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• CURRENT STATUS: sleepy

• PRONOUNS: She/Her

• MBTI: INFP

People with this kind of personality tend to be introverted, idealistic, creative, and driven by high values. INFPs want to make the world a better place and are interested in how they can best help others. They also strive to gain a greater understanding of themselves and how they fit into the world.

• SIGN: Sagittarius

★ I mostly like criminal minds but I also like:

• Straykids, origami, reading, writing (for myself), horror (games, movies, etc), editing, singing and drawing

★ FAVORITE SONG RN:

★ FUN FACTS:

I speak Spanish, English and I’m studying German.

I’m left handed

I am really scared of the dark.

★ Thank you for reading! Now you can go ahead and explore! ★

(I’m nervous)

#matthew gray gubler #criminal minds #about myself #song #fun facts #saggitarius #she/her #infp #skz stay #films #spencerreidsglasses #monster high #friends?#Spotify

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mercurymk

Out of Focus

Dr. Spencer Reid calculates everything, cognitive efficiency, statistical anomalies and the exact distance he needs to keep to protect his own sanity, but for three months, your laughter has been a constant agonizing hum in the bullpen, a bright and tactile frequency shared with everyone but him. You think he hates you, but the reality is infinitely more dangerous.

Read it on AO3 | Spencer Reid/Female reader

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Hate S*x, Couch S*x, Jealousy, Jealous Spencer Reid, Coworkers to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Misunderstanding, Sexual overstimulation, Rough S*x, Multiple S*x Positions, Multiple Orgasms, Marking/Biting, Dirty Talk, Soft dom Spencer Reid, Degradation/Praise, P*rn With Plot, Aftercare

Word Count: 8.3k

Notes: He hates you because he's jealous so he fucks you :)

🌟Masterlist🌟

whoswitchybabyanyway

off the record

part one: on the clock

pairing: spencer reid x stripper!reader

word count: 7.8k

summary: a wrong assumption lands you in a holding cell, and you come face to face with the one man you didn't read right

includes: smut (MDNI), technically has a plot but not really, no use of y/n, dom!spencer, reader giving brat/switch energy (me again?), power imbalance, reader was arrested (but like it wasn't her fault tho), unresolved feelings, mutual frustration, teasing leads to escalation, car sex, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink hehehe, power and control dynamics, professional lines getting absolutely obliterated, morally gray behavior, not enemies or lovers but a third (worse) thing, technically he's at work but once again... priorities

whoswitchybabyanyway

on the clock

pairing: spencer reid x stripper!reader

word count: 3.5k

summary: you're good at reading the men in the room, telling who is easy prey and who isn't. this time, your assumptions are off, but you're never one to pass on a little fun

includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), soft dom!spencer, reader lowkey giving switch energy (is that just me? idk), club setting, fingering (f receiving), mutual teasing... mutual undoing, technically you're at work but like... priorities

based on the above gif by @reidgif, requested by @esote-rika i hope you like it!!

The lounge is low-lit, gold lamps spilling lazy light across velvet and smoke. You’ve been in this job long enough to spot the types—suits who think money is power, bachelors with grabby hands, couples testing boundaries. You move between tables with a practiced smile, already knowing which men will melt, which will leer, which will pay too much for too little.

And then there’s him.

He sits apart from the crowd, posture too perfect for the velvet chair. He doesn’t sip a drink or pretend to watch the stage. He just studies, eyes steady behind long lashes. You decide he’ll be your fun for the night—easy prey.

You saunter up, hips swaying with the kind of confidence that always earns attention, though his eyes are already on you. You stop near his chair, lean just close enough that the lamplight paints your skin in gold, and tilt your head.

“What’s your name?” you ask, voice syrupy-smooth.

For a moment, he hesitates. His lips part, then press together again like he’s weighing the consequences of answering. Finally, he says, “Spencer.”

The name fits him—precise, deliberate. You let it roll around your tongue like a secret as you perch on the arm of his chair, legs crossing slow, deliberate. From here, you can feel the heat radiating off him, though he doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t look the type to be here,” you murmur, fingertips skimming the gaudy fabric of his chair before brushing, ever so slightly, against his shoulder.

He glances up at you, the barest flicker of amusement breaking his otherwise still expression. “And what type is that?”

“The kind that blushes when a girl sits too close,” you tease, leaning in until your perfume lingers between you. “The kind that doesn’t know where to put his hands.”

For just a second, you think you’ve caught him—his throat bobs, his lashes flutter in a blink too slow to hide—but then he exhales, steady as stone.

“Maybe I’m just good at pretending,” he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You smile at his words, unexpected warmth tugging at the corner of your mouth. Pleased, maybe, that he isn’t crumbling under your touch, that he isn’t one of the usual types who fold in seconds.

You hum, a low sound in your throat, as your fingers dip down to his tie. The fabric is cool beneath your touch, smooth as you trace the neat line downward, just brushing against his shirt buttons. His pulse is steady—annoyingly steady—underneath all that composure.

“So you’re pretending,” you say, your voice lilting, playful. “What’s the act, then? The quiet intellectual in the corner? The mysterious stranger no one can read?”

Spencer’s gaze flicks to your hand, following the lazy drag of your fingers, then rises back to meet your eyes. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t stop you. “I don’t have to pretend to be mysterious,” he says simply. “That’s just your projection.”

Your lips part, ready to toss back another teasing line, but it stalls on your tongue. Because he isn’t wrong—and you don’t like the way it feels when he turns your own game back on you so neatly.

“And what is it you think I’m projecting?” you ask, chin tilted, a smile sharp enough to hide the sudden hitch in your chest.

His mouth curves—almost a smirk, but not quite. Controlled. Careful. “That you came over here because you wanted to fluster me. And now you’re not sure if you want to keep trying… or if you want to find out what happens when you fail.”

The words hum against your skin, low and devastating. You hadn’t planned for this. For him. For the way his voice slips under your defenses like silk and steel at once.

And suddenly, you’re not sure if this is still just the job.

You laugh softly, covering the way his words nip at your pride. “Confident,” you say, dragging a nail lightly down the length of his tie. “I like that.”

His eyes follow the motion but his body doesn’t shift, his posture as perfect as it was when you first spotted him. It unsettles you. Most men lean forward, eager. He doesn’t. He just sits there, letting you close the distance, letting you think you’re leading.

“So tell me, Spencer…” You let the syllables linger, honey-slow. “Do you want a private dance?”

This time, there’s the faintest pause. Not long enough to read as hesitation, not long enough to satisfy your need to see him flustered—but it’s there. A beat where you think you might’ve cracked the shell.

Then he exhales, steady again. “I’m not here for that,” he says, voice level, low. “I’m here on business.”

You arch a brow, lips curving in a smile meant to tease, even as your fingers tug idly at the edge of his tie.

“Business?” The word drips with mockery, but he doesn’t bite.

You arch a brow, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, the silence stretches, humming between you like static. Finally, you shift where you sit on the arm of his chair, the motion smooth, practiced. Your legs slip over his thighs, draped across him like an offering.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you—so natural, so instinctive it’s almost disarming. His hand doesn’t move, his posture doesn’t falter, but his body adjusts all the same, like he’d expected it.

You wait for the tell. For his eyes to flicker downward, for his gaze to skim bare skin, linger where it shouldn’t. That’s what they all do, in the end. That’s what you count on.

But Spencer doesn’t.

His eyes stay fixed on your face, unwavering, sharp in the low light. It’s not nerves, not shyness. It’s control. And it rattles you, because you can’t tell if it’s intentional restraint or something deeper, something he’s holding back just to see how long it takes you to notice.

“Come on, Spencer,” you tease, your voice dropping into a low purr. “Give me something to work with.”

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a tell. His gaze stays locked on yours, unflinching, and the silence drapes over your shoulders heavier than velvet.

You tilt your head, lips curving with feigned exasperation. “Can’t you tell I’m desperate here?”

That earns you the smallest reaction—a flicker at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smile tugging before he reins it back. His eyes dip then, finally, sliding down to the smooth line of your legs sprawled across his lap. But the movement isn’t hungry or careless. It’s precise. Deliberate. He lets you see it, lets you know he’s looking only because he’s chosen to.

When his eyes rise back to yours, his voice is velvet-low, steady as a knife balanced on a fingertip. “You don’t seem very desperate at all.”

The words catch you off guard, tugging a breath from your throat you hadn’t meant to give away. You can't tell if he's teasing or simply telling the truth.

You lean forward, closing the space until your lips hover just above his ear. Your voice dips softer, silkier, meant only for him. “Do I have to beg?”

His brows tick upward, the barest flicker of surprise, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just holds that maddeningly steady gaze.

So you shift tactics. Flutter your lashes, tilt your chin down, let your mouth soften around the word. “Please.”

It lands between you like a spark. For the first time, his composure falters—not much, not enough to satisfy the craving you’ve been nursing all night—but enough. He exhales sharply, a huff of air that could be a laugh, could be surrender.

“Alright,” he says finally, quiet but decisive. “Private room.”

The victory tastes sweeter than champagne. You smile slow, triumphant, and slip gracefully off the arm of his chair. Your hand brushes his tie one last time before you rise to your feet, letting the touch linger as a promise.

“Follow me, then,” you murmur, hips swaying as you lead the way through the haze of smoke and low light. You don’t have to look back to know he’s watching—you can feel it, steady and unshaken, like he’s already planned every step of this game.

And still, the thrill buzzes through you. Because for all his restraint, for all his control, he said yes.

The private rooms are quieter, tucked away from the bass and smoke of the lounge. The walls are padded in dark velvet, the air scented faintly of expensive liquor and too much perfume. It feels smaller here, more intimate—just the two of you and the hum of your own heartbeat.

You gesture toward the couch in the center, plush and gaudy, and glance at him over your shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He doesn’t move right away. He studies the room first, gaze flicking across every detail like he’s cataloging it, committing it all to memory. Only then does he sit—perfect posture, long legs spreading just enough to take up space without apology.

You slip into the role as easily as a second skin, swaying closer, letting your hands trail along your thighs, your waist, your curves. But the usual rhythm feels off. Wrong. Because Spencer doesn’t drink you in the way the others do—his eyes don’t wander, don’t flicker greedily from skin to silk.

He watches your face. Only your face.

You circle him slowly, brushing your fingers along the back of his chair, your breath ghosting over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to enjoy yourself, you know,” you tease, though it comes out thinner than you intend. “That’s the whole point.”

His lips twitch, a flash of amusement before it steadies again. “Maybe I’m already enjoying myself,” he says softly.

The words graze your skin like a touch. You falter for half a step, then recover, sliding onto his lap in one smooth motion. Your knees bracket his hips, your hands braced lightly on his shoulders. You lean close enough that your hair brushes his cheek, your smile wicked. “Then prove it.”

For the first time, his composure shifts. Not much, not enough to strip him of control—but enough. His hands lift, slow, deliberate, settling at your waist. Not pulling, not groping. Just holding. His thumbs press in, a subtle anchor that steadies you, grounds you.

He leans in, his voice barely above a whisper, curling into your ear like smoke. “You begged me to come back here.”

You shift against him, a practiced arch of your spine, but it feels different under his hands. They’re steady, almost clinical, but not cold. Like he’s letting you move while reminding you that he’s the one keeping you there.

“Begged is a strong word,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to meet his eyes again.

“Not really,” he says, voice low, deliberate. “You said please.”

Heat flickers in your chest—annoyance or excitement, you can’t tell. You flutter your lashes, leaning close enough your lips nearly brush his jaw. “And you finally said yes. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

His mouth curves, faint but sharp, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I said yes to a dance.”

Your fingers toy with the knot of his tie, tugging it just enough to feel resistance. “Then maybe you should stop analyzing me and enjoy the performance.”

Spencer’s eyes dip—not low, not hungry, but just to your lips. Intentional, precise. His gaze drags back up, pinning you in place. “Maybe I already am.”

Something in your stomach twists, unsteady, because it feels less like you’re leading him through a dance and more like he’s letting you perform just to see what you’ll do next.

You roll your hips once more, testing him, daring him to show something—anything—that betrays the perfect stillness he’s been keeping.

“What does it take,” you murmur, your breath skating over his jaw, “to make you lose that careful composure? To lose control?”

The question hangs heavy, molten. His thumbs shift at your waist—barely, almost imperceptible—but you feel it like a spark.

Then he smiles. Just a sliver, crooked enough to make your pulse skip. “I could ask you the same.”

Your laugh catches low in your throat, more breath than sound. “I like to be in control,” you murmur, the words drawn out like a tease, meant to sound effortless.

But Spencer tilts his head, studying you like he’s peeling back layers. “Do you?”

It shouldn’t rattle you. Shouldn’t make the words stick somewhere between your chest and your tongue. But it does. Because there’s something in the way he asks—not mocking, not disbelieving, but testing. Measuring.

You hesitate. Just long enough. The silence stretches, and you realize that in not answering, you’ve already given him the truth.

His lips curve, faint and knowing, before he exhales. “Come here.”

The command is quiet. Unadorned. And still, it pulls you forward before you’ve thought it through. You lean in, close enough to catch the faintest trace of his cologne, warm and subtle against the musk of the room.

Then his mouth finds yours.

It’s nothing like you expect—not controlled, not calculated. The kiss is messy, heated, a rush of want that crashes through all his composure. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer with sudden, startling urgency, and you nearly melt, losing the careful rhythm you’d built.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, grasping, as his tongue parts your lips and claims, demands. The air between you disappears, and the taste of him fills you—clean, warm, and dizzying.

His thumbs move along your hips in slow circles, mapping you with a touch that is intimate and deliberate. He keeps you anchored while his other hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair at the nape of your neck.

“You taste different than I expected,” he says against your mouth, a private confession. His lips find yours again, this time deeper, and the kiss is a study in contrast—feral and gentle at once, practiced restraint cracking open into heat. You answer with the same small ferocity, letting yourself fall into the rough poetry of it.

When you try to shift, to grind that practiced sway that usually gets hearts and bills to flip, he catches your chin with a finger and lifts your face so you have to meet him fully. The motion is slow, ceremonial—his soft-dom signature. “Look at me,” he breathes. You obey. You see the intelligence there, the attention that catalogues every shiver and every breath. It’s not objectifying; it’s focused care.

“Tell me,” he whispers, thumb tracing the hollow just above your collarbone, “what do you want right now?” His voice is low, coaxing, but there’s no hurry. He is giving you the space to say yes—or not—while owning the room with the way he waits.

You could lie. You’ve lied before to get tips, to keep distance, to play a role. But this—this isn’t the club anymore. The velvet walls absorb the bass; the world narrows until it’s his voice and the heat between your bodies. You let honesty slide out on a breath. “More,” you say, small and reckless.

A faint, almost approving smile ghosts his mouth. He doesn’t push; he negotiates with touch. He rises, careful, palms still steady at your waist, and guides you back until the couch swallows you both. He props one knee beside you, anchoring himself, the small movements precise as a scientist charting an experiment. Everything about him is calibrated—gentle pressure, timed releases, the artful pause that makes the next touch mean more.

His lips brush yours once more, softer this time, and then trail down, grazing the corner of your jaw, the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You gasp before you can catch it, and his mouth curves faintly against your throat, satisfied.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice low, soothing. “I want every sound.”

The lace of your bodice catches his gaze only for a heartbeat before it returns to your face, as if he’s cataloging but refusing to indulge too quickly. His hand slides up the line of your fishnets, fingertips dragging across garter straps, the lace of your panties, until he presses the heel of his palm against your cunt. The pressure is steady, teasing, enough to make your hips jerk.

“You’re soaked already,” he murmurs, and it’s not a question—it’s fact, observed like data. His thumb strokes lazily over the damp patch, circling right where you need him. “All from a kiss.”

Your laugh shatters into a gasp when he pushes the lace aside, sliding two fingers through your slick folds. He groans softly at the feel, as if he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready. “Christ. You’re dripping for me.”

Then he sinks inside. Slow, unhurried, stretching you around the length of his fingers. His palm grinds against your clit as his knuckles curl, and the sound you make borders on desperate.

“Eyes on me,” Spencer says, voice low, coaxing but firm. His free hand catches your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as his fingers fuck into you, curling just right, hitting that spot with clinical precision. “I want to see you when it hits.”

You try—you really do—but your lashes flutter, mouth parting on broken whimpers as he builds you up. The fishnets bite into the backs of your thighs as you arch, his hand anchoring you at the waist. Every drag of his fingers is measured, perfect, relentless.

“Good girl,” he whispers when you finally meet his gaze again. His mouth curves into the faintest smirk. “Look how well you take me. Tight and perfect around my fingers.”

Your hips grind into his palm, chasing the pressure on your clit. “Spencer—”

“That’s it,” he says, cutting you off with a kiss, messy and heated, tongue sliding against yours while his fingers curl harder, faster. He swallows your moans, his breath hot against your lips as he fucks you through each wave of tension building in your belly.

You break the kiss with a cry when his thumb circles your clit, merciless now, slick from your arousal. “Please—fuck, please, don’t stop.”

His voice is velvet, dangerous in its calm. “Do you want to come for me?”

“Yes—yes, God, yes—” The words detonate in your chest, scattering what little control you had left. Your thighs tremble around his wrist, nails raking his shoulders. “Please, Spencer. N-need it.”

That earns you a satisfied hum, almost approving, and his pace sharpens—fingers curling deeper, thumb rubbing harder, until your back bows off the couch.

“Come for me,” he breathes against your ear, the command shivering straight through you.

You shatter, clenching tight around his fingers, a choked cry tearing from your throat. The orgasm rips through you fast and hard, your body convulsing under his control, every nerve lit up.

He doesn’t stop. His fingers keep working you, thrusting and curling, drawing every aftershock until you’re shaking, gasping, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

“Too much?” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. He slows, not stopping completely, coaxing you down from the peak with gentle strokes. “Or can you give me more?”

Your gaze slips from his tie down to the gleam of his watch where his wrist braces against the chair. The hour makes your chest tighten—you’re still on the clock, technically—but your laugh comes out breathy, shaky, curling right up into the space between his mouth and yours.

“As much as I’d love to keep this going,” you murmur, lashes brushing down before you dare look at him again, “I am technically at work.”

The words are a tease, but your body doesn’t move away. Your heel presses into the floor, hips shifting ever so slightly beneath him, and you feel the way his arm stiffens, steadying himself instead of giving in.

Your fingers trail up his chest, slow and deliberate, until they catch on the lapel of his jacket. “If you wanted more of me, though…” you breathe, tilting your head so your perfume coils between you, “…I wouldn't mind continuing off the clock.”

Your voice is hushed but daring, like you’ve just slid a secret into his pocket.

For the first time, he laughs—quiet, quick, almost surprised. The sound breaks through his composure more than anything else has tonight. A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth before he leans down and kisses you again, firm and warm, as if to mark the words you’ve just given him.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let go of you right away. Instead, his hand skims down your ribs, slow and careful, before settling back at your waist. Then, almost clinically precise, he starts smoothing your hair back into place, straightening the strap that’s shifted on your shoulder, brushing his thumb across your swollen lower lip to wipe away the faintest smudge of gloss.

It’s oddly tender—an undoing of the chaos he just drew out of you. “You should go,” he murmurs, though his thumb lingers at your jaw a beat too long. “Before someone comes looking.”

He helps you sit up, fingers brushing wrinkles from your outfit like it’s second nature, every movement neat and meticulous. You catch him glancing once more at his watch, then back at you, eyes sharper than they should be after what just happened.

“Later,” you whisper, half-question, half-promise.

His smile deepens. “Later.”

whoswitchybabyanyway

back by popular demand lol, part 2 coming tomorrow ✨️💕

gumy-shark

nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

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trampleddoves

i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave

Spencer Reid intercepts one of your kills, leading to a late-night surprise visit in his apartment.

Pairing: afab!unsub!reader x unsub!Spencer Contents: smut, 2.6k words, DDDNE, brief blood play, they threaten each other with a gun, post prison unsub!Spencer, unsub!reader, brief mentions of violence, fingering, hand job, unprotected penetrative sex. Notes: Combined this request with this, although I took some liberties. This is not part of the Marionette, Unbound series, but it is post prison Spencer–turned unsub. The plot is mostly vibes, please don’t look too deeply into it.

He meets you officially, for the first time, in a museum. Of course it’s a museum, like some fucked up cliche. Life has been known to play games with him. Attending an exhibit on Renaissance anatomical sketches—the artistry of dissection—where he senses your presence like it’s in his blood, instinct sharpened by years of both survival and training.

Four feet to his left, there you are, studying a rendering of a heart. He inches closer, casual and aloof, wondering if his eventual proximity will get a reaction.

You remain calm. A beat passes. Two, and then,

“You’re standing too close.”

esotericclinomaniac

yesiamagenius7

Professor Reid!!!!

dr-spencer-reids-queen

One More Reason

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Forensic Researcher!Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: just a lot of fluff

Summary: Spencer accidentally sends an email to the wrong person, but it’s not a mistake when you give him insight into the case he’s actively working on. From there, you and Spencer engage in an online friendship that turns into more when you finally meet face-to-face.

Square Filled: blind date for 2023 @criminalmindsbingo (previously @spencerreidbingo)

Author’s Note: Any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

corollaim

banter & bravado

『 masterlist 』

summary: you have to go undercover as your rival’s girlfriend. relationship: spencer reid x rival!fem!reader genre: smut - MDNI! word count: 6.3k tags: definitely unrealistic undercover proceedings, banter about virginity & sex, idiots in love, dom!spencer, sub!reader, explicit sexual content - MDNI!, kissing, making out, oral (reader receiving), degradation ? (dumbification of reader), edging, thick fucking, more edging, implication of further intimacy author’s note: feeding into the post-prison dom!spencer delusions here even though i am a firm sub believer… hope y’all enjoy these freaks

based on requests one & two

If it were up to you, you’d be on an actual date tonight. Unfortunately for you, being a member of the BAU entails surrendering control of your schedule; day in and day out, you’re forced to drop everything at a moment’s notice to pursue a case. While you love your job and being on-call is rarely more than a nuisance, it’s turned into quite the headache tonight, namely because you’re currently undercover with your least favorite teammate.

Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. You don’t actually dislike Spencer Reid—quite the opposite, actually. He’s more of a frenemy than an outright nemesis, and you genuinely find engaging in sharp-tongued banter with him to be quite entertaining.

Your rivalry started practically the minute you joined the BAU; the day you arrived, you had proudly announced that your favorite book was some shitty, slutty romance novel. You had seen the stack of Penguin classics on Spencer’s desk and plucked the arbitrary title from the depths of your mind solely because you knew a fan of real literature would be insulted by your choice. Of course, he had fallen for it. You were one hundred percent bullshitting him, yet he took personal offense to your self-proclaimed favorite. Predictably, he’s been determined to prove his intellectual superiority ever since, and your apparent indifference while he does so grates his nerves to no end. Honestly, you find it hilarious that you’ve been on the team for nearly a year at this point, and he still insists that your “childish preferences are a reflection of your greater incompetence.”

Just the thought of him saying so has you threatening to giggle.

•18+ Adults Only

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stellamia-23

busy woman

spencer reid x reader

Being an FBI agent was already time consuming, being a busy female FBI agent with a pretty face? Didn't make finding a partner any easier. Question was, were you really busy or were you waiting for the right man? wc: 4.8k tags: fluff! slightly suggestive (?) author's note: i was so excited to finally attempt this idea, hopefully i executed it well! ───────────────୨ৎ────────────────

Maintaining a dating life was hard while being an FBI agent. Being an FBI agent and female? Dates could become very entertaining once you revealed your job of choice. Most men were arrogant or didn’t believe you until you pulled the badge out of your purse. Other men were very opinionated at the fact that a woman of all people would be able to join the FBI. All this meant that majority of dates fell flat, and you didn’t even concern yourself about the comments they spilled at the dinner table. You enjoyed your job, you enjoyed helping people, why should it matter what a man who worked in a cubicle crunching numbers said?

Penelope, with the help of Emily, liked to sign you up for dating websites, sometimes with or without your knowledge. Which meant that occasionally after a long day, they’d be pushing you out the door while telling you all about this ‘great guy’ they knew who was waiting to meet you at a restaurant near by. Now, you were far from desperate for a boyfriend, clearly you were doing fine getting by on your own. Yet, you recognized the way men looked at you, even during cases, no matter what area of the country you were in, a man would always come up to you with a trashy pick up line or an outright vulgar comment.

You were no celebrity, but you were quite the eyesore for someone who belonged to a group of the FBI. But, your job was more important than your dating life, clearly having no time for it anyhow. The rest of the team knew how hardworking you were, always staying later in the office filling in reports or working hard to add more to profiles. So, when they suggested to get drinks on a Friday night, you thought twice about your answer.

“Come on, one drink is not going to kill you,” Emily nudged as she sat on the edge of your desk, looking down at the way you typed quickly, your eyes still on the computer screen. “Well, that date that you and Pen sent me on last night did, I need to catch up on what I missed” the constant clacking keyboard at high speed making her ears ring.

She sighed as she looked around the office, “Even Hotch is joining us tonight, he knows we all deserve a break after that last case” she said in a persuasive tone, almost trying to inflict some fear of missing out in you. Your typing stopped abruptly, now swivelling your chair towards where she sat. “Fine, one night only” you gave in once you saw her pleading eyes, she would have persisted even if you hadn’t agreed. A smile grew on her face immediately, already on her way to go tell the rest of the team you would be joining.

Once work was officially over, you hesitantly got up from your desk and closed your computer, wanting nothing more to stay back and continue. After grabbing your coat and purse, you made your way to the glass doors of the BAU. Half the team were already standing there, laughing away at something said between Penelope and Morgan. “And there she is, the busiest lady of the century” Emily bumped your shoulder, to which you rolled your eyes at the comment. “Sorry for wanting to get my work done in advance guys” a small smirk made its way onto your face.

“She’s not wrong,” Spencer began as he came up behind you, finally arriving to the group. “Technically, it’s better to finish everything first so while you’re out, your brain focuses less on what still waits for you once you return” he explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke to which you allowed your eyes to linger on the movement. The whole group was stifling their laughs behind your back, “Exactly, thank you for understanding, Spencer” you threw a smile his way, turning around to the rest of the group once more. “Now, where’s boss one and two?” you joked with a hand on your hip.

As if they heard your question, the two finally appeared, hesitancy written all over Hotchner’s face meanwhile Rossi looked excited to talk over drinks. Finally, you made your way down the building and down the street to the local bar. You were one of the firsts in the booth, sitting in the middle with Spencer squished beside you. “Sorry, Penelope’s a little pushy” you whispered in his ear, the amount of noise around the two of you increasing. He watched the way you place your hand delicately on his arm as you continued speaking in whispers. “What do you want to drink?” You leaned back now, looking for his reaction to your question. His brows furrowed, eyes averted from your face to which you took as deep in thought.

Yet, the dim lighting was helping his case, the heat rising from his chest and up his neck at the way your hot breath had fanned his ear. He now approached you slowly, steadying himself by placing his hand on the edge of the table, bringing his own mouth to your ear, “What are you having?” You leaned back, yourself now deep in thought, you hadn’t even thought that far, your mind still on the documents that waited on your desk. “I think I’m just going to have a margarita,” your hand still rested on his arm as you answered his question straight into his ear.

The rest of the team busy, Penelope joking about doing body shots off of Morgan, JJ waiting to go ask the bartender the order, and the rest trying to convince Penelope to not do body shots off of Morgan. “I think I’ll just have a club soda,” Spencer approached you once more, knuckles white as he gripped the table, voice practically quivering at the continuous warm breath tickling his neck.

You backed away for the last time, a smile resting on your face as your glance went from him to JJ across the table. Raising slightly, now leaning over the bar’s table, your voice louder than the other conversations below you, “a margarita and a club soda!” JJ gave you a nod, walking off to the bartender to give him the table’s order.

The team now turned to you, Penelope giving you a knowing smirk with Morgan’s arm over her shoulder.“So, how was last night’s date?” She raised her eyebrows suggestively, to which you deadpanned at. “You’re not serious, that man didn’t even last through dinner! He asked me what I do for a living, I told him I work for a unit in the FBI, he thought I was trying to gaslight him.” Your brows furrowing the more you spoke, not wanting to willingly recall the previous night. “Really…?” Her face fell slightly at your words, she truly thought she had found you a good match.

Spencer beside you now speaking with Hotchner on something work related, ever the over worker, just like yourself. You held an ear out for the conversation, more interesting to you than the men who constantly thought your choice of a job was unsuitable for a woman with your looks. “Anywho, truly stop signing me up for blind dates because if one other man takes up my precious work time, I might have to set fire to your precious computer room, thanks Pen!” She gasped playfully, knowing there’s no real malice behind your words.

Thankfully for you, the drinks arrived and you were quick to grab yours. You weren’t an alcohol enjoyer usually, but a few drinks after back to back stressful cases did aid in soothing the mind. But, after shooting down a couple of margaritas, you somehow found yourself on the dance floor of the bar with the ladies of the team.

“God, do I love this song!” You said a little too excited as you swayed your hips, hitting every beat to the typical 2000s song that played through the speakers. Dancing in somewhat unison, Morgan was watching from the table with a grin growing on his face. Rossi and Hotch paying less attention, nothing new from you ladies, but would still claim responsibility over all of you like the good father figures they were. Spencer couldn’t keep his eyes off you even if he tried. And oh, did he. Morgan caught this, a deep chuckle erupted from his chest at how lovestruck Spencer seemed as he watched the way you moved.

He couldn’t even recognize the tense woman who was either always glued to her office chair or with files fused in her hand as she now danced with her hair down. Mouth slightly agape as if he couldn’t believe the sight, Morgan scooted closer to Spencer, “you’re staring” he teased as he set down his half empty glass. As if he snapped Spencer out of his gaze, he jumped slightly at the sound of the voice beside him. Red ears gave him away, clearly he had been caught as if he thought he wasn’t being obvious.

“Whoever ends up with that one is a lucky man,” Morgan continued almost to get more of a response out of the man sitting next to him. “If only she’d take the time to really find a guy, she’s always working late. It’s like that cubicle is her second home.” He took a swig of his drink, watching the way Spencer seemed to want to speak up on your behalf, almost as if to say “what’s so wrong with being dedicated to your work?” Morgan knew Spencer well enough to know he thought of you as highly intelligent and responsible.

Out of the group, you always gravitated towards the so-called ‘pretty boy’ of their team. Almost two peas in a pod, you constantly had both your noses buried in files, and got along splendidly as he had observed from the way you spoke together during the plane rides to cases in other states. Penelope and Emily seemed to be in the dark about how he felt about you, Morgan keeping his observations to himself. He would’ve like to tease Spencer more about it, having the whole team pestering him to the point where he would have had enough and out right tell you how he felt.

“Now, Penelope seems to think she’s uninterested in dating, but from what I’ve seen, that girl’s waiting for the right man to come along” Spencer caught the glimmer in Morgan’s eye, almost as if to hint at something the former didn’t know. He cleared his throat, looking into his own glass of clear liquid, gulping at the thoughts that roamed in his brain unwillingly.

Did he wish he had a chance with you? Of course, you were truly a sight for sore eyes and you were such a joy to be around once he finally got past your shyness. He enjoyed nothing more than your talks in the early morning when the office was still somewhat empty, handing over a cup of coffee just the way you liked it that he happened to have time to pick up.

You were always thankful for how observant he was with you. He knew you through and through, the way you took your coffee, the snacks you liked from the vending machine and how you constantly had your files organized in alphabetical order, even as they laid on your desk waiting to be reviewed.

So, now as he sat in the bar’s booth looking at the way you enjoyed yourself on the dance floor. Hair flying free, hips swaying, drink still in hand and raised high as you dipped slightly in your kitten heels, he had never seen a more beautiful sight. The song ended too quickly much to his chagrin, now making room for you to sit back down next to him as you approached the table. A stumble in your step and giggles pouring out of your lips indicated the amount of alcohol you had that night, much more than your typical dosage.

“God, that was so much fun!” You exclaimed, setting your empty glass down on the table a little too hard. The other ladies also seemed a little dazed, leaning on one another as you now leaned your body towards Spencer. “Why can’t more men take me out dancing? Now, this is my kind of date” you complained in Penelope’s direction which she answered in a cackle, setting you off to laugh alongside her.

He welcomed the warmth that was now rubbing up against him, the scent of your shampoo still lingering. Hotchner and Rossi had already left due to the late hour, the booth now containing more room than there was initially. Yet, you still kept yourself close to Spencer, like two magnets. Or at least that was what Morgan was thinking as he watched the sight before his eyes. Spencer wanting nothing more than to evaporate into thin air at that very moment due to the way Morgan was staring, almost as if to say “see? she wants you pretty boy.” Which meant nothing to him because you were drunk and clearly not in the right state of mind to be intentionally leaning up against him.

And now somehow, you ended up in the passenger seat of Spencer’s car. The radio was playing low, some classical music that must have been coming from a CD he inserted earlier in the day. Almost acting as an anchor for him to keep his head steady on his shoulders and not look at you beside him. As he got in the car earlier, he watched the way the moonlight shined on your face, the way your lips glistened due to the copious amount of chapstick you consistently applied, even while drunk.

The peak of the song brought him back to the road, he was still in the midst of driving after all. It’s not the first time he had brought you back, the last time after a long case trip where you had forgotten your car keys in the already locked office. You brought him back to the moment as you finally spoke up, the sounds of your shifting in the seat alerting him that you were in fact not sleeping.

“Men truly suck, you know?” Your words were slurred slightly, head leaning against the rest looking in his direction. Your eyes trailed along his profile, from his forehead to the slope of his nose, to his lip until the tip of his chin. Until now, you never really allowed yourself to look at him so directly. He didn’t answer your question, almost sounding rhetorical because he already knew the answer. Yes.

“Even the ones that I like,” you paused for a beat, taking a large breath “they don’t notice that I like them and you would think they would, right? I mean look at me,” you huffed. He was clearly trying not to. Especially with how you were now crossing your arms over your chest, accentuating your figure and the curve of your breasts in your tight office blouse even in the dim lighting of the night. He cleared his throat, eyes darting back to what mattered. Driving. The road.

You continued to ramble, ignorant to the thoughts swirling in his mind, “but he’s so completely oblivious and I’m tired of it” And he paused at your use of a pronoun, luckily arriving at a stop sign. The street was deserted, so he stayed a second longer than he needed to.

“I didn’t know you had your eye on someone,” he gulped, swallowing his feelings down. Even if it was obvious through the tone of his voice, you clearly didn’t acknowledge it in your drunken state. Of course you had found someone you liked. Penelope and Emily with their never ending blind dates were bound to work one day. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, reminding him back to how he gripped the table in the bar, ensuring to not lay a hand on you like you had him. He still can feel the ghost of a touch on his arm, the way your hot breath tickled his neck as you whispered ever so gently.

Sadly, he didn’t get an answer in response because he had now arrived at your front door. He quickly parked then ran across to open your door, wanting to help you up out of the passenger seat safely. At all the thoughts that swarmed his head, he attempted to shake them away. He didn’t get jealous. He was calm and cool-headed. As he grabbed your wrists, he pulled you up and out of the car. Took you a few seconds to balance onto your feet, still wobbling as he closed the car door behind you. “Where are your keys?” He asked as he kept a close arm on the middle of your back faintly.

You suddenly lifted your arms after walking up the front steps of your home. “Search me” he recognized the tone in your voice. You were teasing him even in your drunken stupor. “Real funny,” your actions enabling a smirk on his face, now illuminated by your porch light. You fluttered your arms, yet he watched the look on your own face. The playful smile that rested on your lips matched the arch of your brow.

He saw you in such a different light earlier, carefree and nowhere near like the overworking girl in the cubicle next to him. But now, at the sight of you being playful with a hint of vulnerability to your actions, he liked this version the most. Clearly showing signs of trust towards him, you wanted him to take the time to search you. He couldn’t tell if you would do this with anyone else, and he knows he’ll never know the answer to that question either.

Yet, he followed your instructions regardless, delicate hands passing down your arms through the pockets of your coat. The action itself bringing him closer to you, now looming over you as his fingers dug through the pockets, eyes staring into yours making the process seem more intimate than it truly was.

Before he knew it, you leaned forward just barely and he couldn’t tell if it was due to the moment or the fact that you were still off balance. Yet, he still wouldn’t allow himself for this to be the moment where he met your lips for the first time. He would feel as though he took advantage of you, despite you being the one to approach him first. He just couldn’t do that to you.

He backed away, hands now resting on your shoulders to stop your action before you regretted it the next morning. Well, that’s if you’d even remember tonight. You narrowed your eyes at the action, not really having any awareness of what you’re doing in the current moment. “Did you find my keys?” You mumbled, body leaning against the hold he continued to have on you. Freeing one hand, he jingled the keys in front of you with the other, a tight-lipped smile on his face.

He opened your front door, leading you inside safely and then up to your bed. You practically dived into the mess of sheets, heels falling off as you kicked your legs in a childish manner. Spencer had never truly entered your room. Sure, he’s been to your house when you hosted for the group every so often.

You were busy, but you never seemed too busy for your fellow teammates. Somehow always making time to invite them over for holidays, yet still grumbled about all the work the following week would present you with at the dinner table.

He admired the paintings hung on your wall, he didn’t peg you for the art collector type. The faint glow of your bedside lamp illuminated your already sleeping figure, he stared at the way your hair spread across the pillow. Tucking your legs underneath your covers, he then closed the light and stood there for a moment.

Almost as if a thought that he didn’t want to follow through with had occurred in his mind, he quickly glanced away from you. He made his way downstairs and locked the door behind him, driving away with warmth spreading through his chest as he relived the moments of tonight.

The next morning was extremely unpleasant. The drive to the BAU was filled with traffic, the pounding headache had lasted throughout the entire ride, and the sun was too bright for a morning like the one you were having. Grumbling to yourself as you walked to your cubicle, for once you were annoyed with the amount of work that rested on your desk. The other girls of the group were in the kitchen, you could hear the collective groaning from where you put your bag down.

“Great, so it’s not just me who feels like exploding?” You voiced as you rubbed your forehead, your free hand grabbing your mug from the cupboard to finally have your morning coffee. In unison, you all winced at how loud the cupboard closed. Morgan walked over from behind, a large grin on his face like he just won the prized pony.

Penelope groaned, “it’s not funny, mister” then took a sip of her coffee. “Oh, but it is babygirl, you should’ve seen you ladies dancing last night” a chuckle left his lips as he held his own warm mug in his hands. Your eyes widened, “there’s no way that’s true…” you stated as you poured milk into your coffee, the dark turning a now milky brown. He gave you a curt nod, that smug smile still on his face.

“Please tell me we didn’t do anything embarrassing…” you lamented, your head down in defeat as you awaited to hear what he had to say. “You girls were wild, dancing on tables, twirling around with your fruity drinks in your hands, it was a crazy sight” he began as Spencer approached. You looked over to him now, eyes practically pleading. “Please tell me what he just said isn’t true,” to which Morgan gave Spencer a little nudge.

“It isn’t true, but there was a lot of dancing involved” he answered with his hands in his pockets, unsure why Morgan was now giving him a look. Emily sighed like her dignity was saved, hand on her chest as she held a relieved look on her face. With your mug in hand, you walked over to your cubicle, not wanted to hear more about what happened the previous night.

Spencer eventually arrived back to his own desk which was situated beside yours, his own steaming mug resting on a coaster. Instead of sitting down and getting back to work, he came to stand next to you. “You stated that you were sick of men,” he began which startled you, still not fully there mentally.

“Excuse me?” You raised your brows, not understanding where this was coming from. Not that the words he uttered were shocking, but more the lack of context at his remark. He nervously crossed his arms in front of his chest. “When I drove you home, but the whole night if I’m being honest” he continued, finally clueing you into what transpired last night.

You shook your head, “wait- you drove me home last night?” the grip on your mug tightening as you furrowed your brows. His eyes widened, you really didn’t remember much from the previous night. “Oh… yeah you said something about some guy you had your eye on not noticing your advances” he paused for a second, almost trying to recall your exact words as if he didn’t have an eidetic memory. “You said that even the ones you want to notice you don’t, you seemed pretty bummed… despite being obviously pretty buzzed.”

You groaned, head hitting the back of your chair as you looked up to the dull ceiling. “Yeah… well, I guess that’s just men” the sigh that left you was one of frustration, he watched the way you seemed to be in surrender. “I have no doubt someone will eventually be the right guy, you’re just too good for all of us” he had let out a small laugh, nervous but coming off as dry. Your eyes trailed to his face, the anxious expression that was written all over it as you studied his features.

Suddenly, you remembered doing the same action the night before in the passenger seat of his car. “I didn’t know you had your eye on someone,” the words now ringing in your head. Had he truly not noticed the way you acted around him? Sure, you weren’t all over him at every given moment. But he must have noticed how different you were around him than around the others, right?

He continued to talk about the conversations that transpired in the bar’s booth, but you began to tune him out as your eyes narrowed. You followed his movements, the way his hands mimicked the words he was saying, and the tilt of his head as he spoke. You gulped, just now getting another flashback to the way his hands searched your jacket prompted by you even though you would never be that forward in a million years.

You always had the mindset of work coming first. If there was free time, there was more work to be done, even if that was outside of the office. So, when Penelope and Emily first approached you with a blind date you begrudgingly gave it a try, already having it in your mind that it was a waste of time. And you were right. But not only because the man was as dull as they came, but you already had your heart set on someone who understood the workload and stress of the job.

Never having the courage to act on it though, the brief moments of your racing heart was the only thing you allowed yourself to enjoy in your few moments of break. You never permitted yourself to more than just those few fleeting seconds, was that why he never noticed? It was an unconventional way, you knew that. But, you had hoped it would seem a little more noticeable than it actually was.

“Spencer,” you spoke up, stopping him mid sentence. You mustered up the courage to put a hand on his where he sat on the edge of your desk. “You know,” you began, slightly tremble in your voice despite the extreme amount of confidence flowing through your system at the very moment. “For you, I’m never busy” you looked up into his eyes, searching for an understanding to what you’re attempting to say. “You’re the exception from my own rules, got it?” The slight tilt of your head is when it finally clicked in his head, almost as if it put an emphasis on your words.

Were you actually trying to let him know that you’d rather be with him over engulfing yourself in the multiple files that scattered your desk? Hinting that you would leave the busy life you’ve built for yourself to spend time with him? He searched your eyes, noticing the way your brows furrowed and the small smile that appeared on your face as he explored your features. It was like deciphering a code of some sort, trying to understand the meaning behind your wording.

You weren’t one to be outright bold, he knew that. He knew you. Your advances for anything were timid and reserved, just like yourself. So, now that he cracked the code of you, what was he going to respond? He wanted it to be obvious to you in a way that only the two of you would understand.

“You’re willing to accommodate for me?” A smirk made its way onto his face, accentuating the weight of his words. The smile on your lips grew at his comprehension. Now placing your hand in his, the same one from moments before, he intertwined your fingers discreetly. “Well, I’m glad you can make room for me in your busy schedule” he voiced, his thumb caressing the back of your hand as if it was already second nature.

You gulped at the gesture, never allowing yourself to feel more than this. Sure, you’ve dreamed of it, but only during the allotted hour of break you had scheduled daily during work. Now, those fantasies can be a reality with him at your side, maybe eventually slowly shedding that constantly occupied mindset as time passes on.

“Now, I need you to tell me what other stupid things I did last night” you leaned back into your chair as you continued to share warmth through your intertwined hands. “You sure you have time?” His own face now concerned, you had just sat down to begin the day. You shrugged, “I’ve got time” your smile now beaming in his direction, allowing yourself to relax and be in the moment. Those color coded files can wait another fifteen minutes.

callsign-coolsquirrel

🍪

Spencer wants to sell the most cookies for his daughters troop cause its for a good cause!! and cause hes slightly competitive and he knows just who to haggle :D

Patreon members had early access to this post,theres also 50+ illustrations over there and a poll that's currently out for the next artwork 👀

luvlyk-13

“my wife?”

spencer reid x wife!reader

summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew

The bullpen is louder than usual.

A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.

“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”

Emily snorts. “Seconded.”

“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.

Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.

Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”

Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.

“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”

Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”

Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.

“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”

Silence.

Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.

The kind where the air changes.

Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.

“…Your what?” he asks carefully.

Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”

Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”

Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”

“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”

Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”

Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”

Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”

“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”

“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”

Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”

“How?” Morgan practically shouts.

Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”

All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.

Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”

Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”

Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”

Spencer’s expression shifts immediately. Softens almost.

Like someone turned down all his sharp edges.

“Her name is Y/N.”

The way he says it makes the room feel smaller somehow. More intimate.

JJ tilts her head. “You’ve never mentioned her.”

Spencer hesitates.

And for the first time, he looks a little unsure, “I… didn’t think it was relevant to work.”

Morgan stares at him. “Reid, we share everything here.”

Spencer’s voice goes quiet but steady. “Not everything.”

There’s weight there.

Hotch, who’s been silent this entire time, studies him carefully. “She’s not in the Bureau.”

“No,” Spencer says quickly. “She’s not. She’s… normal. Civilian.”

Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”

Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”

Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”

Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”

“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.

Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.

“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”

Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

Spencer goes quiet for a moment.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.

“Because this job takes things.”

The room stills.

“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”

Emily’s expression softens.

Spencer continues.

“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”

JJ’s eyes glisten.

“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”

Morgan shifts, quieter now.

“And when I—”

Spencer stops.

The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.

His jaw tightens.

“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”

Emily inhales slowly.

Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”

Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.

“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”

JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.

Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”

His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”

The room is completely silent.

Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”

That lands harder than expected.

Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.

Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”

Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”

Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”

Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”

There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.

“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”

His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”

JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”

Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”

Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”

Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”

Spencer looks genuinely confused again.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

And there it is, the quiet confidence.

He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.

Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”

Spencer stiffens instantly, “That seems unnecessary.”

“Oh no,” JJ says. “Very necessary.”

Hotch allows the smallest hint of amusement. “Agent Reid, you’ve withheld critical information from your team.”

Spencer sighs. “It wasn’t critical.”

Morgan claps him on the shoulder. “You being married is very critical, pretty boy.”

Spencer checks his watch again, panic creeping in slightly, “I really do have to go. She made lasagna tonight.”

Morgan groans. “You’re leaving us for lasagna?”

Spencer looks at him like he’s stupid, “Yes.”

The team bursts into laughter.

Spencer gathers his bag, still mildly baffled by their reaction.

As he heads toward the elevator, Emily calls after him, “Tell your wife we want to meet her!”

Spencer pauses and turns slightly.

And there’s the softest smile on his face.

“I’ll ask her if she’s comfortable with that.”

And then he’s gone.

—

Later that night, Spencer unlocks the door to your apartment quietly.

The smell of garlic and tomato sauce greets him immediately.

You appear in the kitchen doorway in his oversized sweater, hair slightly messy, smile automatic when you see him.

“You’re home.”

Spencer exhales like the world just unclenched.

You step into him, arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation and he practically melts instantly. Every sharp edge gone.

“Long case?” you murmur against his chest.

He nods, pressing his cheek to the top of your head.

“I accidentally told the team about you.”

You pull back slightly. “You what?”

“They seemed… surprised.”

You blink. “Spence, you never told them?”

“I assumed they knew.”

You laugh softly. “Oh my God.”

He looks sheepish for exactly half a second before he recovers, “They want to meet you.”

You study him gently. “Are you okay with that?”

Spencer looks at you. Really looks at you.

“You are the best thing in my life,” he says simply. “I don’t mind them knowing that.”

Your expression softens completely.

You reach up, cupping his face, “I’m proud to be your wife.”

His eyes warm immediately, “And I’m proud to be your husband.”

He leans down, kissing you slow and steady, not desperate, not rushed. Safe.

Because no matter what the job throws at him. No matter who questions it. He always comes home to you.

And now? The team finally knows he has something worth protecting.

fal-con

get your badge everyone

Guys I think I’m going insane…

#at the same time #spencerreidsglasses #im going insane #need that so bad

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Five more minutes

— Spencer Reid by no means is a morning person, so when you are determined to abandon the comfort of the bed and start the day earlier, he isn't very happy about it

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: none, fluff wc:368

Spencer's breath ghosted over the sensative skin of your neck, and as tempting as it was to cave in to the pleading of his soft brown eyes, you lightly swatted his shoulder mumbling a quiet protest.

The grey-ish green blanket slid down as he rolled onto his side of the bed, grumbling under his breath—not actually annoyned, but rather to make his discontentment with your decisions known.

"Just five more minutes," he whined, looking up at you with the best puppy-dog eyes he could master at such an ungodly hour/through a thick fog of sleep.

"Nope," you chuckled, playfully pinching his side. Spencer bucked away with a startled laugh, but before you could go in for more, his hand shot out. His fingers clamped around your wrist, yanking you flush against him.

"No—" you protested, feet kicking as you tried to wiggle out of his reach. It was no use, you were alredy a tangled mess. With your back pressed to his chest, his arms locked you and a leg hooked over your hip—you were trapped. "No, Spence—"

"Hey," he hummed, seemingly unfazed by your whining. His lips trailed down the side of your face, peppering your skin with soft, lazily kisses. Any protest you could possibly have died in your throat. You made another weak attempt to break free, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he won just yet.

But the way you melted further into him with every gentle press of his lips was a clear giveaway.

You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes, but when you muttured a quiet "Hey," under you breath, any trace of real annoynce had already vanished—not that there was much to begin with.

"Five more minutes," Spencer pleaded in such a sweet tone of voice, you stood no chance. With a groan so heavy one could think think you were making a great sacrifice, you slumped back against him, tugging the duvet higher around you both.

"Just five more," you warned, but your eyelids were already growing heavier.

"Mhm," his nose brushed against your hair, inhaling the sweet strawberry scent of your shampoo as he tried to suspend a smirk. "that's all I'm asking for."

spencilweidblog

𝒊 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒎

a/n: this is @mariposayl’s coffee order for my 100 follower special and i looooove!!! tysm for the request!! your receipt is at the bottom :))

summary: you want spencer to show you how much he wants you, and accidentally push it too far.

content warnings: spencer reid x fem!reader, drinking, alcohol, intoxication, reader is kinda flirting on purpose, jealousyyyy, maybe a lil eensy weensy suggestive at the end if you squint

Spencer Reid does not get jealous. Like, ever.

For a long time, it hadn’t bothered you. In fact, it was the opposite— you spent time bragging to your friends about how he wasn’t controlling like most men, how he didn’t care what you wore or who you went out with. It was freeing. It was healthy.

Recently, however, Spencer had become a lot busier. Cases were constantly stealing him away from you. His phone ringing had become regular background noise to your time spent together. He wasn’t necessarily distant, but less time together sure made it feel that way.

When he invited you out to drinks with the team one night, you happily accepted. You enjoyed his coworkers, and his company. You put on one of your favorite outfits, the kind that always got you compliments from the drunk girls in the bathroom.

“You look great,” Spencer smiled when you greeted him at the door.

“Thanks!” You grinned, giving a little twirl so he could appreciate the whole outfit.

He drove you to the bar, asking about your day on the ride there. He likely wouldn’t be drinking, so he always offered to serve as a designated driver for you.

His teammates greeted you as you arrived. They appeared to have started without the both of you, with Garcia nearly knocking you over as she ran to embrace you.

“Hello, my darling angel!” She gushed, pulling you into a hug once she got her footing back. “Oh, I have missed you! I’m so glad you’re hanging out with us tonight!”

“I missed you guys too.” You laughed. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”

“Oh, we already ordered you one!” Garcia smiled, pulling you over to the table with Spencer in tow. “You ordered it last time and said you loved it, so I figured we’d start you off!”

“You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” You took your seat, taking a sip of your drink.

It was easy to lose track of time when talking to them, and before you knew it, Emily was presenting you with a tray of shots.

“Whoa, what is this?” You asked, eyeing the liquid warily.

“Tequila.” Emily said with terrifying calm.

“Oh, I don’t do tequila.” You waved a hand in dismissal.

“You do tonight!” She placed a shot in front of everyone (including you), and with a quick clink and a “cheers” from the group, you knocked back the burning liquid.

“Ugh,” you groaned after, wiping your mouth. “I’m definitely going to feel this tomorrow.”

“Good thing it’s Saturday.” Morgan replied, grinning.

A few more drinks (and potentially a few shots) later, you were really feeling it. Enough that when a really good song came on and Garcia gasped, you followed her to the dance floor with little to no hesitation.

You look over your shoulder as you go, wanting to shoot a smile at your boyfriend. He isn’t even watching you walk away. Rather, he seems deeply absorbed in a conversation with Rossi.

You feel the ghost of a frown cross your face. You felt really pretty tonight. You had done your makeup, fixed your hair up. Not wanting to look like you were trying too hard but still feeling beautiful. Spencer just seemed… comfortable. Like he was too used to you.

That’s probably why when a man sidled up beside you on the dance floor, you didn’t move away.

You were watching Emily and Garcia belt the lyrics of the newest song and dance at each other, throwing your head back in laughter when you noticed him. Not touching you, just standing beside you. Casual. Friendly.

“You’re way too pretty to be standing on the edge.” He says offhandedly.

You still for a moment. But you’re just warm enough from the tequila, and Spencer still isn’t looking at you, and for once, just for a second, you feel admired. Pretty.

“Is that so?” You respond, your words slurring just slightly.

He grins. Not sleazy. Just… interested. “Definitely.”

Spencer isn’t watching at first. He’s still deep in a one-sided conversation about the effects of alcohol on the autonomic nervous system when Morgan nudges him. “Uh, Reid.”

Spencer looks up.

He sees you, looking radiant as ever, laughing and smiling at another man on the dance floor. He watches you push your hair back.

He watches.

Because he trusts you. He’s waiting for you to shut it down. But after the third time the man leans in just a little too close to shout over the music and you let him, he feels heat flare in his gut.

His eyes never leave you the entire time he’s walking over. You turn over your shoulder mid-laugh and see him, and your smile drops.

He settles a hand on your waist. “She’s with me.”

You can feel how bluntly he says it. He can’t even be angry with the guy. You never told him otherwise.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t know.” The guy backs off.

You can’t exactly read his expression. Is he angry? Disappointed? Annoyed?

“I think you’ve had enough. We should get you home.” He says, his voice steady. Neutral.

You don’t object. You feel shame forming deep in the pit of your stomach.

You wave a quick goodbye to his coworkers, forcing a small smile as you walk out into the cool night air. You keep looking at Spencer, trying to gauge him. You can’t.

The drive home is miserable. You feel bad. Spencer isn’t talking, which is unusual for him. The road is blurry and your body feels like it’s suspended in the air when you hit bumps in the road, the alcohol weighing on you in the stillness.

Spencer walks you to your door, ever the gentleman. You pause with your hand on the doorknob, turning to look up at him. “Spence…”

He finally looks at you, and now you can see it. He’s hurt.

“Go inside. Get some rest. We can talk when you’re sober.”

“Spencer.”

“Don’t.” There’s a sharpness in his voice that makes you pull back a little.

You blink at him. The alcohol makes everything slower, heavier, but not enough to dull the look on his face.

“You’re mad at me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not mad.” Too quick.

You swallow. “Then what are you?”

He exhales through his nose. Looks away. Looks back at you.

“You didn’t tell him.”

The words are simple. Controlled. That’s what makes them land so hard.

“I—” You frown. “I was going to.”

“But you didn’t.”

The silence between you stretches.

You hate that he’s being calm. You almost wish he would yell. This careful precision feels worse.

“It was just talking,” you say. Defensive now. “He didn’t even—”

“He was flirting with you.”

Your breath catches.

Spencer steps back half an inch, like even standing close to you right now is too much.

“I waited,” he says quietly. “I didn’t interrupt. I trusted that you would handle it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you insist. And you didn’t. You know you didn’t.

He nods once. “I know.”

That’s the worst part. He believes you.

“I just… don’t understand why you let him think he had a chance.” He pauses, and you can see something flicker underneath the disappointment. “Did you want him to?”

There it is.

Not jealousy. Confusion. Hurt.

“No.” You say quietly.

“Then why?”

The alcohol loosens your tongue before your pride can stop you.

“Because you never care.”

The words hang between you.

Spencer stills completely. “What?”

“You never care,” you repeat, softer now, tears threatening for reasons you don’t fully understand. “You never get jealous. You never look at me like you’re afraid someone might take me.”

His jaw tightens. “I trust you.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I know that. And I love that about you. But sometimes I want you to—” You stop, frustrated. “I don’t know. Want me.”

The vulnerability sobers you more than the cold air.

“You barely looked at me tonight.” You continue, voice trembling. “And I just… I felt invisible.”

The hurt on his face shifts into something deeper. Realization. Guilt.

“You think I don’t want you?” His voice is lower now. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just… raw.

You shake your head helplessly. “I don’t know what you feel anymore. You’re always gone. Your phone is always ringing. I feel like I’m just… slotted in when there’s space.”

Spencer runs a hand through his hair— a tell. He’s unraveling.

“I know I’ve been really busy at work,” he admits quietly. “And I thought bringing you tonight was me choosing you. I thought being there was enough.”

“It was,” you say quickly. “I just… I wanted you to look at me like you couldn’t stand the idea of someone else touching me.”

There’s a long silence. You’re suddenly all too aware that you’re having this conversation outside your door, where others could hear. You have goosebumps from the cool air.

“You think I could stand it?” His voice cracks just slightly. “You have no idea how difficult it was to stay at that table.”

Your breath stutters.

“I didn’t want to be possessive,” he continues. “I didn’t want to embarrass you. I didn’t want to be the kind of man who assumes you need defending.”

“I don’t,” you say immediately.

“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”

The air shifts. It’s less tense now. More… charged.

He steps closer. “I don’t get jealous because I respect you. Because I trust you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel when someone looks at you like that.”

Your heart is pounding.

“I waited for you to shut it down,” he says quietly. “And when you didn’t, I started wondering why.”

You think somewhere in the back of your head, through the thick fog, that you may just be the worst girlfriend there ever was.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. And you mean it. Not because you danced. Not because you spoke to someone. But because you underestimated how much he feels.

He studies your face for a long moment.

“I love you. But I wish you would’ve just told me you’ve been feeling neglected.”

You chew your lip. “I just needed to know you still—”

He steps into you fully now. Hands finding your waist again. Firmer than before. Not angry. Grounded.

“And for the record,” he adds, thumb pressing into your hip slightly, “if he had touched you, I would not have stayed calm.”

Your stomach flips.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “That almost sounds like jealousy.”

He huffs the faintest laugh.

“It’s not jealousy,” he says. “It’s that I am very aware of what I have.” A pause. “And I don’t take that lightly.”

He kisses your forehead first. Gentle.

Then your mouth— slower, deeper, and very, very intentional.

Not to prove anything.

Just to remind you.

And when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours.

“I’m sorry I made you feel unwanted.” He murmurs.

“I’m sorry I didn’t shut that guy down.” You reply.

“I can’t blame him.” He smiles softly. “You look incredible tonight.”

You grin in spite of yourself, the heaviness lifting.

“Now, let’s get you in bed. You are going to need some rest and recovery from all that tequila.” He reaches around you, opening the door and ushering you inside.

“Don’t be dramatic.” You roll your eyes.

“You had four shots.”

“Did not!”

“Yeah, and you did the fourth one off of Emily.”

“…Just bring me some Advil.”

———————————————

𝙲𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝙴 𝙾𝚁𝙳𝙴𝚁 #02

𝙸𝚃𝙴𝙼𝚂:

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙲𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 ............. 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝

𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 ... 𝙹𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚃𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎

𝙼𝚊𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎…. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙

𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 ..... 𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝙴𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

———————————————

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