tags + the rundown: gn!reader, bau!reader, fluff, spencer knows you better than you know yourself ofc, cute banter, who doesn't want him, yktv
a/n: impromptu hiatus and working on better fics but needed to get this one out the drafts! inbox is open, i think ur cool, come say hi. feedback welcome as always. enjoy!
~
You’re underdressed.
It didn’t begin that way; you’d packed your usual suit coat, dark and tailored. But the lack of lining, combined with the obnoxiously long walk back to the police station, and the chill in the air has your shoulders hitching every time the wind cuts through the street.
The flexing of your fingers, like you can will the warmth back into them, proves to be anything but subtle as Spencer falls back into step beside you.
“You know, hypothermia can set in faster than most people think. Especially in dry cold weather—your body loses heat faster.”
You refuse to look at him. “Are you flirting with me or diagnosing me, Spencer?”
He blinks. “I’m—neither. I’m just saying you should have brought something warmer.”
“And deprive everyone of your lecture on thermoregulation? Tragic.”
There’s a beat then and, well, you know you aren’t being nice. Spencer had actually told you to pack something warmer before you left, and it was your own fault for not listening. So, you say quieter:
“You do this thing where you state the obvious like it’s groundbreaking. It’s kind of endearing.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, looking straight ahead. “It’s not obvious to everyone.”
Behind you, Morgan lets out a low chuckle. “Kid’s got a point, Reid.”
Spencer huffs, rolls his eyes and picks up his pace again, a few steps ahead of you.
“Whatever! I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Nothing about that was helpful,” Emily laughs, then nudges your shoulder. “You really didn’t pack anything warmer?”
“We were only supposed to be here a couple days,” you defend pathetically.
~
By the next day, it’s worse. The case has stalled in that familiar, frustrating way: nothing urgent to panic over, nothing solid enough to move forward. The motel’s heating unit rattles like it’s thinking about working. You’ve taken to sitting at the warped wooden desk with your hands trapped under your thighs, shifting weight between them while you review files.
It isn’t working.
Spencer nudges the door back open from when he’d left to grab more paperwork. You try to ignore the way his eyes move quickly over your posture, which you know is too stiff on the edge of the desk chair.
“You’re doing it again,” he murmurs, closing the door behind him.
“If this is about the fact that I’m not wearing three layers and a parka, I think we’ve exhausted that conversation.”
“We haven’t. You just stopped engaging in it.”
“Because you were wrong.”
He pauses, deciding whether to argue with you.
“You’re cold, and sitting on your hands like that isn’t going to help,” he settles on instead, mild but firm.
You tuck your bottom lip under your teeth as he makes his way to sit at the edge of the motel bed, his knees hovering in the same space as yours. If you shifted forward an inch they’d be touching and, well, there’s a thought.
“I told you to pack something warmer,” he says softly after a moment. You close the inch then, abruptly knocking your knee into his in defiance, then pulling back.
“You… suggested it.”
Spencer chuckles, unimpressed, nudges your knee back and leaves it against yours with something close to tenderness. “I was very specific.”
“You’re always specific, Spencer,” you deadpan.
“Leaves less room for interpretation. Maybe next time you won’t ignore me.”
You huff now; he’s being difficult on purpose. “I was exercising my autonomy.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile but the fondness is there.
You expect him to keep going—another statistic or something equally annoying and reasonable—but he doesn’t. Instead, he sets something on the slight divot where your knees are connected.
You stare at it, then you stare at him.
“You have to be kidding me.”
“I brought an extra,” he says, eyebrows raised at you, “in case you didn’t.”
You let out a short laugh, empty of humor. “You packed for me.”
“I—no! I planned for a variable.”
“That variable being my stubbornness?”
“That’s a constant,” he smirks, eyes glinting and narrow. You have half a mind to hit him, but it would require moving your (now very sore) hands from beneath you. “You not listening to me is the variable.”
You move your hands then, crossing your arms and holding his gaze.
“So, what, you’ve just been carrying this around and watching me suffer until I admit defeat?”
He considers you, the smirk turning gentle.
“I’d argue that helping you get over yourself is more along the lines of encouraging self-growth.”
You shake your head, though there’s no real bite to it. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re cold.” There’s no edge to his tone, just fact. You couldn’t bring yourself to argue with it even if you wanted. “Here.”
He leans forward, coaxes your arms from each other with one hand and uses the other to unfurl the cardigan. You use the last of your resolve to go easy, slotting your knees between his to give the semblance of space, like you have no choice but to lean into him, too.
He’s patient as he slips the sleeves on you one arm at a time, fingertips leaving a trail of heat on your shoulders, your forearms, your wrists, that takes a moment to penetrate your skin because, well, it’s damn cold.
He settles the fabric around your back and over your torso, his eyes tracing his own movements, and you don’t even notice you’ve been holding your breath until his fingers skim your ribs and you instinctively hitch them inward.
He notices, you’re sure he does, but instead of saying something he stills his hands for a beat; gives you room to back out even though you both know you won’t.
So, he reaches for the buttons instead, starts at the bottom and works his way up carefully, like the thread, or your body underneath it, is at risk of coming undone. He’s probably moving slower than he needs to, and by the time he’s done, hands returned to his own lap, that trail of heat is still lingering on you.
You could thank him, you know. But you hate when Spencer is right.
“I hate when you’re right,” you mumble, staring at him and clearing your throat. Bringing you back to yourself.
“I know.”
“Don’t make this weird.”
“I’m not going to make it weird,” he defends, laughing at your incredulity.
“And don’t be smug about it.”
“I—,” he regards you with soft eyes. “I might be a little smug about it.”
You laugh now, genuine and full. “You’re insufferable, Spencer Reid.”
“And you’re warm.” You glance down at your hands, half-hidden by oversized sleeves.
“Spencer…” you start, but don’t finish.
He hums in curiosity, and you swear you feel the vibration of it pass through you where your knees are still touching.
“I don’t ignore you,” you murmur. He hums again, low and warm and agreeable.
The silence is comfortable now, simmering down as the pressure between your knees becomes impossibly soft. You move to make a joke, but before you can—
“Keep it,” he says.
You look up at him, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.
“For the case,” he adds quickly. “You can just—I brought it for you anyway, so just—keep it.”
It doesn’t land as casually as he wants it to, but neither of you have to mention that.
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Spencer and reader get stuck in a storm. Touching ensues.
wc 2k
18+ mdni (smut)
tags + the rundown: fem!reader, bau!reader, softdom!spencer, sub!reader, fingering, finger sucking, pet names, no piv penetration, established fwb relationship, love a cute & vague fwb sitch!, when is it my turn!
a/n: i could write about doctor spencer reid and his fingers allll day. inbox open per the usual <3!
~
“This is exactly how horror movies start, by the way.”
“This is not exactly how they start.” Spencer doesn’t look up from the city maps he’s unfurled, but the amused smirk of his mouth is unmistakable.
“It’s close enough!” You continue to whine. “Two agents sent to a creepy building in the middle of a storm? Half the town shut down? In the dark?”
You raise your eyebrows at him, though he’s still not entertaining you. “We’re practically begging for trouble.”
He glances from the desk then, regarding you with patience and something close to charm as rain continues hammering against the impossibly tall, glass windows.
“Libraries aren’t creepy, they’re just old. That’s why you’re scared,” he begins.
“I am not sc—”
“And the likelihood of us being murdered in one is—”
“Spencer.”
“—significantly lower than anywhere else in town,” he finishes, face smug in a way that makes your cheeks warm and your chest tight with irritation and, probably, fondness.
“You are too scared, by the way. You haven’t touched your stack of blueprints in almost seven minutes and you’ve been bouncing your knee for six.”
You scoff on instinct, ignoring the utter truth to his words and urging your leg to ease itself.
“Please. There’s nothing scary about city building records,” you mutter. Spencer sighs.
“I’ll call Hotch. Maybe we can bring these ba—”
A blinding bolt of lightning cracks then, stopping his words and throwing shelves into sharp, silver shadows. You have half a mind to jump as your breathing picks up, and the rain is so loud it nearly drowns out the heavy, metal click of the library’s front door across the room.
You freeze. So does Spencer.
“Was that…”
“Stay here,” he murmurs, already moving past you, shoes squeaking against polished floor. You watch his silhouette in the stormlight as he tugs at the door once, twice. Your heart sinks.
“Well?” You call out, louder than you mean to.
“It’s locked.”
“Define locked.”
“The kind that requires a key card.”
“No fucking way we’re stuck here.” You start to rise out of your seat, but are stopped by a particularly obnoxious crash of thunder.
“The doors are probably on an automatic timer,” Spencer says carefully, tapping the black keypad and its glowering red light.
“Why wouldn’t the librarian say something before leaving? We’re like, ten feet away from the front desk!”
His phone is already in hand, screen glow stark against his face as you watch his brow furrow. After a moment, he sighs.
“No signal.”
“Because of course there’s no signal.” You huff out a defeated laugh.
Were you generally scared of thunderstorms? No. Were you scared of being locked in a random library, nearly an hour away from the rest of your team, with no cell signal and no access to your car? Possibly.
Lightning bursts again, and you swear you can smell the electricity as the overhead lights flicker and fizzle out completely. You both stare at them for a second, like maybe they’ll apologize.
“We’re so gonna die here,” you whisper.
“Come on,” Spencer says, voice gentle and steady as he makes his way toward you. “I’m sure there’s a flashlight in the staff lounge. Maybe a landline.”
“How do you even know there’s a lounge?”
He taps the blueprints on the table, now only illuminated by street lamps and your slowly-adjusting eyesight. Against every prideful instinct, you take his outstretched hand and follow him through the dark stacks.
“You know, if this were a horror movie, you’d definitely die first.”
That earns you a chuckle.
“I’m serious! The over-confident nerds are always the first to go.”
“That’s completely inaccurate!” He protests. “In most horror tropes the intellectual makes it at least halfway through.”
“That’s reassuring,” you mutter, following blindly as Spencer continues navigating down a now book-less hallway.
“And my over-confidence is for your benefit, scaredy-cat. One of us has to think straight.”
You start to say something smart, but a crash of thunder booms loud enough to rattle your ribs. Without thinking, you jerk toward Spencer. He turns to steady you in an instant, the hand that’s not holding yours anchoring to your waist.
“You okay?” He asks softly. The teasing from before is nonexistent, though not enough to assuage your defensiveness.
“I’m fine.”
His mouth tilts. “Right. Totally fine.”
You scoff, but you don’t step back, sinking into the feeling of his thumb brushing once, twice over your hip.
Another flicker of lightning illuminates the lounge door in front of you, also guarded by a glaring red light and key pad.
“What now, doctor?” you sigh.
“Let’s go sit on that couch in the kids’ section. Backup generation should kick on soon.”
“That thing looked so uncomfortable.”
“Well, you’re more than welcome to stand in the hallway by yourself.”
He starts to trail off, leaving you fast-walking behind him with a nervous squeak.
You’re right, the couch is stiff, meant for waiting parents or short storytimes. But Spencer drops onto it with a kind of weary grace, and you follow soon after, crossing your arms in an attempt to look less unsettled than you felt.
“We’d make horrible horror movie characters,” you mumble.
“How’s that?”
“We should have made out at least three times by now.”
“That’s not—stastically couples who have sex die first.”
Just as you start to laugh, a peal of thunder threatens to rip through the glass. This time you actually jump, shoulder knocking into his chest.
“You’re going to bruise me before the storm’s over,” he murmurs.
“Sorry! Reflex!”
He only laughs, shifting until you’re more firmly tucked against him. One of his hands finds your thigh while the other settles back on your waist. You glance up at him, already feeling the warmth of his grip spread through you.
“Don’t get any ideas, Spencer.” The shakiness in your voice is utterly obvious. “This is strictly survival snuggling.”
He hums, speaks quieter.
“Snuggling isn’t actually a survival tactic.”
“Then what is?”
“...Distraction.”
Before you can respond, he presses a kiss to your neck, heat blooming on your skin and melting the words on your tongue. You lean impossibly deeper into him on instinct.
“Spencer…” you start to whisper.
“You’re freezing,” he murmurs against you, and the vibration makes your breath hitch with a near-moan. “Let me help.”
His hands are on the zipper of your pants now as he readjusts the two of you, his back against the arm of the couch with you nestled between his legs.
“You’re ridiculous,” you manage, pulse loud in your ears.
“And you’re still trembling. Do you remember the last time I had you like this?”
Spencer is nipping at the sensitive spot behind your ear, rendering your brain useless to forming an answer, though you know the last time was all too long ago.
Between cases and paperwork and life, the two of you hadn’t found time to convenience this lovely, touch-starved, distracting mutual habit of yours for nearly three months.
His arm snakes across your waist, anchoring your hips which had begun bucking without your permission or notice. You let out an embarrassing moan as his other hand snakes under the waistband of your underwear.
“Need you to stay still, angel. Can’t help you when you’re squirming.”
“M’trying,” you squeak, body stuck between needing more and less of the overwhelming feeling.
His fingers explore lower, and lower, until they’re there, pressing to your clit with a practiced precision that has you gripping his arm in desperation.
“Easy, shh, stay still.” Spencer plants fluttering kisses to your neck again, rubbing gentle circles against the swollen bud.
“I—Fuck, Spence—I can’t!”
“You know you can.” He eases the pressure on your clit in favor of running a knuckle up and down, between your folds. “You feel so perfect, baby. So wet already, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you manage.
“Mhm.”
He waits until your muscles begin to decompress before letting a finger test your entrance.
“That’s better, honey. Tell me what you need.”
You make a sound that could be a word and, unimpressed with your lack of response, he pulls his finger out from your walls. Your body positively aches at the loss and you buck your hips in protest. He chuckles quietly, kissing your jaw.
“That desperate, huh?”
“Spencer, please.”
He’s quick to shush you, finally sliding one finger past your folds, deep and tortuously slow, and your whole body arches in pleasure as you gasp back a moan. His arm moves further up to your torso, pinning you against his chest.
“Angel girl, relax. I’ve got you. Stay right here and let me do it.”
“I—Fuck!” you squeak as he finds his rhythm, adding another finger and kissing you through the dull ache as you stretch around him.
“I know, god you feel amazing, I know. It’s just been a while.”
You do your best to listen, to breathe and relax, but Spencer’s fingers are relentless in their pace and he feels too wonderful. Your hips jerk weakly against his hand and you throw your head over his shoulder, knowing it’s all you can do not to choke out a sob.
“You sound so good, baby. Who are you making those pretty noises for?”
A whimper escapes before you can swallow it back. “You, Spence.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
He breathes out a huffy laugh, in true awe of the way your body can do nothing but respond as he curls his fingers deep in your cunt. He grabs your hand before you can clamp down on his wrist, intertwining your fingers in his and pinning it to your hip.
“I can’t… I—I want, please.” You don’t know the ends to any of your sentences, just that you need. Another cry loosens from your throat and you dig your face farther into his neck, lips kissing wherever they can find purchase. Spencer continues pumping in and out of you like his hand is reciting a mantra.
“What, angel? Try again, tell me what you want.” You shake your head weakly against him. “It’s a lot, huh?” An agreeing moan pours out of you and you swear you feel your legs shaking.
The sudden feeling of Spencer’s free hand against your lips makes your pulse jump in your throat, and you find yourself instinctively taking his fingers into your mouth, sucking in pleasure and relief for something to keep you occupied from the sheer overwhelmness.
“Fuck, that’s what you needed, yeah? Something to fill your mouth, too? My spoiled girl.”
You can hear the smile dripping from his tone as he freezes his thrusts, hooked fingers resting heavily against your core’s most sensitive spot. Your back arches and you think you might implode as a lone tear rolls down your cheek.
He turns to look at you, his pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted and damp, and your brain is filled with any and all things Spencer Reid.
He traces the curve of your face with his eyes, his own chest pulling with want. He keeps his fingers exactly where they are, resisting the urge to move, to chase you over the edge until he’s sure you’re breathing. Spencer lives off this, knows the fine line between overwhelm and release and exactly how to get you there.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, and he moans when he feels you tightening wholly around him: your teeth biting down on his fingers with gentle need and your cunt pulsing as your orgasm crashes through you.
He circles his thumb over your clit as you ride it out. You swallow around him, let your thighs clench and unclench.
He kisses your shoulder, your neck, your temple, until your hips start to slow and your jaw goes slack. His hands make their way from inside of you to rest on your stomach, and you bury your face against his chest. You stay like that for a while, until your voice makes its way back to you.
“You’re evil,” you mumble.
Spencer laughs, kissing your hairline.
“Not evil. Distracting. The rain’s letting up and the generator kicked in.”
You glance around at the warm light bathing the room.
“Do we have to go now?”
“Pretty sure there’s still no cell signal, at least not until I check my phone. And it’s all the way in my back pocket.”
You smile against him, unsure of how much time passes before he speaks again.
“There’s no way this would ever be horror-movie material.”
“Hm?”
“Because the pretty one usually dies first, and obviously I’d never let that happen to you.”
the one where Spencer convinces reader to ride his face.
wc 1.4k
18+ mdni (smut)
tags + the rundown: fem!reader, afab!reader, softdom!spencer x sub!reader, oral f receiving, face riding, but like sweet and gentle yk, it's reader's first time face riding and she's nervous, piv sex, cr*amp*e (hate that term wow), pet names, praise, established relationship, mentions of suffocation but jokingly
a/n: my first smut and my longest fic yikes! need him so bad tho it's crazy. feedback always welcome come say hi to me!
~
The door opens and closes so softly it almost doesn’t wake you. Even as Spencer settles into the space next to you, you’re tempted to think it’s a ghost, or a figment of your half-dream state. It’s not until he speaks, half muffled by the pillow, that you’re sure it’s him:
“You’re still in your clothes.”
You turn to face him, taking in his loose tie, cardigan half-slipped from his shoulder, parts of his hair looking stiff, probably from dragging his hands through it a million times. Even with the jagged exhaustion, his eyes on you are nothing but kind. You offer him a smile.
“Fell asleep waiting for you,” you answer in an equally gravelly tone. You’re about to ask if he’s eaten, if he wants water or a shower, but then his lips are pressed to your forehead for what feels like a small eternity.
“Missed you, angel girl,” he finally whispers. You smooth your hands over his back as he rubs small, tender circles on your thigh, fingers brushing under the skirt you had failed to change out of before you fell asleep.
“Missed you, too, Spence.”
“Yeah?” The circles he makes remain tender, but become more intentional as one of his hands snakes between your legs. “How much?”
His fingers find their way to your underwear, and you let out a whimper at the dampness you didn’t even realize was forming there. Spencer hums, deep and wanting.
“Feels like a lot, baby. Did you miss me a lot?”
“Mhm.”
“Mhm,” he echoes. His touch is soft, careful, but burns through your core all the same as he hitches your leg up, giving him easier access to remove the nearly-soaked cloth from your body. “Let me taste you, please.”
You can’t help but kiss him, your hands wandering anywhere they can find purchase as the floor becomes a stockpile of clothes: Spencer’s tie and cardigan, pants and skirt, both of your shirts. You start to settle beneath him, utterly desperate to move things along, when he pulls away.
You glance up at him, breathless and hazy from the loss of his body heat.
“Not like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, thumb rubbing circles on your wrists to satiate you. “I’ve eaten you out a hundred times like this. I want us to try something different.”
Your brow furrows, though the sheer eagerness that curls in your chest is undeniable. “Different?”
He nods and laughs lightly.
“You’re always so good for me, honey. Always trusting me to take the lead, hm?” His lips brush your nose, warm and patient.
Your pulse stutters as he shifts the two of you, settling you on top of his thighs. You whimper as your hands anchor themselves on either side of his head.
“Spence…” you’re not sure what you’re trying to ask, what you need from him, but the sound comes out frayed anyway.
“It’s been a long week, I’m so tired. All I’ve been thinking about is coming home to you, feeling you like this.”
His hands are anchored to your hips. He grinds up slightly, but just enough to make you dizzy. Your throat feels tight as you try to hold back an embarrassing moan, your head falling forward.
“You can do this for me, right? Help me feel better?”
The questions are rhetorical, you know, but you find yourself nodding with a shameless amount of instinct.
“That’s my girl. Come here, baby.”
Even though you’ve been like this a hundred times, and you’ll be like this a hundred more, you feel irrevocably bare and seen as Spencer’s eyes take their time with you. Before you can register it, he’s pulling you forward, inch by inch. You can’t find your voice as you naturally shift your weight, knowing nothing but trust for the man beneath you.
Spencer’s eyes hold yours, taking in every twitch of uncertainty.
“Need you to help me take care of you tonight” he whispers. Your hands find a hold on the headboard now, your knees lifted to keep you hovered because if they don’t, you’re pretty sure you’ll cut off a very-necessary airway for the good doctor.
“You always take care of me” you whisper, confusion tainting your throat. He hums.
“That’s true. Haven’t taken care of you like this, though.”
“Spence, I don’t think I can– What if I–”
“Breathe.”
You nearly scoff at the irony.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t if you tried, angel” he strokes reassuring lines down your thighs, his face looking annoyingly adorable framed between them. “Do you know how much oxygen the human body can store? Even if you blocked my mouth and nose completely, I’d have more than enough time. You’d get tired long before I was in danger.”
“Still feels weird,” you mumble. He’s quick to shush you.
“Not weird, just different. I know you can do it. Need you to.”
For better or worse, you find yourself incapable of denying Spencer anything. So when he plants a kiss and tender nip on your thigh, and tells you to sit, who are you to disobey?
He’s wrong, at first it is weird. You can’t grip his hair like you want, can’t spread your legs, and you’re still holding part of your weight in your knees because god forbid you suffocate the world’s handsomest genius.
But then, Spencer’s tongue is licking into you with an all-too-familiar hunger, leaving you a puddle of moans. The sound of your pleasure is all he needs to hear as he finds a rhythm that’s slow and full and has you breathless.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you manage. He laughs a little, the vibration shaking through your wet core to your bones as he lifts his head up slightly.
“Told you so.”
He’s back at it before you can retort, adjusting so that his nose brushes your clit with every stroke of his tongue. It’s that sensation that makes your legs go completely weak, and before you have the decency to be mindful of Spencer’s oxygen supply, you’re fully seated on his face. He moans, torturously long and deep.
“Spencer!” you squeak, attempting to lift yourself up again but failing as he grips your thighs, anchoring you in place and sucking your cunt like his life depended on it.
“Taste so good, baby,” he miraculously manages from between your legs, though you’re unclear whether it's the sound of his words or the movement of his mouth against you that lets you decipher his message.
Spencer’s tongue moves like a goddamn paint brush against your walls, practiced and wholly devoted to coating every inch of you. He alternates your clit between his nose and his mouth, coming up for air but not letting up on your body as he sucks the sensitive bud with gentle teeth.
It goes on like this for you don’t know how long, unable to keep track of the time with the way your brain is a fuzzy mess of sensation and you’re chanting Spencer’s name like it’s all you know.
“God, Spence, I’m so close,” you warn him. He responds with a knowing mhm as you clench and flutter around him.
How you ever survive oral sex from Spencer Reid you’ll never know.
Your orgasm floods your entire being, and he takes his time drinking in every last drop before finally coaxing you from on top of him, mindful of your shakiness as he shifts and settles you underneath him. He lines himself with your entrance, peppering you with kisses and gentle musings to distract you from the slight overstimulation.
“So perfect. Did just what I asked, baby. My good girl let me taste you exactly how I needed and now you’re gonna let me fuck you, yeah? Let me keep taking care of you?”
Your moans match his thrusts, which are altogether-consuming but still slow and intimate and full of pleasure. You squirm and weakly attempt to wrap your legs around his waist, needing reprieve but also needing him as close to you as possible.
“I love you,” you whimper, gripping his shoulders as a second orgasm creeps up and out of you. Spencer kisses you deeply as his own shoots through you, searing hot and deliciously grounding.
“I love you too, angel. So much.”
He lays next to you and you curl into him instinctually, burying your head against his chest. He plants a kiss firmly on your hair before whispering:
the one where reader and Spencer talk comfort strategies.
wc 884
tags + the rundown: bau!reader, gn!reader, soft!spencer, fluff!, but like fluff with intimacy yk, they love each other but will never say it, the usual!
a/n: back in my fic writing bag and it feels sooo good. hope you like it, say hi to me, you’re all so cool!
~
By the time there’s a knock at the door, it’s been approximately fifteen hours since your head started pounding.
The case wasn’t budging, and that one missing piece that the whole team could feel gnawing at their guts was causing nothing but frustration and burnout. Hotch had sent everyone back to the hotel knowing not one of you would be able to rest. He also knew that at this point, it was better for you to stare at the blank, beige ceilings of your rooms instead of pictures of victims, at least for a few hours.
You lower the volume of the t.v., stepping over sprawled files and documents (blank, beige ceilings were overrated) as you make your way across the room. Spencer is talking before you can open the door all the way:
“It’s not making sense, the unsub’s geographical profile practically defies the theory of comfort zones. Did you read that article I sent you on traffic patterns…?”
He’s been taking in the state of your room during his ramble. It’s not the floor littered with photographs and papers that causes him to lose his train of thought. He knew you’d be in the thralls of the case just as much as he was.
“Are you watching Finding Nemo?”
You stare at him blankly, your sleep-deprived brain working overtime to process his question.
“Well…” you begin, his confused expression slowly turning into one of amusement. It’s that shit-eating grin of his that causes you to stumble on your words. “I — I’m not, like, actively watching it!”
Your pathetic display of defensiveness causes a laugh to surface in Spencer’s throat as he sidesteps into your room.
Now, in any other context, after nearly three days of grim, dark work, the sound of Spencer laughing would have been welcomed. Especially when you were the cause of such a beautiful sound. But your head has been pounding for fifteen hours, making his amusement utterly irritating.
“This isn’t even cable!” he continues, tugging at the HDMI cord connected from your personal laptop to the hotel television.
“It helps me focus!” you protest, closing your door and crossing your arms over your chest.
Spencer raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You focus better with Pixar?”
“Don’t judge me. Some people use white noise or rain sounds. I use clownfish and Ellen DeGeneres.”
He chuckles again, walking toward you and gently unfolding your arms before settling on the edge of the bed. He’s careful not to disturb the array of files you’ve fanned out.
“One of these days you’re gonna knock on my door and I won’t let you in” you admonish jokingly, nudging his leg with your foot.
“How else would we team-bond at 2 in the morning?” he feigns shock.
“You making fun of my comfort movie is so not team-bonding.” You sit next to him, letting the low hum of dialogue fill the room as he regards you with something that feels dangerously close to fondness. It’s all-consuming and you love it.
“You know, there’s a study from 2012 that showed people who rewatch childhood movies when they’re stressed experience measurable increases in emotional regulation. The predictability of the narrative and the activation of autobiographical memory—”
“Are you saying Finding Nemo can count as my therapy for the week?” you scoot up the bed in favor of laying down. He picks at a frayed piece of fabric on your sweatpants, laughing sweetly.
“I’m saying it makes sense. We all have things that help us cut through the noise.”
“What are yours?”
He sighs, laying down next to you and, suddenly, the beige, blank ceiling becomes very interesting.
“Dr. Who. Writing to my mother. Knowing I can walk two and a half feet across the hall and the door will always open, no matter what hotel we’re at.”
You turn your head to look at him, something settling in your core that you can’t quite name but that feels warm and intimate. It curls around your ribs, tender and soft. You nod in mutual assurance but Spencer’s eyes are already closed.
You’re like that for a while, quiet, side-by-side, files and documents (finally) forgotten. His hand brushes yours once, gently. You don’t move away until morning.
~
The case had broken in the early hours of the dawn, thanks to Hotch who had never gone back to the hotel (hypocrite). Exhaustion settled in quickly after. You’re the last to board the jet, coffee in hand, expecting to collapse into a window and dissociate for the flight home until you see Spencer waiting. Something in his eyes—hope? bashfulness?—wakes you up more than any amount of caffeine could.
His laptop is already open, the movie paused where you had left off the night before. Two sets of headphones coiled beside it, waiting.
“You fell asleep before my favorite part,” he teases, making room for you and unwinding the headphones. You tuck yourself in next to him and poke his shoulder.
“Now you’re a Finding Nemo fan?”
“You have no idea. Finding Dory, too. The whole lost fish franchise.”
It’s your turn to laugh, barely more than a strong exhalation, but it’s real. The kind of laugh only someone like Spencer could pull from you after a 48-hour manhunt.
For the first time in days, you feel quiet inside.
thinking abt being Spencer Reid’s controversially young gf (post-prison dilf era) and while he’s working a case he calls and is like,
“Dearest ray of sunshine, the heart of my life and reason for existing- Our unsub is gen-z and I urgently require your assistance. Please, what is rizz?”
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GARCIA: the iPad kid who insists on playing her specially curated playlist the entire trip.
SPENCER: constantly suggests I-spy, and tells random facts about each state they pass through. He and Garcia bicker about her hogging the aux - he has some great books on tape!
JJ: snacking the whole time and getting Cheeto dust literally everywhere.
EMILY: switches between falling asleep on peoples’ shoulders and stabbing people in the ribs with her elbows because she cannot sit still.
ELLE & MORGAN: spend the whole trip trading stories from the club, and suggest stopping at every single roadside attraction.
HOTCH: At the wheel, mediating arguments between the CHILDREN in the backseat.
GIDEON: backseat driving, driving Hotch nuts because he insists his paper map is more accurate than the GPS.
BONUS - Elle and Hotch argue the entire time, and Morgan passes some of JJ’s snacks back to Garcia so she doesn’t fall down an internet hole and forget to eat. Hotch secretly loves all the Spice Girls songs on Garcia’s playlist.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
