#reid/reader

[beelmons]

Tags: Break-up, mild angst. 

A/N: A drabble I wrote today because I was feeling some type of way. This fic is also on AO3

The walls seem to crush me yet the room feels bigger like my heart, expanding but its content, empty.

Profilers always felt like earth-made gods to you, profoundly flawed yet seemingly unreachable, even more so if you weren’t part of their universe. Dating one was, to no one’s surprise, a challenge you long ago decided to overtake. Your relationship with Reid hadn’t been anything short to amazing. He was without doubt a loving, caring, and interesting partner to have.But the job, it was always about the job.

Sure, you were fascinated by serial killers and their psyche, you would read and listen to podcasts about it from time to time, but it was different when they were part of your life, your relationship, your boyfriend. It was different when he would tremble in the middle of the night, or his head would ache uncontrollably from the stress on a random Sunday, or he would feel so detached, so away, while he was standing next to you.

It's who he was, you reminded yourself, the job is who he was. That was the only reason he could do it with such prowess.

The empty nights of coldness contributed, no lie, but it wasn’t about that. Not the missed anniversaries, nor absent birthdays you ended up celebrating with anyone but him. It was when he was around when things got unbearable. You craved the warmth of his company, and loathed the sharpness of his absence, that’s how you had been for the past two years, until, one day, it was neither of those things. It was the weight of his presence, like a boulder on your chest, cracking it open.

—Hey, —you said across the living room, trying to catch his attention— Do you ever feel like the house is too cold?

Spencer was sitting on the sofa, book in hand, in complete silence. His eyes glued to the dancing words on the page, about whatever he felt like learning that week. His only day off. You were standing by the kitchen, you figured he could use a snack while he relaxed; you had opened the fridge, the same one you so dedicatedly kept full hoping he would take proper care of himself when you were away, and after minutes of staring at the vast selection of ingredients you had picked days before, you realized you had no idea what to make.

What was he reading again? You didn’t know. What city had he been in? Not Quantico, that’s for sure. The case? Did they catch the UnSub? A man or a woman? Had anyone gotten hurt? How old was Henry, again? Or Jack? How was Morgan? Garcia? How was he, himself? You had no answers to the simplest questions, you had no idea about his life, you had no idea who your boyfriend was.

—Temperatures start to drop around this time of the year. I don’t feel particularly cold, but we can get a new heater if you want.

You turned your head at the sound of his voice. To your disappointment, you noticed how his neck was kept still, and the unknown book seemed to be the only thing worth his attention. You shut the door of the fridge and slowly headed back to the living room. He only drifted away from his reading once you sat next to him, body turned in his direction, and stared at his focused features, which he found a bit unsettling. Once you felt his sight on you, and yours travelled down to your unsteady hands, you gathered the courage to talk.

—I love you, Spencer. 

 —I love you, too. —his lips curled upward in a vague, comfortable smile. Your eyes met, and it was the most you had talked in months, without a single word muttered. The lack of glimmer gave you away. The presence of nothingness in them— You weren’t talking about the weather, were you?

The frown you had pledged to dissipate made an appearance on his face. His eyes trembled from side to side, as if analyzing every scenario, every step, everything he had done for the past few weeks. His head shook slightly, mostly in disbelief, his hands freed themselves, dropping the forgotten book onto the center table. Shaky and desperate, his hands reached out to yours, and he took both inside his, with an oddly light grip.

—Do you remember how your face lit up whenever I visited you at work? —you returned the hold with a loose squeeze of your own.

—I did that? —he chuckled— I don’t think I ever noticed.

—You did. —you reassured with a light smile— Your smile was one of the reasons I fell in love with you.

—Then, why are you doing this? —his expression went back to gloomy as he subtly cried out his question.

You racked your brain for an answer that wouldn’t sound so tormenting. Truth was, there wasn’t any, nothing about this was going to be painless. Where love exists, ache is bound to follow, for mortals, for gods.

—I don’t think I’ve seen that smile again, in quite a while, Spencer. Not with me, at least.

—It’s not because of you.

—No, I know. —you cut him short, well aware that he was going to continue talking. You made a slight pause, and your fingers swayed to rub the hands holding them— When you come back, do you feel you are coming back home to your partner? Or to a home with a partner in it?

Silence, the unbearable silence. Nothing to lament, though, it was a truth that was only to be told without speaking. You finally brought yourself to let go of his grip, you roamed the surroundings in search for some of your basic possessions, and he caught up on the intentions rather quick. Profilers, right?

—Where will you go? —he asked as he stood up, unable to do anything to stop you.

.—A friend’s, possibly.

Once everything needed was at hand, you headed to the door, walking past him as you did so. His hand, out of reflex, darted to grab onto your wrist. You froze for a second before looking back, his eyes reddened and crystal. He didn’t speak, but you understood. He loved you, and you loved him. He loved you, and he loved his job. He loved it, he loved his job.

When his arm fell back you shot him a light smile, it wasn’t the last time you were going to see him either way, but you hoped, you sought next time his presence would be the delightful treat it once was.

Him? He was going to be okay. You knew, he knew. The tears he dropped with his forehead against the door you just had walked out of were temporary, a day or two, maybe, until he had to go back to work. He wondered about you, for how long would you be aching? He selfishly desired it was for long, after all, for mortals and for gods, love only hurts when it’s present.  

[mcntsee]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[roselilies]

[itshelia]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[thatboisus]

“english isn’t my first langua—“ say no more.

[lovelyspooks]

Me at 3am clicking “keep reading” on the most jaw dropping, earth shattering, pantie dropping, smutty fic when I have to be up in 3 hours

[l0caltiredgirl]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[natti-ice]

18+ mdni

Me: “fuck, I need his cock”

Him: *is literally just words on tumblr*

[luveline]

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky. 

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely. 

Total quiet. 

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?” 

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?” 

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?” 

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…” 

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?” 

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.” 

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.” 

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh. 

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated. 

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry. 

“Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?” 

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?” 

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups. 

“Where are you?” 

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him. 

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.” 

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?” 

“Where was I?” 

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed. 

“Still where?” 

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.” 

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.” 

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.” 

“…What?” 

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.” 

“I annoy people.” 

“You don’t annoy me.” 

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here. 

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?” 

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection. 

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?” 

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly. 

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?” 

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.” 

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says. 

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room. 

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark. 

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly. 

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!” 

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer. 

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask. 

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again. 

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.” 

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath. 

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers. 

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year. 

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.” 

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.” 

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!” 

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity. 

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.” 

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly. 

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says. 

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway. 

“I don’t want to be alone forever.” 

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates? 

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess. 

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.” 

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol. 

“She kind of looked like you.” 

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

“Is that why you make all your jokes?” 

“What jokes, babe?” 

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.” 

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” 

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.” 

“Spencer, you remember everything.” 

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.” 

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him. 

You’re happy to. 

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled. 

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse. 

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully. 

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally. 

“Can I come home with you?” he asks. 

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.” 

— — 

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.” 

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.” 

“So you want three?” 

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.” 

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time. 

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?” 

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him. 

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory. 

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that. 

The avocado is making him feel sick. 

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?” 

“I think I'm gonna throw up.” 

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes. 

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button. 

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.” 

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.” 

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.” 

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now. 

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said. 

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say. 

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again. 

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.” 

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. 

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask. 

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

[bethsvrse]

STOP MAKING MY LIL AWKWARD NERDY BOYS BE CONFIDENT AND SO SURE OF THEMSELVES!!! I LIKE THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE NERDY NOT BECAUSE YOU FANFIC WRITERS MAKE THEM EGO MANIC ASSHOLES

[reidiot]

don't fucking interrupt me when i'm reading my x reader fics it's rude

[beelmons]

Escapade 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x f!reader Rating: Explicit, readers under 18 are not advised to read this story. Tags: smut, best friends to lovers, possible angst at some point, porn with plot, mentions of weapons, minor OC appeareances for plot purposes, mentions of death for plot purposes, unprotected sex Summary: The stress of the job can take a toll on one's mind and body, and as your friend Spencer and you come to realize: there're many fun ways to cope up with it.

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 

A/N: This was supposed to be a one shot but people on AO3 asked for continuance and now I have made a very interesting mess. Enjoy and let me know what you think. 

The most interesting part of working in the BAU was definitely the bouquet of personalities that the team had to offer. Not one of them was similar to the other, not in how they talked, nor thought or behaved; granted, that happened to be the biggest asset of the unit and what got them through most of the cases they had had so far.

Dynamics were always different, from one member to another, and certainly everybody seemed to fit the best with someone else. Prentiss and JJ, Garcia and Morgan, Rossi and Hotch, everyone but Spencer Reid. Or so he felt, until he met you. Being closer to his age than any other agent around him, he felt a slight relief knowing that you would join as the expert negotiator, finally someone that could relate to the struggles of what youth and inexperience could bring into this high-stress job.

Since social interactions were not really his forte, getting to know him was a bit of a challenge. And yet, it was the easiest part. A man who overshared and couldn’t hide his excitement about certain topics, smart like no other, and easily shaken by the vile nature of many of the subjects he got to study, you could read him like he was a children’s book since the moment you were introduced by Hotchner. Shortly after, and thanks to Morgan’s efforts to nudge the two of you into talking more, you became friends. You enjoyed his nerdy presence around you so much, he was fun in his own way and never ran out of topics of conversation, for obvious reasons. Spencer Reid was your FBI partner and friend, and as hard as it was to admit, you would even consider him your best friend.

Aware of said fact, you couldn’t stop asking yourself why, then, were you in this utility closet, standing with your chest against the wall, barely able to see your partner as he pounded inside you from behind, the waistband of your pants down to the mid of your thighs and feeling the way the fabric of his own brushed against your ass. Spencer leaned back trying to get a better view of his work, even when the darkness of the suffocating room would not allow much vision, his moans reduced to quiet but quick breaths. You missed the heat of his body once he pulled away, having been flush against you seconds before, and you let him know with a whimper. He was quick to emit a “shh” from his lips, knowing that if you got caught it would mean the end of your careers. Feeling him slide in and out of you was blissful, and the thrill of being found out was just adding to the knot forming in your stomach. He felt the twitching of your walls and quickly bent forward again, his clothed chest rubbing against your blouse as he whispered into your ear.

— Hold on — he let out — I’m almost there, too.

The restraint in his voice sent chills down your spine. He was trying his best to keep himself quiet, even when his hips wouldn’t give you a second of rest, you clung to the pores of the wall trying to hold back your climax as you felt his tip hit to the very end of your insides, he kept your lower body still with his fingers, his palms tightly gripping onto your clothes to avoid changing the angle he knew was driving you crazy. It took only a couple more deep thrusts to send you over the edge, you couldn’t help a moan at the feeling of your orgasm, and he was quick to cover your mouth with his hand as soon as he heard your voice start to come out, his free arm wrapped around your waist, pushing your ass further against him as he kept still to release inside you, burying his face into your neck with a low and quiet groan.

Your bodies pulled apart and you gave him a second to dispose of the condom he had previously put on, in the meantime you fixed your clothes and inspected the blazer you had removed and hung from a shelf before the act just to make sure it was not messed up from any cleaning materials. Spencer mimicked your actions and tidied himself up before you finally turned around to check on him and grinned for a bit once you locked eyes.

— You okay? — he inquired.

— Yes, Don Juan — you chuckled at his concern — It was nice. So much for “it was a one-time thing,” huh? — He responded to your question with an awkward, almost uncomfortable, laugh. This was not the first time you had done something like this with Reid and it most likely wouldn’t be the last one. — Okay, doctor, do me. — you said as you stood straight after sliding on your blazer.

— I… — Spencer furrowed his brows in slight confusion — I… think I just did?

— Not that, smart-ass — you snarked back playfully — the profile. Look at my outfit, my expression, my hair, everything that could not match the story that we came up with. Listen, we work with some of the brightest, most observant minds of the FBI, if we don’t cover our backs, they will find out pretty soon about it, so to keep this quiet we need to outsmart them.

— Right, right — he reminded himself of the pact you had made a couple of weeks before. With a prolonged glance he started to examine your body, head, chest, bottom, legs, anything that could give away the fact that he had just had you up against the wall doing your best to not scream his name outright. — Your shirt looks too tidy, if we were out buying coffee, it would have slipped out of the pants a little bit from the walking. It rained yesterday, but the mud of your shoes has already dried up from being inside, so you should probably damp it up in the bathroom, you usually don’t button up your blazer after midday so it would be odd if you just came back with it buttoned up — he made a quick motion with his finger to have you turn around, to which you happily obliged — your hair is slightly messy from the back… hold on. — you thought he was going to fix it himself, but instead you heard him type something into his phone — It’s windy today, so it’s okay that it remains like that.

He grabbed you by the shoulders to gently spin you once again, and his hands ruffled the top of your hair slightly. He retracted his arms once he was satisfied with his work and tensed up for you to examine him next. He looked oddly nervous and avoided eye contact, guess he wasn’t used to being an anatomy skeleton for students to observe. You observed his shoes, pants, shirt, everything on him intently, and you didn’t like to admit you spent a couple milliseconds more on his face than needed. Once you had gotten your verdict you began to talk.

— Even if it rained yesterday, the sun is out, so it’s a little bit hot today, it’s better that you remove your sweater vest, you rarely wear it outside because the heat makes you grumpy, so it wouldn’t make sense to put it on outside.

— I thought about that too but… — he said as he pointed at his shirt — this is way too wrinkled, and I ironed this morning before I came to work, Morgan or Prentiss surely noticed.

— That’ fine. — you said as you continued to observe him — We will drop a bit of coffee on your shirt, which will give you a perfect excuse to not remove the vest. Make sure to drop some on your shoes too and a bit on your pants. Also, your zipper, it’s too far up to the top, once you start walking it slides a little bit because the safety grip gives in slightly. Your hair also… — you reached to ruffle it roughly, to which he responded with an “ouch!” — Sorry, your hair is just always getting too messy with the wind, so we must keep that in character. Also, roll your sleeves up, you do that when you carry coffee trays.

— Wow. — he exclaimed as you helped him roll the shirt as you mentioned — I mean, I knew we observed everyone in the team a lot, but this was pretty impressive.

— Yeah. — you said absentmindedly — Hurry. We’ve been out here for eight minutes, the coffee shop is a four-minute walk, and the delivery boy is already outside the building.

— Right, right.

You stood behind the door as you often did. That was the modus operandi, he would go out to grab the coffee and let you know if the hall was clear, which it almost always was since it was a service hall, and you would go out after his text, often grabbing a cloth that you would claim having gone get it if any of the janitors happened to see you go out. You had everything planned, brilliant minds coming up with brilliant plans to get away with what they needed to do, or rather wanted to do. After sneaking out of the closet you headed to the bathroom. Shirt, shoes, blazer, hair, everything was fixed to the way Spencer had told you.

You met him halfway back to the office and he handed you one of the coffee trays. Morgan’s, Prentiss’s, Rossi’s, none for Hotch, JJ’s with cream, and Garcia’s caramel macchiato, you looked over the orders once again, everything seemed in place, nothing they could read on you that would be out of the ordinary. Steady pace, not too fast not too slow, just two partners walking back into the office.

— Glad you two are back. — Hotch said as soon as you entered the BAU floor — We’re adjusting schedules for the upcoming guest lectures we are meant to give during law enforcement week in DC, they are meant to be given to a group of selected universities.

— Why are you wearing you vest? — Morgan interrupted all of a sudden as he scanned Reid up and down. — It’s like a million degrees outside.

You froze in your place and did your best to not show the panic in your eyes, hoping all the attention would be on him instead of the muscles that had tensed up involuntarily. You looked at Spencer as well, trying to join the questioning look of everyone else. You had told him about the vest, why did he decide to ignore you? You were beginning to spiral into the scenario where Morgan found out and you were kicked to the curb and eventually ended up homeless before a motion from Reid pulled you out. He pulled on the neckline of the vest to awkwardly reveal a huge coffee stain on his right pec. Everyone seemed to either laugh or at least smile at the way he ashamedly pursed his lips. You joined in the teasing as to not arise suspicion, since in any other situation you would do exactly that.

— Don’t worry, Reid, the day will come when you win your endless battle against slippery sidewalks.

— Something fun always happens in your coffee escapades — Emily mentioned.

— Actually, — Reid began to ramble — “escapades” comes from the Spanish “Escapar” which means “to escape from a place or a situation”, and in English it can be translated as “to part into adventure” which implies that the objective of the travel is unknown, “Crusade” is a mission to retrieve something, more specifically the holy grail, that could compare to coffee-

— Reid. — Hotch said firmly when he noticed the rest of the members confusedly staring at the blond doctor.

— Sorry. — he said as he cut himself short, pursing his lips embarrassedly as he used to.

— As I was saying, the lectures that the BAU will be imparting in different universities have to cater to the needs of each student bodies, since we’re looking to recruit future members with them. Look over the files on your desks and propose topics to lecture on before the end of the day so we can start working on the actual content. We will meet later to discuss how we will split to do the tour without spreading our workforce too thin. Get to work.

With a single hand movement, Hotch finished the briefing of the uninteresting task and grabbed the cup that was meant for Rossi, likely to take it to his office since he had shut himself in there working on something unknown. Morgan and Prentiss grabbed theirs too, and JJ mentioned something about bringing Garcia’s to her. Before heading back to your place, and making sure no one else was looking, you leaned back onto Reid’s desk with him resting comfortably against his seat. You looked at each other with a slightly smug smile. It was the first time you had gotten away with it at work, and it had been nothing short to exciting.

— An escapade. Doesn’t sound too shabby. — you said, your lips still curled up. — New code word?

— I do think that “escapade” is a way better code word than “let’s do the thing". It's not very FBI-y if you ask me. Although, I still have to argue that an escapade has no apparent purpose and it’s just for the thrill of the adventure, as for what we’re doing we clearly have an objective in mind.

— Sure, that’s a good point of view, but also, you never know what’s going to happen in this adventure, and of course won't be the same every time.

— Well, yeah, but the goal of the adventure doesn’t really change, it’s still to achieve the holy… — he stopped himself, threading carefully over his words, trying not to sound too tacky — the holy grail?

— Well, it certainly felt holy. — you took a sip of your coffee as you spurted those words.

— Hey! — he darted out loudly before lowering his voice. — Someone could hear us.

He stopped you mostly to avoid getting any redder on the face. He would so confidently take you in a utility closet, but being praised for his performance was making him shy? God, you found this man so amusing.

— Whatever, I’m not discussing the etymology of our code word with you. Let’s get to work if we don’t want to end up with boring lectures.

You pushed yourself away from his desk and walked back to yours, just a couple meters from his, to obey the orders you had given yourself. You buried your nose into the files that the boss had left for you, so much that you didn’t notice the way he kept slightly grinning in your direction. He knew he needed to wipe it out soon, or all the planning, sneaking, and stealth would go down the drain. Whatever it happened at work from now on, there was something for certain, you could always look forward to the next escapade.

[xsimbaaa]

This scene makes me feral…

The watch, the jaw, the wrist flick, the VEST….🤤

[in-another-april]

objectifying spencer is my full time job at this point

[tvmblrluv]

[thatboisus]

maybe i was born to read fanfic and obsess over fictional men idk