Protector

ALL I WANT IS FOR SPENCER TO BE REAL 💳💥💳💥

privacy, interrupted

waking up next to spencer on vacation is the perfect morning, until rossi walks in without knocking

pairing: spencer reid r x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison spencer, reference to sexy time the night before, reader is naked, kissing, established relationship, fluff prompt: here wc: 0.8k

You sense him stirring beside you, all cautious and considerate, like he’s navigating some delicate truce neither of you signed but both seem bound to uphold. Your limbs protest with sleepiness, practically begging you to ignore it, but your brain has other ideas, wide awake simply because it’s him. 

Your subconscious has apparently decreed that Spencer Reid isn’t permitted to be awake alone without your awkward, fumbling company.

And, honestly, you can’t bear the thought of him quietly awake, probably counting obscure facts or memorizing solitude, so, inevitably, your internal clock (diligently trained, very Spencer-oriented) kicks in every morning like some sort of lovesick, overly attached alarm.

Your eyes blink sluggishly open, and yeah, you’re already mentally cursing about the loss of precious sleep.

That is, until Spencer comes into view, giving you a sleepy-soft smile as soon as he sees that your awake that somehow justifies this sappy morning ritual you’ve cultivated.

“Hey there, beautiful girl,” Spencer murmurs, warm enough to render you mushy.

You manage exactly one very brave, extremely fleeting glance into his eyes — long enough for you to panic at just how intense his adoring gaze feels — before you promptly conclude that the only dignified response is burying your burning face straight into his chest.

“Morning,” you mumble, barely audible, and okay, sure, it's a weak greeting, but you're pretty sure he knows that your social capabilities are severely limited before coffee.

“How’d you sleep?”

His fingers leisurely map trails along your stomach, occasionally dipping lower, grazing along your thigh. Your breath stalls at his touch, instantly bringing you face-to-face with the very naked reality (literally) of your current state, and you're vividly aware of why you slept better than you have in years.

You squirm against him awkwardly, deeply thankful your mortification is safely concealed in the crook of his neck. You’re fairly certain there’s no scenario — no alternate timeline or parallel universe — where you’d confess out loud just how blissfully Spencer can apparently knock you out.

“Fine,” you mumble evasively.

Spencer’s fingers move to cup your chin, lifting your face until you’re forced to meet a pair of amused eyes. 

“Just fine?” He eyes you skeptically. “You were snoring pretty loudly for someone who slept just fine.”

You splutter out a laugh, embarrassed and giggling all at once, shoving lightly at his shoulder. 

“Spencer!” you squeak indignantly. “I absolutely, categorically, undeniably do not snore. Take it back right now.”

“Oh, I’m afraid the science disagrees,” he begins casually, hands running absentminded passes over your side as he explains. “Almost everyone snores at least occasionally. It happens when your throat muscles relax during deep sleep. It’s completely normal.” He pauses. “Some might even say cute.”

He punctuates his little speech with a tap on your nose, grinning when you wrinkle it at him. 

“Spencer’s, that’s —” you begin to argue, reader to counter his science, when he suddenly silences you with a kiss, stealing your voice mid-protest.

You try valiantly (well, sort of) to keep arguing, words stubbornly squeezing out between soft kisses that blur your logic.

“I’m serious —” kiss “— you don’t get to —” kiss “— to win arguments —” kiss “— like this,” you mumble, dissolving into breathless laughter as he continues, smugly aware he’s already won.

You’re giggling into yet another stolen kiss when a brisk knock at the door startles you apart, no time to process before Rossi strolls into the room.

“Hey, kid, we’re making coffee downstairs if you —” Rossi stops midsentence.

You barely have a second to manage a yelp before Spencer moves quickly, positioning himself like a very protective, and slightly panicked, human shield in an attempt to salvage your rapidly disappearing dignity.

“Oh my god, Rossi,” you groan from your makeshift hiding spot behind Spencer’s shoulder.

Rossi lets out a thoroughly entertained chuckle, clearly relishing in your horror. He doesn’t immediately move to leave, instead pausing in the doorway.

“Well, it appears you’re both quite awake already,” he remarks, mouth curving into a smirk. “But just in case you decide to join civilization at some point, I’ll put another pot on. Take your time.”

Spencer clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks, Rossi,” he deadpans. “Maybe next time knock and actually wait for an answer?”

Rossi grins shamelessly, lifting his hands in exaggerated innocence as he backs toward the hallway.

“I’ll consider it, right after you two consider hanging a do-not-disturb sign.”

The second Rossi shuts the door, you collapse against Spencer, sighing miserably, “That’s it. Vacation over. Social life destroyed. We’re never leaving this room again until the end of time, or at least until everyone forgets what just happened — which, spoiler alert, they won’t.”

“End of time feels a little excessive,” he teases gently, nudging your jaw with his nose. “But if it means I get to spend a few more uninterrupted days with you, I might just let you have your way.”

You roll your eyes internally, half-heartedly pretending to be annoyed at Spencer’s ridiculously charming response. Honestly, it doesn't make sense how easily he dismantles your panic with one sentence and that stupidly cute smile. 

Still, your pride demands at least some resistance, even if your heart is enthusiastically voting yes to the bed-hibernation plan. So, fine — maybe hiding here forever (or at least for a couple days) wouldn’t be the absolute worst way to spend your vacation.

Actually, scratch that — it might just be your ideal outcome.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 2 extras

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maria's spring break getaway masterlist

A Sunflower in the Graveyard

Post Prison!Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Synopsis: You’re the new kid on the block— joining the BAU during Spencer’s prison sentence and since then, he’s ignored you despite your efforts in trying to start a mere friendship with him. But when all hope seems lost, Spencer seems to show his soft spot for you when a case really gets to you.

Category: Angst/Fluff

Warnings: mentions of an abduction case, mentions of violence & SA, mentions of child murder, please tread lightly! reader taking case to heart, reader breaking down/crying, spencer lowkey being cold towards reader but opens up a bit, reader & spencer being lowkey simps for each other, spencer relating to willy wonka lmao, mentions of the prison arc and spoilers for 12x21 ‘Green Light’ and 12x22 ‘Red Light’

Author’s Note: hey lovelies, so i’m supposed to be taking a break from writing but this one came out of my ass and boom this was the result- i’m really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!

A fourteen year old girl by the name of Alyssa Carter was abducted. And the stakes were high since the BAU team knew that the first 24 hours were very crucial when it came to child abduction cases.

It’d been your first child abduction case since you joined the BAU, which hadn’t been too long. But you couldn’t lie and say this didn’t affect you. Cases regarding children were the worst for you, if you were being honest.

It could’ve been the fact that children were helpless, fragile, unable to defend themselves like adults could. How could anybody treat a child in such a cruel way? This was the reason you wanted a job like this anyhow, right? You wanted to stop bad guys from hurting people. And so here you were. After pining for this job for years, you finally got it at the expense of another agent being wrongfully accused of a crime he didn’t commit.

You’d arrived in Manhattan, where you’d been searching for a preferential child molester who’d already struck twice before by leaving the bodies of the children he’d killed and buried them near a lake stream.

Alyssa Carter’s parents were in hysterics when you got to the PD, since Emily had wanted someone with a lighter touch to speak with them. You’d been good with the families of victims, always talking to them with understanding and even shedding a few tears with them because of how empathetic you’d been with them.

You’d hit the 24 hour mark and the likeliness of Alyssa Carter still being alive was unlikely. It would only be a matter of time before you hit a wall in the case. But you kept the work up, not even wanting to rest until you catch the son of a bitch. You’d been hopped on four hours of sleep and coffee when you’d found it.

The connection with all the crime scenes — a motel six in the smack dab middle of the hunting area. And with the help of Garcia, you were able to find the motel so Emily had joined you, Luke, Matt, Spencer and JJ down there.

You’d questioned the motel employee to see if there had been any suspicious characters or any sign of a young girl matching Alyssa Carter’s features and the motel employee didn’t hesitate to give you the information of a visitor that frequented the motel often.

The name Greg Taylor would probably haunt you forever as Spencer gave the name to Garcia and she’d informed you with a disgusted tone of what Greg Taylor was fully capable of and the horrible things he’d been arrested for prior to this.

You’d found the room and Spencer banged on the door and announced that the FBI wanted to speak with Greg Taylor. It was over two minutes when the door finally opened and the man, who you presumed was Greg Taylor — stood there, skinny and lengthy, tattoos covering his body, only wearing boxers and he’d looked like a deer in headlights.

Spencer had told the man to sit down, that all they wanted to do was talk with him — when you’d heard it. A faint whimper in the bathroom. You’d decided to check the room as Spencer told the man to sit down when he tried to stop you from opening the door.

When you opened the door, you found Alyssa Carter, only in a top and shorts with tear-stained cheeks and pleading for help. You quickly assured to her everything was going to be okay and that she was safe now, quickly calling JJ on your mic and notifying her that you’d found Alyssa.

Once JJ came to retrieve Alyssa, Greg tried to lie his way out of this but you weren’t letting him off easy. Soon as he stood up, you were quick to grab him and turn him around, aggressively pushing him against the wall, telling him just what a piece of scum he was.

Spencer stood there, he’d never seen you get this worked up before over a victim. You were usually the calm and collected one but he knew you were also hopped up on four hours of sleep and coffee, despite how many times Rossi had to tell you to get some rest but you’d refused to listen.

You dug your elbow into the back of Greg Taylor’s neck, like how he manage to subdue his victims. “How does this feel, huh? Do you feel powerless? Do you feel afraid? Well so did Janet MacGee, Ellie Oswald and Alyssa Carter. But we got you, you son of a bitch.” It got to a point where Luke walked in and basically had to pry you off of Greg Taylor. “Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa! L/n, just back up. Come on. It’s not worth it.”

You marched outside, refusing to be scolded like a child, despite knowing how wrong it was. You stood outside of the motel and squatted down on the gravel, taking a moment as you tried to control your angry breathing. You’d never felt this heated before, especially not about an unsub. But something about Greg Taylor made you furious. Made you want to stomp the bastard’s head into the ground.

As you calmed yourself down to the best of your ability, you registered the hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles and even the words — “Are you okay?” Even jolted you into the realization that you weren’t alone anymore. You turned with wide eyes to see Spencer comforting you and that’s a surprise in itself.

You see, you joined the team when he’d been rotting in prison — you essentially replaced him for the time being. He’d been dismissive towards you, cold even since he got out of prison. And you’d no idea why, you were nothing but warm and kind to him. So, you’d taken the liberty in just ignoring him to the best of your ability. If you were paired together, you minimized your conversations to the task at hand, not even making small talk at the coffee machine or when you happened to be sitting next to each other on the jet.

It didn’t help that you also thought he was attractive. It was already tough speaking to him as it is when you found him to be intimidating due to how handsome you thought he was. You’d tried a few times to speak with him but it seemed like he wanted nothing to do with you. So, you stopped trying. You knew when you weren’t wanted, no one needed to sugarcoat it.

But for him to come and ask if you were okay, of all people — you never expected for Spencer to do so.

“Are you okay?” Spencer repeated. It took you a second to realize you were just staring at him. You shake your head, probably from the whiplash you were experiencing with him asking you if you were okay. “Yeah, I guess.” You end up answering.

You look up as Luke takes Greg Taylor into the back of a police car. And you take a sharp breath. It’s okay. You got him. He’ll be locked up for life. You got him. “We got him.” Spencer’s voice turns into one of the mantras you’re saying to yourself internally.

And it’s sudden. You break down crying, nearly falling forward on the gravel and you would have face-planted if Spencer hadn’t been there to catch you. Your cries echoed in your ears as you felt Spencer’s arms tighten around you in comfort. For a moment, he went stiff— almost not knowing how to hold you or what to do and not wanting to mess it up— but the way you’d melted in his touch was enough to make him melt with you and hold you as you wept.

After you’d landed back home, Spencer kept an eye on you. And even offered to walk you home so you got to your destination safely. You didn’t say a word to him — maybe a meek ‘thanks’ but other than that, not a word. He didn’t say anything either and perhaps, he didn’t have anything to. So, you both relished in the silence, in his protective nature that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you while he was around.

Once you got to the door, you looked at him — wondering if maybe he’d leave soon after. He stayed standing right there and well, you didn’t want to send him off just yet, if you were being honest. You didn’t feel ready to.

“Y-You can come in,” You offered with a small shrug. “If you want.” Spencer nods at you and you unlock the door and open the door to your apartment.

You take off your coat, walking into the kitchen and placing it on the chair in front of the table. Spencer takes a look around your apartment, the scent of autumn hits him like a wave and he notices your knick-knacks around the apartment. The bookshelf intrigues him, quick to inspect it as he spots the classics such as To Kill A Mockingbird and 1984, suggesting you were a fan of English literature. He even takes notice of your VCR under your TV and the stacks of films next to the VCR— spotting tapes like The Princess Bride and Grease, also telling him that you’d liked classics and that you weren’t exactly living under a rock.

He knew that maybe he shouldn’t be profiling you the way he was doing now but everything about you was interesting. Which was why he was keeping as far away from you as he could. He was already breaking his own moral code by being here at your apartment, afraid to damage you with his ignorance.

Spencer looks over and finds you, trying to preoccupy yourself awkwardly, like you’re trying to casually deal with the fact that he’s in your apartment right now.

“I…” You quickly turn as Spencer finds his voice. “I can leave, if you want me to. I don’t have to stay.” You shake your head, dismissing the idea. “No, no, I want you to.” You find yourself admitting and Spencer bites his lip as he stares at you and you look like a deer in headlights at your eagerness. “I… I just…” You shut your eyes at the embarrassment of your next sentence. “I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

The words repeat in Spencer’s head. I just don’t want to be alone right now. And you chose him to accompany you in your time of need? Why him? He’s far too damaged for you. No good for you. But you didn’t even ask. He chose to be here. For you.

“But you can leave, if you want to.” You say, trying not to sound disappointed in your tone but Spencer can definitely tell you are, which is why he removes his brown satchel strap from around his neck and places his bag on the floor. “I won’t leave. You need somebody and… well, I can be that.” No matter how much he wants to run for the hills.

So, you opt for offering him a drink— which he declines and you ask if maybe he wants to watch something while he’s here. You decide to put on Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (since you’d discovered he’d never seen it before and well, him being uncultured just won’t do) and change into some comfy clothes and relax while he’s here.

Spencer had never seen you in casual clothing before. In your baggy sweatpants and argyle wool sweater and white socks— you looked ethereal. He’d never seen you in such a domestic light before. His stomach churns at this, the fear of getting too close to you is strong. His Adam’s apple bobs as he moves closer towards the arm of the couch, maintaining as much distance as possible between you two.

You don’t seem to mind or pay attention to the distance, at least— more so paying more attention to the film you’re watching instead of him and Spencer sits there, trying to pay attention but he can’t — not while you’re sitting next to him, at least. He figures the longer he can stare at the screen, the more he’d be able to focus but he can’t. He really can’t seem to focus around you.

As Spencer watches the scene of Augustus Gloop getting stuck into the chocolate pool, he’s finally enthralled with the film — of course, it’s totally unrealistic because how does Willy Wonka manage to have a pool full of chocolate and why are the parents of these children that were chosen full entrusting into this strange man? But in a way, Spencer finds himself relating to the whimsical man in a sense.

“I don’t know why kids affect me a lot.” You find yourself speaking halfway through the movie and Spencer then turns to you. Catching as you’re deep into thought, like you’d been thinking for a while now and you were just now voicing it. “I don’t have any of my own, I don’t know any kids. It’s just…”

“They’re young,” Spencer finds your voice, adding to your segment. “Defenseless.” He’d remembered this conversation with Morgan before he’d left. When Little Hank was a mere baby in Savannah’s stomach and how Morgan started taking these cases regarding children to heart. Spencer wondered if that had a play into Morgan leaving and he knew it most likely did. And he told him the same thing he’s telling you now.

You shake your head, “You just don’t do that.” Your voice is quiet and soft, Spencer’s not sure he’s ever heard you this quiet. Usually, you’re loud and bubbly and happy-go-lucky. He’s never seen you this sad before. But he’s discovering now that he hates it.

“What matters now is that we caught him,” Spencer tells, looking into your eyes as he speaks carefully. “And that Alyssa Carter is home now with her family.”

“Not to mention a load of trauma.” You add with a small sniffle. “What she went through—” Spencer looks down. “That’s hard for anybody. But she’s gonna make it. And she’s alive. What matters is we did our jobs and Greg Taylor can’t hurt anyone else ever again.”

You bite your lip and you nod at that. Spencer was right. You did your job, you got your unsub, you saved Alyssa Carter. You’ve done everything right. And you need to stop beating yourself up over it.

After that, you and Spencer don’t talk again. And by the time the movie’s over, Spencer looks your way and finds you asleep on the other side of the couch. He smiles to himself, happy that you’re getting the rest like you deserved. He stands up, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV and looks over towards you.

You’re peaceful as you sleep and he’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more angelic in his life. Looking at the throw blanket on the couch, he grabs it and throws it over your body so you can sleep comfortably and he looks down at you a moment longer.

He’d pushed you away. He had to keep you at this distance because he was afraid of hurting you. Prison had broken him down beyond repair. After all the crap he had deal with Delgado, this whole catastrophe with Scratch, which ended up being Lindsey Vaughn and Cat Adams. Having to deal with inmates, threatening his identity and beating him up every chance they got.

And then he met you. And you were the complete opposite of what he was now. You’d extended your hand, you gave him a big grin and the whole ‘I’ve heard a lot about you’ schpeal when you’d first met. He thought you were beautiful, inside and out — that’s how Garcia described you at least when he’d found out about you on one of her visits to see him in prison.

But he’d simply waved with a tight smile and said it was nice to meet you and walked away. After that, you tried with him, trying to say and asked how his day went but he often dismissed— only dealing with the small talk. And he’d kept his distance, not wanting to hurt you but little did he know, his absence just hurt you more.

The day you walked into the office and decided to ignore him, grabbing your coffee next to him and going about your day without a word — sent a sharp pain in his heart. He supposed that things were better now that you ignored him, that he’d finally gotten what he wanted. But this wasn’t what he wanted at all. And he knew that deep down.

And when he saw you tonight, how angry you were, how you didn’t get any rest until the case was solved, he’d wanted to comfort you. He wanted to comfort you in a way he needed back then. And when he saw you squatting with your head in your hands, he found his opportunity and he refused to leave your side until he knew you were alright. And he’d stay for as long as you liked him to.

But he didn’t want to intrude while you slept, he’d had no idea how you felt about him staying the night — no matter how much he’d like to in entirely different circumstances— so he decided the safe bet was to leave. He didn’t want to leave with no goodbye, so he’d left you a note and left your apartment quietly.

When you woke up the next morning, you found the note on the table in front of you and smiled warmly as you read it.

Y/n,

I didn’t want to wake you, so I saw myself out. I hope a good night’s sleep is all you need to feel refreshed. Adults usually need seven to nine hours a night. Anyways, I‘ll see you at work.

-Spencer :)

Hmm… perhaps the Dr. Spencer Reid, the man that barely talked to you, that hardly looked your way, that you’d found attractive regardless of everything that was wrong with him… wasn’t so cold after all.

need me my own spencer reid NEOW

𝜗𝜚 Every Shade.

Boyfriend!Reid x Avoidant!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.

CAN SOMEONE PLS WRITE A SPENCER REID X READER ABOUT THE READER NOT HAVING VERY CHRISTMASES GROWING UP SO SHE DOESNT CELEBRATE OR SHES A SCROOGE WHEN IT COMES TO THE HOLIDAYS AND REID NOTICES THIS AND GOES ALL OUT FOR HER BC SHE LIKES HER???? this is a need bc i’m not feeling very jolly this year 😞

CAN BE FLUFF OR SMUT OR BOTH I JUST WANT IT TO BE FLUFFY

Dear all trick or treaters 😤😈🫦 I’m coming back for that ass 🫵🏼 if I ain’t get that butt last year?! Then this year getting smashed!! 💕😤🫵🏼🤭☺️🫦🩷🤤

dommy mommy emme is gonna get touched bro 💁‍♀️

“FERTILISE US!!” screamed my ovaries

the wet hair?? oh im so sick 😭😭😭😭😭😭

why is every spencer reid writer getting attacked on here ? wtf 😭😭

Hands to Myself

Post Prison! Boyfriend! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: Since Spencer got out of prison, you two have a bit of a problem keep your hands to yourselves.

Category: Smut

Warnings: established relationship, not much plot- lowkey just smut, physical touch, aftermath of the prison arc, spencer being a lil ooc, reader having dirty thoughts about spencer, spencer & reader being horny 24/7, spencer being a lil cheeky, kissing, smut warnings: quickie, spencer does the knee thing 🙏, brief cunnilingus, spencer being a lil perv (steals reader’s underwear), standing up sex, eye contact 🙈, unprotected sex, creampie.

Author’s Note: spencer reid doing the knee thing. that’s all.

It wasn’t your fault you two just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. Since Spencer had come back from three months at the Milburn Correctional Facility, let’s just say — you were fulfilling each other’s appetites.

Of course, three months away from one another stirred up a long conversation that needed to happen between you two. And you talked about how much you missed one another and now you just couldn’t seem to be apart after that.

And it was understandable, Spencer was in prison and you were in your mental prison, thinking about him and hoping to God he’d make it out alive. And by some miracle, he did.

But since he got out, you both longed for that physical touch. You two could be in the same room and go ballistic if you weren’t touching each other. You’d still manage to grab his hand or he’d put his own hand down the small of your back. Even sitting on the jet, you were holding hands nonstop. The only time you’d ever leave the other alone is when they were using the restroom.

At work, you’d managed to keep it together until the end of the day, of course, finding time within your lunches and breaks to just spend with each other. It was a domestic thing, you two shared, it seemed. The physical touch was always a big love language unspoken between you two, even more now that he’d been away.

And it seemed as if the sex had been another thing with you two. Everyone in the office has joked about a couple in the storage room, going at it like rabbits but they never seemed to figure out who it was in the storage room — you and Spencer laughed along despite you both knowing you were the culprits.

Before Spencer went to prison, you were both against the idea of ever doing it in the office, not wanting to jeopardize either of your careers and jobs. But once Spencer got back, a lot of things changed. Especially your hungers for one another.

You seemed to like how possessive he’d gotten over you since he got back. Whether it was placing a hand on your thigh, innocently in the briefing room or holding your waist whilst you were talking to another man in the office, Spencer just couldn’t seem to keep his hands off of you. But you weren’t complaining in the slightest.

It’d been another normal day in the office, you and Spencer filling out paperwork at your desks. You’d both been doing better with the touching each other every single day. And to be honest, it was tough at first, but eventually — you two knew what was at stake and it’d be better than to risk it all.

You’d been working on your paperwork, since Emily requested that she needed it by the end of the day. You’d been limping at the finish line with this paperwork, nearly done with it. But then you caught a glimpse at Spencer doing his work.

The way his sleeves were rolled up, the way he pushed his chocolate curls back as he ran a veiny hand — you always had a thing for his hands — through his hair, his stomach filling out the dress shirt he was wearing, but it was just more of him to worship. And the stubble that suited him so well, you couldn’t nearly get enough of it. And then your eyes trailed down to his slacks and how you could see his bulge right through the outline of them and you bit your lip as you thought of the wildest things you could do to him right now, or what you wanted him to do to you.

You didn’t stare long, mostly because Spencer had felt eyes on him and you quickly looked away so you wouldn’t get caught. But it was too late, because he knew even before he looked up that you were staring.

Spencer looks at you, moving your hair back and focusing on your work and he gets an idea, licking his lips and leaving his desk for a brief moment. You watch as he does so, wondering what he’s doing.

You merely go back to work, assuming that maybe he’ll come back within a few minutes when you get an alert on your cell phone on your desk.

You check in to see there’s a text message from your boyfriend.

Spencer: The old firing range. Wait a few minutes before leaving so as not to draw suspicion.

You smirk, to yourself wondering what this little visit to the old firing range would entail. You on your knees or him on his? Your thighs rub together at the thought. You look around and Spencer is definitely gone and most likely at the old firing range now. Which is probably why he told you to wait a few minutes.

So, you wait five minutes before eagerly getting up and correcting your posture and walking out of the bullpen and getting into the elevator. You can hardly contain your excitement as something fills your belly with a pool of lust as you watch the numbers go to the last button of the elevator and you smirk to yourself as the doors open, heart racing and limbs trembling as you walk through and find the door you need.

You walk in and you look around, Spencer’s nowhere to be found and then you feel arms wrap around you and hot breath down your neck. You nearly jump and nearly thrash around but Spencer is quick to say — “It’s just me.” You melt into his touch and take a breather, confused on if you either want to yell at him for scaring you or kiss him. You ultimately choose the latter as you turn around, giving him a peck.

“Hi.” You giggle and he smiles as he softly greets you, “Hey.” He caresses your face, examining every feature before lowering his face down to your neck, leaving you kisses on your neck. “You know, if someone notices we’re both gone, Emily is gonna have our heads on a platter.” You tell. To say that you were making this a habit was an understatement. Someone was eventually gonna catch on to what you were both doing, especially if there were marks on your neck.

“Well, let’s hope nobody notices. Not that I really care anyways.” Spencer stated and you shake your head at your silly man. All logical thought seems to go out the window when it comes to you having sex, not that you mind. He kisses at your lips again, holding your face in your hands before pushing you up against the wall, his hand behind your head so you don’t hurt yourself as you continue to make out.

He kisses against you neck again and this time, raises his knee in between your legs, enough to put pressure and you gasp at the feeling, you almost begin to rub yourself back and forth on his knee.

“How greedy you are.” Spencer growls into your ear and your smirk, “I could say the same thing for you.”

Without another word, Spencer moves back a bit and gets on his knees and Jesus, you could always get used to that sight. You always loved seeing him on his knees. He takes his hands up and down your thighs and bunches up your pencil skirt and you feel his fingers on the waistband on your panties as he pulls your panties down — and stuffs them in his pocket — and gazes at your wet pussy.

He doesn’t hesitate to stick his face in between your thighs and you moan out, holding his head close to your body as he swirls his tongue around your clit in figure-8’s for a moment before pushing himself off your cunt and kisses your pussy before coming back up and kissing you on your lips. You become dizzy as you taste yourself on his lips.

You begin unbuckling his belt around his torso and unzipping his slacks, pulling his cock out. He also licks his fingertips, trying to get himself well-lubricated before sticking himself inside of you. He strokes his cock a few times before adjusts himself against you, sheathing his dick inside of you.

You nearly shout as you feel him inside of you, back arching against the granite wall and Spencer braces his hands against the wall as he moves his hips in and out of you. He tilts your head to meet his eyes and he seems to go faster as he stares deep into your eyes.

“Oh, my god…” You whisper as he keeps fucking you at a steady rhythm. He’s even whining at his own movements. “God, I love you.” He says and you dig your hands into his curls as you mutter against his lips, “I love you, too.”

Spencer manages to grab one of your hands, holding it against the wall as he keeps fucking you and you can feel him pushing himself to the brinks and you’re almost there yourself.

“Cum inside me, Spence. Please. I need it.” You beg, holding him close against you. “Are you sure?” Spencer grunts and you plead, “Yes, yes!” He groans as he stills himself inside of you, filling you up in that way you love.

You lean against the wall, growing lightheaded. Spencer slips himself out of you, fixing your skirt and pressing a kiss to your forehead before stuffing himself back in his pants.

Spencer holds your face with his hands and looks at you. “You okay?” You nod with a smile, “Amazing.” You take a deep breath and then you look around, Spencer noticing your very evident and prominent frown on your face.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Where are my—?” You stop in your tracks before narrowing your eyes at your boyfriend, that has a guilty smirk on his face. “Spencer, give me my panties back.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Spencer plays off but you shake your head, “Spencer, you literally came inside of me, I need my panties.”

“Maybe you’ll get them back. Maybe.” A code word for not a chance.

Suddenly, Spencer’s cell phone buzzes and he checks it with a grimace. “Uh, oh.” He says.

“What?” You ask.

“Emily’s caught on. She says we need to come back from our shenanigans and actually need to get some work done.” Spencer tells.

“You might as well tell her that you just can’t keep your hands to yourself.” You tease. “Which you can’t, by the way.”

Spencer shrugs, “I mean, I could, but why would I want to?”

I love dean

Things people forget about Dean Winchester:

Friendly reminder that Dean is a much more complex character than we give him credit for.

1.  He’s highly intelligent.

Sam is generally regarded as “the smart one,” but the only real difference between them in regards to intelligence is the fact that Sam pursued higher education while Dean stuck to hunting with his father.  Had Dean pursued a college career, there’s little doubt in my mind that he would have been just as smart as Sam.  

(Yes, I’m serious.)

Aside from the fact that he evidently enjoys reading some pretty heavy stuff (he’s referenced The Iliad, the Odyssey, Slaughterhouse 5, Cat’s Cradle, Aesop’s Fables, and even Shakespeare) and is secretly the biggest nerd in the entirety of the universe…

…We can’t forget the fact that he basically fully supported both himself and Sam since he was younger than ten.  In their childhood flashbacks, we see him caring for Sam for days (and sometimes weeks) on end.

Even when he was approximately four years old, he showed a surprising amount of emotional intelligence:  during his and Sam’s trip to heaven, we see him comforting his mother and reassuring her that John loves her.

2.  He has a lot of typically feminine interests.

At first glance, Dean can appear to be the epitome stereotypical, hypermasculine white man archetype, so commonly present in almost all forms of modern media.  Even casual fans should be able to decipher that this is not true, and I’m not even talking about the Taylor Swift music and pink satin panties.

Or the fact that he loves shows like Doctor Sexy M.D.

Or the fact that he’s what can best be described as really, REALLY high-maintenance.

He also loves cooking and cleaning.

And is extremely good with babies and children.

Not to mention the fact that he’s basically more of a mom to Sam than he is his brother.

3.  He’s probably been the victim of sexual violence.

On a more serious note, Jensen and other cast members have stated that at some point in his adolescence, Dean probably had to do some form of prostitution in order to support Sam.

Not to mention the somewhat disturbing fact that he recognized the feeling of being roofied in The Purge. (Of course, he deflected this by claiming it was a precaution, which I personally don’t buy for a second).

 Also, to believe that he didn’t undergo some form of sexual abuse during his forty years in hell is not only overly optimistic, but extremely naive (especially considering the way demons have approached him before).

Finally, Dean’s promiscuity and obsession with sex is a surprisingly common defense mechanism among survivors, stemming from a desire to regain control over their own bodies and sexuality.

4.  He struggles with depression and alcoholism.

Dean has very visible bouts of depression at different points throughout the series, and he deals with all of them in similar ways.

The first appears to be after his stay in hell.  He suffers from insomnia, nightmares, and drinks constantly.

We see him “coping” with Castiel’s death similarly in season seven, after which he has nightmares of the event in question, subsequent insomnia, and again, more drinking.

This becomes a more common event throughout seasons nine and ten, during his struggle with the mark of Cain. 

Even Demon!Dean isn’t immune.

But on a more positive note…

5.  He’s bi as hell (whether the writers know it or not).

I’ve heard people say Dean wasn’t “accused” of being bisexual until Cas was introduced.  Well, I truly pity those people – it must be difficult to be visually and mentally impaired.

For one thing, his siren was male.

It’s implied he had sex with a gay dominatrix. 

He flirts

with guys 

CONSTANTLY.

Not to mention his “summer of love” with Crowley.

But it’s true that Castiel takes the cake.  

For one thing, they’re basically married, and have been since season four.

And they have a ridiculous amount of sexual tension.

So.

Much.

Tension.

And zero personal space.

Like, what the fuck even is this shit.

JUST FUCKING KISS ALREADY BEFORE ONE OF YOU EXPLODES.

There is literally no doubt in my mind that Dean is bi, whether the writers intended him to be or otherwise.  They gave us great characters, and we can interpret them however we please.