

His grin only deepened. “Nah, I’ve seen plenty,” he said, raising an eyebrow as if he were admiring a work of art. “I’ve just never seen someone prepare for a press conference like they’re getting ready for a red carpet event.”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of us like to be prepared. Looking good is part of that.” You injected confidence into the words, though if you were being honest, they felt a little hollow. Today, it wasn’t just about looking good, it was about feeling in control.

And right now, with nerves curling tight in your stomach, you weren’t sure you did.

Morgan’s smirk didn’t waver. He nudged your boyfriend with his elbow, dragging him into the conversation. “Come on, kid. Tell her she doesn’t need all that makeup.”

You looked up, expecting his usual reassuring smile, that soft look he reserved for moments when he knew you were nervous or self-conscious. You could always count on him to calm your racing thoughts, to tell you that you were perfect just the way you were. The kind of reassurance that made everything feel lighter.

Instead, Spencer glanced at you with that thoughtful frown he always wore when his mind was spinning through facts. “You know…” His voice was calm, detached even, like he was about to drop some piece of knowledge that he thought might help. “It’s weird, but studies show that people tend to take you more seriously when you fit the ‘beauty standards.’ You know, like…if you’re wearing makeup or have certain features that are seen as desirable, people will listen to you more in meetings.”

The mascara brush froze mid-air.

Oh.

The words landed harder than they should have, knocking the breath from your lungs in a way that felt almost embarrassing. Because this was Spencer, your Spencer, the one who had seen you at your worst, who had kissed you sleepy and messy in the morning, who had traced your bare skin in the dim light of your bedroom.

And yet, here he was, stating facts about beauty standards like they were nothing more than statistics. Like they didn’t mean anything.

You forced out a weak laugh, trying to brush it off, trying to tell yourself that he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But the sting was already there, curling under your skin, settling deep in your chest. Was that how he really saw things? That your worth—your professional worth—was tied to how well you conformed to something so shallow?

That you weren’t enough without it?

You searched his face, hoping to find something, some flicker of understanding, some sign that he realized how his words had sliced right through you. But he wasn’t looking at you like a man who had just shaken your foundation. He was looking at you like a scientist reciting an interesting fact.

Like it wasn’t personal.

But God, it felt personal.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, boy,” Derek said, messing with Reid’s hair, trying to break the tension, but the words didn’t quite hit the mark.

You tried to focus again, returning your attention to your makeup, but the weight of Spencer’s comment lingered in the air. Your hands felt unsteady as you finished applying the mascara, the brush shaking slightly with each stroke. Your voice felt tight as you responded, trying to keep it light, but your words tasted flat, like you were trying to cover up a bruise that wasn’t yet healed.

“That’s…interesting,” you said, your tone carefully neutral, though the insecurity that was now flooding through you was anything but calm.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you, his voice slightly absent. “And if you’re a woman, studies show that you’re more likely to be taken seriously in a professional setting if you wear makeup or—” His gaze seemed to soften, but it didn’t feel comforting. It just made you feel like there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Not that you need it, of course.”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as you tried to smile, but it didn’t feel natural. His words had drilled into you, chipping away at the small pieces of confidence you’d carefully built up this morning. The idea that your worth, in part, was tied to your appearance, to how well you matched up to some standard that was beyond your control, weighed on you like a heavy cloak. You thought about the days you’d come to work with little makeup, or none at all, when your boyfriend had seen you without the polished facade, the times when he had seen you just woken up or coming out of the shower. Did he see you as less then? Did he notice the imperfections when you were stripped of all that? Did he like you less when he saw you naked, unpolished, and unguarded? Were you enough for him in those moments? Did he still see you the same way? Or was there a shift, a moment when he realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t quite as perfect as the women he read about in his studies, the ones with their perfectly symmetrical faces, their natural makeup, their flawless skin?

“And, you know,” He added, still looking at you and Morgan like he couldn’t stop talking, “there’s this whole thing about how people with higher cheekbones are considered more attractive, and—”

You felt your breath catch. The fun facts about beauty standards kept coming, one after the other, each one a reminder of the ways you didn’t measure up. How the curve of your jaw wasn’t quite sharp enough, how your cheekbones weren’t as high as the models in the magazines, how you didn’t quite fit the mold your own boyfriend was talking about.

He wasn’t intentionally trying to make you feel insecure; he wasn’t even really paying attention to how you were really reacting, but somehow, his words echoed in your mind, like a chorus of doubts rising to the surface. Maybe you had been too focused on doing your makeup to feel like yourself today. Maybe you had gotten too used to hiding behind this mask to feel comfortable with who you really were underneath. Maybe you were pretty, but not pretty enough. Never enough. Never like a model.

You forced a laugh, trying to shake off the unease. “Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to keep up with all the standards, huh?” You said, your voice tight, and then quickly added, “But I’ll be fine. It’s just a conference, right?”

Something inside you was mentally begging him—pleading with him—to say something else. Something real. Something that had nothing to do with studies or statistics or the way the world decided who mattered more. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me none of that matters. Tell me I don’t have to measure up to a standard I’ll never fully reach.

But all he gave you was a weak smile, the kind he always gave when he thought everything was fine. He said, “You’ll do great. You always do,” as if that was enough.

But it wasn’t. Not this time.

Not when your heart was filled with doubts and insecurity, and all you really wanted was to feel seen. To feel like you were more than just the sum of your appearance.

“Thanks,” you said, the word small and insignificant, slipping from your lips like it didn’t matter at all.

Spencer didn’t notice the shift. He turned his attention back to his notes, his mind already back on its analytical track. He was already gone, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the storm that had stirred inside you.

And as you sat there, in front of the mirror, your perfectly applied makeup reflecting back at you, the weight of the silence between you grew. You had done everything right. You had made yourself look the way you were supposed to. But somehow, sitting next to the person who should have made you feel the most seen, you felt more invisible than ever.

The mask was still in place, but it didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like a cage.

The women’s bathroom buzzed with quiet energy, the soft murmur of conversation from the stalls, the clatter of makeup brushes on porcelain, and the steady trickle of a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, casting everything in an unforgiving, almost surgical glare. Too bright. Too harsh. Every pore, every smudge, every slightly overfilled section of your eyebrow…ugh, why did it look so weird today?

You squinted at your reflection, lips pressed into a tight line, as if sheer force of will could stop the growing wave of insecurity curling around your ribs. Your hair was shining after so many new products, your foundation was patchy in places, and your eyeliner was untouched. You should have been focused and methodical, getting ready like you always did. Instead, your hands were unsteady, your thoughts tangled in something that had absolutely no right to be taking up this much space in your brain.

But it was.

Because Spencer Reid and his dumb fun facts had lodged themselves deep into your psyche, turning what should have been a normal morning into an existential crisis. The same babbling you used to love to hear now sounded like a nightmare. The same guy you had fallen in love with and loved to be with all day was now the one you had been avoiding looking in the face for more than three seconds.

On the counter was one of the magazines you had bought the other day, with a model looking back at you with her impossibly perfect cat eyes and flawless skin. Today you tried the same look. It hadn't worked. It looked good on her, perfect. On you? You looked like a raccoon trying to do a winged eyeliner tutorial while riding a roller coaster.

Suddenly, Emily’s voice sliced through the fog of your spiraling thoughts.

“Okay,” she said, her tone edged with concern and authority, “what the hell is going on?”

You startled slightly, mascara wand freezing midair. When you looked up, she was leaning casually against the counter, but her eyes—dark and sharp as ever—were anything but casual. She scanned you like a crime scene: the half-done eye makeup, the tense set of your shoulders, the way your lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line. You must’ve looked like you were trying to solve an advanced math problem, not get ready for a briefing.

You cleared your throat, forcing out the lie you hoped would be enough. “Nothing.”

Emily blinked slowly, unimpressed. “Right. Because people always look like they’re about to throw up when nothing is wrong.”

Damn profilers.

From across the room, Penelope was perched dramatically on the edge of the sink, legs swinging, a swirl of floral perfume and bubblegum. She blew a perfect pink bubble, let it pop, then gave you a long, knowing look as she chewed.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, cocking her head. “That’s the ‘I’m having a silent breakdown but don’t want to talk about it face.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out weak. “I don’t have a face for that.”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Oh, honey. You absolutely do.”

“She’s right,” Emily deadpanned, crossing her arms. “It’s your second most common expression. Right after, I’m internally screaming but pretending everything’s fine.”

You let out a breath—sharp and tired—and pressed two fingers to your temple like that would somehow press the thoughts out of your head. But they didn’t go. They never really did.

“I just…” You trailed off, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. Your eyes dropped to the cluttered counter: a foundation bottle left uncapped, brushes scattered, and a smudge of lipstick on a tissue like a failed experiment. “Do I look good?”

The silence that followed was brief but pointed. You could feel both women scan you with clinical precision: your rumpled hair, eyeliner started on one eye but not the other, and foundation patchy where you’d tried to blend too quickly. But it wasn’t just about that. They knew it. You knew it.

Emily gave a dismissive wave. “Why are you even asking? You know you look good.”

But the question still hung heavy in the air.

You set the mascara down with a quiet, deliberate click. A tiny sound, but final. “Spencer said something,” you murmured, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “A couple of days ago.”

Both women immediately stilled.

“About beauty standards,” you continued, eyes fixed on the magazine lying facedown on the counter, a model’s perfect eyes staring back in judgment. “He was talking about how people take you more seriously if you look a certain way. If you’re conventionally attractive. He was just rattling off facts—like he always does—but…it stuck.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she popped her gum again. “Ugh, that boy and his fun facts.”

You tried to laugh, but your stomach was turning like someone had twisted it into a tight knot and pulled. The memory clung to you: his voice so casual, so neutral, dropping that stupid statistic like it meant nothing. But it hadn’t felt like nothing. Not to you.

Emily straightened. She wasn’t amused. Not even a little. “He said that to you?”

You nodded slowly. “Not to me. He was just…talking. He probably didn’t even realize what he said. But now I’m in here, halfway through my makeup, spiraling over whether my eyeliner’s straight enough to be ‘taken seriously’ by the world.”

You gestured helplessly at the mirror, at your own reflection: smeared foundation, uncertain brows, the ghost of winged eyeliner clinging to your lid. “And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Like…if I don’t pull it together, if I don’t look perfect, it’s not just that I’ll feel bad. It’s that no one will listen to me.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit,” she said flatly.

Penelope raised one hand and placed it dramatically over her chest like she’d been mortally offended. “The biggest load of bullshit.”

You let out a huff of air, something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well. My brain didn’t get the memo.”

Penelope stood up then, with unusual seriousness softening her expression. “Sweetheart, let me tell you something. You could walk into that room with mascara running down your cheeks, wearing nothing but a coffee-stained hoodie, and people would still shut up and listen when you talk. Not because of how you look. But because you’re brilliant. And terrifying. In the best possible way.”

You swallowed, feeling something tighten in your throat. “No, but—”

“No buts,” Emily cut in. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but sometimes he forgets how real people work. Especially the ones he cares about.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “But don’t let one stupid comment rewrite everything you already know about yourself.”

That startled a real laugh out of you.

Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! I adore that lanky little weirdo, but he says a lot of things without thinking about how they land. That doesn’t mean he sees you any differently. It just means he’s a socially awkward nerd who needs to learn when not to share his random knowledge with his girlfriend.”

You allowed yourself a deep exhale, some of the weight on your chest easing, if only a fraction. It felt like the first time all day you could breathe without feeling like you were suffocating under the pressure of everything you couldn’t say.

Emily’s voice, soft and steady, broke through the stillness. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “Not to Spencer. Not to the world. And definitely not to some arbitrary beauty standard that doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”

The calm conviction in her words settled over you like a warm blanket, soft and grounding, and Penelope added her own brand of comforting chaos. “But if finishing your makeup makes you feel good, babe, then go ahead and slay.” She flashed a wink, her smile wide and dazzling. “We’ll be right here, hyping you up, always.

You looked between them, their unwavering confidence in you, the way they stood on either side like a protective barrier between you and your own insecurities. The knots in your stomach loosened, just a little.

You finished your makeup with steadying breaths and Penelope’s steady stream of compliments in your ear like a lifeline. The eyeliner wasn’t perfect. The foundation still sat weird in that one spot near your chin. But it didn’t matter as much now. Or at least, you were trying really hard to make it not matter.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, the usual BAU morning chaos was in full swing, agents weaving in and out of the bullpen, papers rustling, and the echo of hurried footsteps down the hall. You fell into step behind Garcia, letting her take the lead as you clutched the folder to your chest with slightly sweaty palms.

And then you felt it. The subtle shift in the air that told you he was there before you saw him. Spencer.

He was already seated at the table, elbows propped up, flipping through the preliminary case file, his usual air of quiet concentration surrounding him. He lookedd so much like himself: cardigan slightly too big, curls falling just messy enough to look endearing, the corner of his mouth tucked between his teeth as he scanned the papers. So familiar. So impossibly distant.

You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Instead, you angled yourself toward the projector, using the task of setting up the slideshow like it required your full, undivided attention. Which it absolutely did not, but the alternative was accidentally making eye contact and seeing something in his expression you couldn’t handle. Confusion, guilt, or worse: nothing at all.

“Morning,” he said quietly. It was the tone he used when he wasn’t sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

You responded too fast, your voice too sharp, too clipped. “Morning.”

There was a brief silence. You could feel his eyes on you, like a gentle tap on the shoulder you were determined to ignore.

And then, mercifully, Hotch walked in, his presence slicing through the tension. “Let’s get started,” he said, already flipping through the case file as he moved to the head of the table.

The team fell into their usual rhythm, a buzz of motion, chairs scraping back as people shifted into place. You slid into your seat at the front of the room, clicking the remote to bring up the first slide, and forced your voice into something steady, something professional.

“We’ve got three victims, all found in rural areas surrounding Baltimore. All women, ages 25 to 30, all brunette, similar build. There are signs of overkill, stab wounds well beyond what would be necessary to cause death.”

You moved through the slides with practiced precision, your voice even, your focus razor-sharp. You didn’t stumble, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t once let your gaze flicker to Spencer’s side of the table. You spoke to Hotch. To Rossi. To Emily. To Penelope and Derek. Even to the wall. Anywhere but him.

Only once did your composure crack, a tiny hiccup in your breath when you mentioned the geographic profile. It was something Spencer had taught you when you were still new, something he’d spent hours drilling into you, showing you how to see patterns in the chaos. And there it was, his head lifting ever so slightly, his mouth parting like he wanted to remind you of something. Maybe a fact you’d forgotten. Or just to remind you that he was still there, somewhere, waiting to bridge the gap between you.

You forced yourself to keep going.

When you finished, Hotch gave a brief nod. “Good work. Let’s move out in twenty.”

The team’s energy shifted, moving from the quiet tension of the briefing room to the familiar post-briefing buzz. Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, and voices rose as people began to file out. But you stayed behind, pretending to organize the files in front of you, keeping your hands busy, keeping yourself from fleeing. The paper felt like the only thing in the room that didn’t carry the weight of unspoken words.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer pause in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the harsh fluorescent light. He lingered, hesitant, unsure.

“Hey,” he said, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak to you in this moment. “Can we—”

“I have to double-check something with Garcia,” you cut in before he could finish, your words not unkind but firm, like a wall going up between you.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it was enough.

You moved past him without waiting for a reply, your heels clicking sharply against the tile, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, the echo of his voice a distant thing you weren’t ready to face. Not yet.

Maybe never.

You didn’t see him at first. You didn’t want to. The hallway of the precinct was quiet, almost too quiet, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the distant murmur of voices in the bullpen nothing but a dull backdrop to your pulse, racing in your ears. You had taken the longer route on purpose, weaving through empty hallways, hoping to lose yourself in the disarray of the building. You could feel the thick weight of the morning press down on your chest: the meeting, the case, the pressure to be perfect. You just needed a moment of stillness, a second of quiet.

But fate had a funny way of ruining plans.

The moment you turned the corner, you saw him. Spencer. Standing there, just a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were bracing himself. His posture was that familiar mix of awkwardness and intent focus, like he was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent, but there was something different about him today. His hair was messier than usual, curls sticking out in odd directions, and his fingers were twitching by his side, nervous. Almost like he was unsure of himself.

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to keep walking, tried to push past him, but the sound of your shoes clicking against the linoleum slowed as you drew near, the silence hanging heavy.

“Hey,” he said, soft and tentative, like he was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Your body tensed. You didn’t respond right away, hoping maybe if you didn’t acknowledge it, he’d take the hint and let you slip away again, untouched. Unspoken to. Unseen.

No such luck.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he tried again, more gently. “Just for a second.”

Your grip on the folder tightened until the edge of the paper cut into your palm. “I’m kind of busy,” you muttered, finally, still not looking at him.

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, half a breath, half defeat. “Maybe because I am,” you murmured, eyes flicking down to the paperwork you clutched like a shield. “The profile’s not ready, the press is waiting, and if I don’t finish the summary, Hotch is going to breathe down my neck in fifteen minutes.” The words came out sharp and mechanical, like a rehearsed excuse. But your heart wasn’t in it. Not even close.

Spencer was quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of his stare, not sharp, not demanding. Just there. Lingering. Like gravity.

“I did something,” he said finally, his voice thin and breaking at the edges. “Didn’t I? Something that hurt you.”

Your shoulders stiffened. The chill rolled in again, slow and insidious, sinking down through the fabric of your clothes and into your bones. You wanted to say no. Wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, that you weren’t affected. But your body betrayed you. Your jaw clenched. Your breath hitched.

“It’s nothing,” you said, but it cracked on the way out, barely held together by habit.

He took a careful step closer. You felt it. The shift in the air, the static tension that danced between the inches that separated your bodies. “No, it’s not nothing,” he said softly. “Tell me what I said. What I did.”

You could hear the ache in his voice, that rare, tender vulnerability he only let you see. It scraped at you, raw and irritating, because he sounded like he cared. Because he did. And that made it worse. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t try to reason his way in with statistics or logic. He just stood there, steady and open, letting you feel every inch of his presence.

“I know something’s wrong.” Spencer said. “You didn’t sit with me on the jet. You didn’t even look at me.”

The words made you flinch, just slightly. You hadn’t expected him to notice. Or maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to.

“I know we don’t show affection at work. That’s always been our rule,” he continued, quieter now, more broken. “But you always touch my hand. Or bump your knee into mine. You always steal a sip of my coffee, even when it’s gross. But this morning…you didn’t even look at the muffin I brought you.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the guilt clawing at your chest. He’d noticed. Every small absence. Every little shift.

Finally, you turned. Slowly. Your gaze fell to the floor in front of his shoes, worn at the edges and slightly scuffed. Just like him. And then you looked up. Just barely. Just enough to catch the way he was standing. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands limp by his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like he didn’t know how to reach you.

And he didn’t.

Because part of you didn’t want to be reached.

Not yet.

“It’s just…” You swallowed. “It’s what you said the other day. When Morgan made that joke about my makeup.”

Spencer blinked, clearly trying to remember. “What did I exactly say?”

“You said people get more attention when they see someone pretty,” you said, each word carefully even, like if you didn’t control your voice, it would crack.

His brows furrowed. “I said that people tend to respond more favorably to those who fall within conventional beauty standards and that it has an unconscious effect on—”

“I know what you said,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The echo of your own voice in the empty hallway made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to repeat it like a textbook.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but enough.

“I didn’t mean it about you,” he said quickly. “I was just talking. I always talk too much, you know it.”

You gave a humorless laugh, turning your back to him, your arms crossed tight over your chest.

“That’s the thing, Spencer. You didn’t mean it. And you didn’t even realize how it sounded. You just threw it out there, like a fact. Like I wasn’t sitting right next to you, like I’m not already trying to compete in a world that picks apart every inch of me the second I walk into a room.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.”

Your voice cracked this time, and you hated it. Hated the sting in your eyes, the tightness in your throat. You weren’t supposed to feel like this, not over something so small. But it wasn’t small. Not to you. Not when it was coming from him.

He stepped closer again, like he couldn’t help himself, and you stepped back just as fast.

“Please don’t,” you said quietly.

He froze.

“I know I’m not the only girl in the world,” you said, not looking at him. “And I’m not asking to be. But when you say things like that, even casually, it feels like I’ve already lost a race I didn’t know I was running. Like I’m not even in the frame.”

There was a long pause. Your boyfriend’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never been out of frame. Not for me.”

You shook your head, blinking hard, trying to will away the heat behind your eyes. “I’ve spent the last two days wondering if I’d be worth more to you if I looked different.”

That hit him like a blow. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. But please believe me when I tell you…I see you. All the time. You’re someone I—” He stopped himself, teeth catching on his bottom lip. “You’re the only person I can’t stop seeing.”

Something in your chest pulled tight, twisted cruelly.

You stared at a fixed spot on the floor. The tiles blurred a little around the edges. You didn’t know what to say to that, not when your chest felt too tight, not when your emotions were running just beneath your skin, raw and humming.

“I don’t always think before I talk,” he continued, carefully. “Sometimes I share things like facts and research like they’re harmless, like they’re neutral. But I forget that facts aren’t neutral when they land on people I care about.”

That made you glance up at him. Just for a second.

He looked like he meant it: brows drawn, hands loosely curled at his sides, eyes locked on yours with that intense kind of focus he reserved for unsolvable puzzles and people he couldn’t let go of.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said, and there was no rush in it. No grand gesture. Just a quiet truth. “Not when you’re all put together. Not just when you wear makeup. Not just when you smile.”

You blinked. The air in the hallway seemed to still.

“I think you’re beautiful when you’re tired. When you’re pissed off. When you’re sitting at your desk covered in crime scene dust and snapping at Morgan because you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think you’re beautiful even when you’re covered in blood, cursing at your vest because it rubbed your ribs raw…even if that sounds weird.”

A quiet laugh broke out of you, not a full one, but a cracked, genuine thing that caught you off guard. You shook your head, eyes misty despite yourself.

“Spencer…”

He stepped forward slowly, careful not to close the distance unless you let him. “You never needed to change anything. Not for me. Not for the world, either. But if you ever forget how amazing you are, I’ll remind you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was too tight. But your hand reached out, just barely brushing against his. Not quite holding. Just…touching.

It was enough.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and hesitant.

“Okay,” you whispered.

And for the first time in days, the storm inside you quieted, not gone, but calm. Manageable. Because he didn’t just see you. He saw through everything you tried to hide…and stayed.

Friendly reminder ❤︎ : you are beautiful and "standards" are bullshit that don't matter, even if we sometimes feel like they do.

Take care and be kind to yourself, xoxo.

[matt-murdockk]

Nine-Nine!

an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover

pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)

words: 3.0k

warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3

summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.

a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.

[divadepreshawn]

𝒀𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂'𝒂𝒎

Summary: Aaron Hotchner is not a man of many words — he prefers silence, gesture, subtle care. You have learned to listen. Warning: I don't think this can even be considered a story in itself. It's more about my kink for tough men who obey their wives in silence. Delusions WC: 1 093

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You knew that Aaron Hotchner was not an easy man.

He was – for lack of a more delicate term – emotionally constipated. And the chronic stress of his job made it worse. He is a person who values ​​justice a lot, and yes, he manages to apply it at work. But sometimes willpower alone is not enough, luck is not always on your side – even if he doesn't say it out loud, you know it affects him.

Aaron carried all of this in silence – never showing how tired he was, never asking for help.

He is extremely protective, to an almost suffocating degree. Not only of you and Jack, but of the team as well – which means he takes on more responsibilities than any healthy human being should try to handle.

Even so – and perhaps precisely because of this – he is a great husband.

Aaron Hotchner is the most romantic person you know.

Of course, if you tried to verbalize this to him, Aaron would give a half-smile, mumbling in mockery.

“Tzz, you’re starting to get sleep deprived. Let’s go to sleep, honey.”

But you could see it. You knew.

He didn’t say “I love you” often, or make big public declarations—it wasn’t necessary. You learned to watch the way he loved.

He would show up with a bouquet of tulips every month on the twentieth (the date you got married)— a silent ritual he followed to the letter, whether you were traveling to a case or at home. If a case was particularly difficult for you, he would sit next to you on the jet in silence, intertwine your fingers with his, and with his free hand, place a cup of tea and your favorite candy in front of you.

You mentioned once — just once — that your lower back hurt during your period. It was a casual comment, something so small that you didn’t even remember why it was important to the conversation. But he kept it in mind. In the months that followed, he would pay attention to every phase of your cycle. Every tiny expression on your face—from a slight frown when you bent down to pick up something that had fallen on the floor — didn’t go unnoticed.

Aaron would come to you at the end of the day, placing a quick kiss on your lips and a folded note in your hand.

a voucher for a massage.

And when you were feeling especially needy — which happened more often than you’d like to admit out loud — he’d notice before you could even open your mouth. Aaron would drag you to sit on his lap while he finished his reports.

Even if it was hard to write. Even if his leg went numb. He let you, because it was important to you. And because he loved you.

But there was one thing, one specific gesture, so simple, that melted you like jelly.

He didn’t make any decisions without asking your opinion first.

– After the wedding, you agreed to stay in his apartment instead of buying a house. The apartment was well located, practical, and safe. Besides, with the routine at BAU, it would be difficult to look for a house, deal with the renovation, and move. It was a lot of unnecessary stress.

The only problem is that Aaron is a very practical person, and takes the meaning of the word functional very seriously – things just needed to fulfill their purpose. A couch was a couch. And a curtain was just a piece of cloth that needed to block the sun's rays from coming in.

Worrying about the colors of the walls, matching the furniture in the house? No, that wasn't important to him.

But it was important to you, and that was the first thing you noticed. The wooden furniture in different tones, the three wallpapers in different colors and patterns. Not to mention the biggest affront to good taste, that damn striped curtain.

The decoration of the apartment was, honestly, terrible. But in his defense, Aaron was willing to make the place comfortable for you. In other words, he was so committed to transforming the apartment that he even mentioned changing the tiles in the bathroom if you wanted.

“You can decorate it however you want,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest, an amused smile on his lips when he noticed your expression of disgust.

“You promise?” , you asked, still staring at the couch as if it were a personal enemy.

“Of course, honey” , he assured, “where do you want to start?”

“I need a metal can.”

Aaron frowned. “What? Why?”

“I’ll start by burning these curtains.”

– Aaron woke up thirty minutes earlier than you every day. It was a deal you made, you take care of breakfast and he gets Jack ready for school. It was the kind of simple but essential deal that made the routine lighter without weighing on either side.

You were still half asleep, sunk into the soft sheets, hugging Aaron's pillow to fill the void in the bed and smell him – a mix of soap and cologne.

“Love?”

“Hm..?” You murmured, your voice hoarse. Opening your eyes slightly, trying to make out the figure near the wardrobe.

Aaron had his back to you, only with the white towel wrapped around his waist, still with small drops of water sliding down his back. His hair was damp and disheveled. He was holding two hangers.

“Gray or navy blue?”

You blinked slowly, trying to understand why the koala from your dream was calling you and your love and asking you to choose between two colors. You snuggled deeper into the bed, burying your head in the pillow. “I think… Navy blue.”

Aaron smiled, seeing your drowsy state. He hung the hangers back in the wardrobe and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, before his lips brushed against your shoulders, leaving small kisses.

“Coffee in ten minutes?”

“Depends, if you want pancakes it’s ten minutes. Now if you want coffee in bed…” Before you can finish your sentence, he lightly bites your shoulder, making you let out a muffled laugh against the pillow.

“I can’t believe you’re flirting with me in your sleep,” he says, his tone full of disbelief – although he was clearly enjoying himself.

“Baby, I would learn necromancy to flirt with you after death,” you retort, turning your face slightly to face him.

Aaron lets out a snort of laughter. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, slapping your ass before standing up. “Come on, Mrs. Hotchner.”

“Call me that later,” you whine dramatically as you sink deeper into the sheets and mattress, “Now give me five more minutes, Mr. Koala.”

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[pdfneo]

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