Spencer Reid - Blog Posts

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overheard — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: a girl flirts with spencer, leading him to tell her that he has a girlfriend, not realizing that garcia is right behind him. content warnings: secret relationship , they're at a bar , girl hitting on spencer a/n: hiii !! can u tell i love the secret relationship trope by now ? bc i do also theres a small tiny pride and prejudice reference if anyone catches it :')

“Do you want anything to drink?” Spencer asked, his voice gentle as his hand rested on your thigh beneath the table. His fingers squeezed slightly.

The two of you sat in a dimly lit booth at the bar, a casual night out with the team.

You turned your head slightly, considering. “I’ll take a soda,” you said with a soft smile. 

Spencer nodded, his thumb brushing over your thigh absentmindedly before he reluctantly pulled away, pushing himself up from the booth. You could see it—the slight hesitation.

The urge to press a kiss to your temple before he left was almost unbearable. It would be so easy—too easy—to forget where you were, who was around. But he caught himself just in time, swallowing down the impulse with a tight-lipped smile instead. 

Your eyes met his knowingly, before turning back to JJ and Garcia.

Spencer made his way to the bar, his hands flexing open and closed at his sides as if chasing the phantom sensation of your warmth. He exhaled slowly.

The bar was busy, and it took a moment to catch a bartender’s attention. As he waited, his gaze flickered to the side, and that’s when he noticed her—a woman nursing an almost-empty glass, her eyes fixed on him. 

Spencer tensed, his fingers tapping against the counter.He quickly averted his gaze, directing it back toward the bar, subtly shifting his weight in discomfort.

Finally, a bartender stepped in front of him. “What can I get you?” 

Spencer blinked, clearing his throat. “Uh—two sodas, please.” 

The bartender nodded. As Spencer waited, his eyes drifted back to you. You were giggling at something JJ had said, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and the sight sent a warmth through his chest. He smiled softly to himself before turning his attention back to the bartender—who was now deeply engaged in a conversation with another customer. 

Spencer exhaled slowly, realizing he might be stuck here for a while. His fingers tapped lightly against the counter.

That’s when someone suddenly slid into the empty barstool beside him. He turned his head slightly, only to see the woman from earlier—the one he had accidentally made eye contact with. 

“Hi,” she greeted, flashing him a wide smile. 

“Hi?” Spencer responded, his tone more questioning than anything else. 

“Haven’t seen you here before,” she remarked, taking a slow sip from her drink, her gaze lingering on him through long lashes. 

Spencer hesitated, his brain momentarily scrambling for a polite but distant response. “Uh… yeah, I don’t come here often,” he finally said, shifting uncomfortably. He glanced at the bartender again, who was now fully engrossed in his conversation and seemingly in no rush to get him the sodas. 

“You should,” the woman said, her smile widening. 

Spencer swallowed, his shoulders tensing. Social cues weren’t exactly his strong suit, but even he could pick up on this one.

The way she leaned in slightly, the way her eyes remained locked on him—it was clear she wasn’t just making small talk. 

His fingers flexed at his side, an unconscious reaction to the absence of your touch. He didn’t like this. Because the only person he wanted to be sitting next to right now was still at the booth, completely unaware of this interaction. 

Her hand drifted closer to his on the counter, fingers brushing just barely against his own. Spencer immediately pulled his hand back, hoping she’d take the hint.

But she was too drunk to register it as rejection—if anything, she barely seemed to notice. 

He exhaled through his nose, his patience thinning. His eyes flicked back toward you, hoping—praying—you’d look over so he could silently plead for an out. But you were still deep in conversation, completely unaware of his growing discomfort. 

“What's your name?” the woman asked, her voice slightly slurred, her smile lazy as she leaned in a little closer. 

Spencer hesitated, tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently. “I, uh—I’m Spencer,” he mumbled, keeping his voice polite but distant.

He didn’t return the question. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how to extract himself from the conversation without causing a scene. Direct confrontation wasn’t really his style—he much preferred logical exits.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much logic in dealing with an overly persistent drunk woman at a bar. 

Thankfully, just then, the bartender finally stopped talking and turned toward him. Spencer wasted no time making himself known. 

“Hi, excuse me,” he said. His urgency must have been apparent because the bartender immediately nodded. 

“Right, sorry about that,” he said, quickly grabbing two sodas and setting them on the counter. 

“Thanks,” Spencer muttered, relieved. He grabbed the drinks, ready to make a quick escape, but just as he turned, he felt it—her hand wrapping lightly around his own. 

His entire body tensed. His eyes shot down to where her fingers clung to his, and then slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. 

“You’re cute,” she giggled, her grip lingering. 

Spencer’s breath hitched in his throat, an overwhelming discomfort settling in his chest, as he removed his hand from her grip. He had officially had enough. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even think twice. 

“Look, I’m just here to grab two sodas for me and my girlfriend,” he blurted, shifting the drinks slightly to emphasize his point. 

Spencer always felt a warmth in his chest when he said that word—girlfriend. Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe it. But right now, that feeling didn’t even have a chance to settle, because the moment the words left his mouth, a loud, dramatic gasp sounded from behind him. 

His stomach dropped. 

No… No, no, no… 

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if that would somehow reverse time or make what just happened disappear. But deep down, he already knew. 

He turned around hesitantly, almost like he was afraid of what he’d see. And there she was. 

Penelope Garcia. 

Mouth open, eyes impossibly wide, practically vibrating with the weight of this newfound information. 

“Garcia, wait—no—” Spencer started, panic rising in his voice. 

But it was too late. She gasped again, spun on her heel, and bolted toward the table. 

Spencer stood frozen, still clutching the two sodas, staring after her in absolute horror. He didn’t even care that the woman at the bar had pouted and walked away—his attention was solely on the impending disaster. 

At the booth, you were mid-conversation when you suddenly heard someone shout your name. Startled, you turned, only to find Garcia standing in front of you, hands on her hips, eyes ablaze with betrayal. 

“How dare you?” she demanded. 

You blinked, glancing at JJ, who looked just as confused as you. “What—?” 

But you didn’t even get to finish the sentence. 

“How could you not tell me you are dating our boy genius?” she exclaimed, her voice full of dramatics, as if you had just personally wounded her. 

“What?” JJ blurted, her straw slipping from her lips and falling into her drink. 

“Sweetheart, repeat what you just said,” Derek said, grinning so wide, clearly enjoying every second of this. Rossi, sitting beside him, raised an intrigued eyebrow. 

And then, from behind Garcia, Spencer slowly came into view. 

He stopped a few feet away, standing awkwardly with the sodas still in his hands, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

You stared at him. 

He stared back. 

He was red. His ears, his cheeks—blushing terribly, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor. 

“Oh. My. God,” Garcia whisper-yelled, her hands flying up to her mouth as realization fully settled in. “It’s true! Oh, my God! How long?” 

Derek was cackling. JJ still looked like she was buffering. Rossi sipped his drink, clearly entertained. 

Spencer let out a long, slow sigh.

“Well,” he muttered, avoiding everyone’s eyes, “so much for keeping it a secret.” 

Spencer carefully maneuvered around Garcia, who was still watching him like a hawk, her arms crossed as if she were about to interrogate him. He set the sodas down on the table before cautiously sliding into the booth next to you, his movements stiff with embarrassment. 

“What on earth did you say?” you hissed under your breath, leaning in slightly as the entire team erupted into overlapping chatter around you. 

“Nothing!” Spencer insisted, though his voice cracked slightly. He swallowed, shifting awkwardly. “I just… a girl was flirting with me, and I told her I already had a girlfriend. And, uh… Garcia overheard.” His voice got quieter toward the end. 

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh, though the situation was anything but funny to Spencer. 

“I cannot believe this,” JJ muttered, shaking her head in amused disbelief. She swirled her drink in her hand, blinking between the two of you as if processing new information she should have known long ago. 

You shifted in your seat, feeling increasingly self-conscious under all their stares. Garcia was practically vibrating with energy as she whispered animatedly to Derek, who was grinning ear to ear, clearly loving every second of this. Rossi, meanwhile, simply stared blankly, his expression unreadable, and JJ—well, she was definitely staring, her slightly tipsy gaze moving between you and Spencer as if still coming to terms with reality. 

You turned to Spencer, who was fixated on the glass in front of him, his fingers toying with the condensation as he tried to pretend he wasn’t still very red. 

Sighing, you nudged him gently with your knee under the table. “You know… it’s fine,” you murmured. 

Spencer looked up at you, eyes cautious. 

“Not having to hide anymore,” you clarified, your lips twitching slightly. “It sounds nice.” 

Spencer blinked at you for a second before something in his shoulders loosened. His lips parted slightly, then curved into a small, shy smile. 

“It does,” he admitted, nodding slightly, his curls bouncing with the motion. 

Without really thinking, you reached out and lightly brushed your fingers through his hair, the soft curls slipping between them. “Now I can touch you,” you teased. 

Spencer’s smile widened, his blush deepening—but this time, there was something more relaxed about it. He wasn’t panicked anymore. 

The moment was sweet. Soft. 

And then— 

“Oh my god, they're touching!”

💕💕💕

This makes me want a kid so bad

xoxo | s.r.

in which your daughter goes to the BAU to hand out her extra Valentines

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: horrible tooth rotting fluff, chemist!reader and leah, the spencer reid dilf agenda, valentine's day, reader wears pink (it's FESTIVE) word count: 1.47k a/n: happy valentine's day my loves!!!!

You had just finished helping your daughter put her visitor badge over her head before she proudly approached the two agents manning the security desk.

She brandished two Valentine’s Day cards for them, grinning while they looked down at her in surprise. You watched them tentatively take the cardstock from your three-year-old while she teetered back and forth in her pink Mary Janes. They thanked her while you pulled your visitor badge on. “C’mon, Leah,” you said, holding your hand out for her to take, “Let’s go see Daddy.”

“Daddy!” She chirped, her pure, childhood joy causing people in the lobby to stare. Most people were already vaguely aware of who she was, and even if they weren’t, it’s difficult to be truly bothered by a kid wearing heart antennae. Adjusting her grip on her basket of Valentines, she led you to the elevator, practically dragging you through Quantico.

Her hand couldn’t quite reach the button in the elevator, accidentally hitting the number four while wavering on her tippy toes. “Here, lovey,” you said, reaching over her and pushing the number six for her.

Leah beamed up at you. “Thank you,” she whispered, lowering herself and standing next to you, tugging on your pink sweater in an attempt to get your attention—as if she had ever lost it. “You wanna Valentine?” Her voice was soft, as if you were exchanging state secrets in the elevator, sweetly leaning her head against your leg. She stumbled over the name of the holiday a bit, replacing the second ‘n’ with an ‘m.’

“I’ll get one after everyone else,” you reassured her, adjusting her headband and smiling at the way the hearts bobbled.

She nodded confidently, making faces at her reflection in the elevator doors as you continued your way up.

You held your breath as the doors opened, once again holding your hand out for her to take so you could enter the bullpen in an orderly fashion, but as soon as they were open, she had taken off, the door being held open for someone else, leaving a perfect gap for her to slip through. There was barely enough time for you to call, “Incoming,” before she ran directly into Luke.

Thanking Anderson for holding the door for you, you followed Leah into the bullpen at a much slower pace and locked eyes with your husband, sighing in relief at the fact that you’d made it with little stress.

Your daughter had already been rescued from a room full of tall people by Dave, who’d hoisted her onto someone’s desk, so they were nearly at eye level. “Happy Valentime’s, Dave,” she said excitedly, urgently rifling through her basket to find a treat that she deemed worthy of his receipt.

Rossi smiled at her, “Happy Valentine’s Day, kiddo. What have you got there?” You weren’t sure if he was faking interest for the sake of your toddler, but either way, you were grateful for the opportunity to sneak by them, approaching Spencer’s desk.

He powered off his computer monitor as you leaned on the edge of his desk. “Hey,” he greeted, leaning his head up so you could plant a quick kiss on his lips. “Did she have fun?”

You nodded, peeking over your shoulder to see Dave walking Leah around to hand out Valentines to the entire office. “We severely underestimated the number of parents who keep their kids home for Valentine’s Day,” you informed him. Leah’s daycare class had been nearly empty when you picked her up early.

“What does that mean for us?” He asked, placing his hand on your knee and giving it a squeeze.

Raising your eyebrows, you grinned impishly, “It means we’re bringing a lot of lollipops home with us.”

Spencer chuckled, eyes following Leah as she made her way to Emily’s office, jumping up the steps and giggling at the sound effects that Tara made when she landed. “How was your morning?” He asked nonchalantly, and since nothing Spencer ever did was nonchalant, you knew he was on a fishing expedition.

The corners of your mouth quirked up while he shuffled the papers on his desk, preparing to spend his lunch with you and Leah. “Oh, I dropped Leah off and then went to work. I only had one class to teach, Physical Chemistry, as you know. I had some time before I needed to be back at the daycare, so I decided to stop at home and found a large bouquet of red and pink roses on the kitchen counter. They didn’t belong there, so I tossed them in the trash before heading here.”

“You did not,” Spencer challenged, grinning up at you, pushing his tongue against his teeth like he did when he was holding in a laugh.

You laughed breathily, hiding your smile behind your hand until Spencer reached up and took your hand in his. “No,” you acquiesced, “But I have no idea where we’re going to put two dozen roses.”

He pretended to think about it for a moment. “How about the kitchen counter?”

Humming, you leaned down to kiss him again. “Works for me,” you murmured to him on your way back up. You turned your head to find your toddler, seeing that Penelope had made her way to the bullpen and was putting a red feather boa around Leah’s neck.

Listening in on their conversation, you frowned when you overheard Leah complaining that the boa wasn’t pink. “Leah,” Spencer called her name, having overheard the conversation himself. “What do you say to Aunt Penelope?”

The three-year-old spun around, stumbling a bit when she tried to come to a stop, before looking up at Garcia and jumping, “Thank you! Matches my butterfly ears!” She fumbled the word ‘butterfly’ a bit in all of her excitement—bubberfly.

Your husband looked at you, confused. “Butterfly ears?”

“Antennae, obviously,” you told him, shaking your head in faux disappointment that he didn’t understand what she was talking about.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Hey, princess, c’mere,” he said, waving over your daughter.

You waved to JJ and Emily as they joined the impromptu gathering, with everyone in the bullpen watching while Leah skipped over to her dad. “Hi, Daddy,” she greeted, lifting her arms for him to pick her up, which he did happily.

“Hi, baby. Happy Valentine’s Day,” he replied, sweeping a stray strand of hair from her forehead. He’d left before you got her dressed this morning, so he hadn’t been able to see her in her festive outfit, complete with a pink and red tutu.

Comfortably sitting in her father’s lap, she giggled when he tickled her side. “Happy Valentime’s Day, Daddy,” she managed to squeak out. Sighing when he finally gave her a break, she asked, “Lunch?”

You smiled softly, “Soon, lovey.” The three of you had planned to do lunch as a family, and Penelope had promised to take Leah for a sleepover so you could go out for dinner—you were nervous, and she was thrilled.

She kicked her feet contentedly, telling Spencer about the cards she had given away at the security desk in a hushed voice while you watched an exchange across the bullpen. Luke was leaning toward Tara, holding his lollipop in his hand, “What flavor did you get?”

Tara peered at him suspiciously. “Blue raspberry,” she replied.

“I’ll trade you a green apple,” he offered, extending his arm out for the swap.

Turning in her chair, Tara scoffed, setting her Valentine on her desk, “Not a chance.”

A small gasp to your side caught your attention. “No trades, Newbie!” Leah shouted from her perch.

Instead of turning on your daughter, Luke immediately pointed at Garcia, “You coached her!”

Penelope feigned offense, holding a hand to her chest and looking around the bullpen, “It is my duty as her godmother to warn her against certain people.”

“Meaning me?”

“If the shoe fits, Newbie,” Penelope replied, leaning against a vacant desk while she awaited Luke’s response.

He looked over at Leah now. “How did she even hear me?”

You shrugged. “She has freakishly good hearing; we’re thinking of having her tested.”

Spencer nudged you at your joke, smiling slightly, “She saw you.”

Sighing in defeat, Luke gave Leah an exaggerated pout, “I’m sorry I tried to make a trade. Can you forgive me?”

Leah nodded with a toothy smile. Luckily, she was three, and things were easy to get over. “Hey, do I get a Valentine?” Spencer asked, playing with the hearts on her headband.  

Humming, she shifted on his lap. “Mommy put all of the pink ones in a baggie for us.”

You flashed a grin back at your husband, pulled a Watermelon lollipop out of your purse, and handed it to him. “I’m very good at what I do.”

Love love love 🤍

schrödinger’s relationship

spencer never needed to define what this was, until you did. now, the box is open, the outcome inevitable, and he has never been so happy to lose an argument.

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: situationship (ish? it gets resolved fast lol), mutual pining, friends to lovers (except they've been kissing for months), mention of heavy makeout, lap sitting, shirt removal, spencer kissing you to shut you the fuck up, cat does not survive the experiment (metaphorically speaking, there is no animal killing in this fic LOL) wc: 1.4k request: here

Your body is warm in his lap, your weight pressing down just enough to be distracting — no, disorienting — and Spencer is trying very hard not to look at your lips. Not just because they’re parted, slick, and kiss-swollen, but because the soft smudge of your lip gloss is evidence that this has been happening. That he’s been kissing you long enough to leave proof of it.

Mascara has clumped just slightly at the corners of your lashes and there’s a half-moon of pink polish chipped at the very edge of your thumbnail.

He’s obsessing over details. Your pupils are dilated, swallowing every fleck of color. He knows it’s a physiological response — dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin, all working in tandem to make you look like this, flushed and increasingly pretty on his thighs.

It’s easier to focus on biology than it is to focus on the fact that this moment exists in a state of suspended reality.

This was new. Not just in the way that everything between you had been new, in the way that months of small, careful steps had led to this, but in the way that Spencer had never felt like this. Overheated. Overwhelmed. Overrun with sensation. It had started as everything else had — soft and slow, the kind of kissing that didn’t lead anywhere except to more kissing. 

And for months, he convinced himself that he could exist in this purgatory of lips meeting and parting, of hands resting politely at your waist. That he could always pull away before the ground gave away beneath him.

Today the ground was gone.

Spencer had never been particularly drawn to categories — not in the way people seemed to crave them. Labels had always felt limiting, reductive, forcing the complexities of human relationships into neat little boxes that never quite fit. He had been content in ambiguity, had never needed something to be named in order to understand it. 

With you, the lack of label wasn’t liberating, it was frustrating. Because if this wasn’t something that could be named, then what was it?

“I’m just saying, I feel like if Rossi can write a whole book about a case, then I should at least be able to mention it in passing at brunch.” Your fingers skate absentmindedly across the dip of his throat, and Spencer, entranced, forgets to do something as basic as breathe. Oxygen is apparently optional. “But no, apparently that’s an inappropriate topic over eggs benedict. Which, okay, sure, but if I have to sit through another conversation about Carly’s fiance’s fantasy football league, I think I deserve to liven it up a little, you know?”

Your genuine need for an answer is clear, but Spencer can’t even remember what brunch is.

You gesture when you talk, and it’s so innocent — just emphasis, just a habit — but right now, it’s destroying him. Your fingers drag absently up his arm, over the soft material of his sweater, mapping the line of his forearm before skimming back up his neck. And then, like you don’t even realize you’re doing it, your palms smooth over his chest, fingertips tapping lightly against his collarbone like you’re idly counting his heartbeats. Spencer is painfully aware of every single one.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies. But he can’t decide what would kill him faster — how you touch him, or the moment you stop. 

Spencer manages to clear his throat — barely.

“I think your friends don’t appreciate you enough.” His voice sounds strained, but any attempt at analyzing tone evaporates the second his fingers breach the barrier of your shirt. 

Warm fingertips skim over bare skin, and suddenly, the conversation seems wildly misplaced. Because what was that about appreciation? If he’s trying to prove a point, he’s making it very convincingly.

You hum, shifting against him — not intentionally, probably, but it doesn’t matter, because he feels it all the same.

“Well, I can’t just hang out with you constantly.”

Spencer isn’t sure how to respond — because if he’s honest, that’s exactly what he wants. You, constantly. No breaks, no buffer. Just you.

Instead, he stares at your mouth again, because his brain is broken, and this is the inevitable destination. He never really understood the appeal of making out before you — before that first time, when he was supposed to just kiss you once and somehow ended up losing entire minutes of his life to your lips, to the sheer pleasure of pressing against you, of drinking in your sounds.

His broken brain is built to reinforce pleasure-seeking behaviors. Neurochemical feedback loops, all of it designed to keep him coming back. To keep him wanting. As if he needed the help.

Spencer doesn’t even pretend to think about it before saying, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Your lips twitch. You’re about to tease him, he can tell.

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” you say, tilting your head. “But wasn’t it you who went on that tangent about how platonic relationships significantly improve cognitive function?”

Spencer tries to find a loophole in that statement.

“And we,” you say, tracing a path down the trail of hair at his navel, “are not exactly fulfilling the platonic requirement.”

There was a time when he would have insisted — vehemently, even — that their relationship was strictly platonic. Fool’s errand.

“I mean, technically, if we wanted to be platonic, we could just… say we are.” That alone is egregiously incorrect. Spencer prepares to say as much, but then you pause, rolling the thought over like you’re actually considering it, before adding, “Like if we don’t label it, then it doesn’t count, right?”

His first instinct is to argue. His second instinct is to really argue. But neither one survives the sensory overload of you pressed against him.

“It’s like when you don’t open your credit card statements,” you continue, lips pursed. “Sure, the debt exists, but if you don’t acknowledge it, then it doesn’t feel real. So technically, if we just never say what this is, then it’s…”

“Schrödinger’s relationship?”

Spencer doesn’t know why he gives you the words — why he hands you the metaphor like a loaded gun and watches as you take perfect aim.

“Exactly! We exist in a state of undefined possibilities. We’re both platonic and not platonic until we open the box.”

Spencer sighs, rubbing at his temple, because now his entire brain is consumed by the implications of your logic. 

Schrödinger’s cat was never meant to be a real experiment — just a way to illustrate how, in quantum mechanics, particles can exist in multiple states until measured. The cat is placed in a box, along with a vial of poison triggered by a completely random quantum event. Until the box is opened, it’s both alive and dead, trapped in an impossible in-between, a paradox that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. The problem is, that concept doesn’t translate perfectly to relationships. People aren’t quantum particles. Relationships don’t exist in probability states.

Except, apparently, this one does. Because as long as neither of you put a definitive label on what’s happening here, you exist in an undefined state. 

He glances at you, at the expectant look in your eyes, and something about it makes him laugh, not because this is funny, necessarily, but because of course it would take a physics analogy for him to see what’s been obvious all along.

“I’m fairly certain that if we opened the metaphorical box, we would find that the cat — that is, our relationship — was decidedly not platonic.”

He hopes you’ll take the words for what they mean. That, for once, you won’t take the obvious escape route, won’t let yourself tuck this moment nearly into the realm of plausible deniability.

Because what he really said — what he really meant — was that he wants you. Only you. Singular, exclusive, definitively. If you pressed him for stronger language, he’d give it to you.

Your face was quick to light up.

“Are you asking me to go steady? Because Spencer, that’s a serious commitment. That means shared desserts, and, like, the expectation that I text you goodnight. And what’s the policy on PDA? Full access or —”

The rest of your sentence vanishes into fabric as Spencer pulls your shirt over your head, words muffled into cotton. You let out a muffled protest, momentarily caught in the fabric, and Spencer swears he’s never been more tempted to laugh at anything in his life.

By the time he tosses your shirt aside, you’ve recovered, blinking at him like nothing happened, hair adorably mussed.

“ — case-by-case basis?”

Spencer drags his hands down your hair, smoothing out the worst of the damage. He sighs dramatically, but his lips are twitching. “If I had known going steady required this much paperwork, I would’ve reconsidered.”

You grin at him. “Oh, you think this is bad? Just wait until we get into the holiday gift-giving policies and date night scheduling. Speaking of which —”

He doesn’t let you finish. He kisses you mid-sentence, less because he wants to shut you up (though that’s a nice bonus) and more because he can. Because he gets to. Because somehow, without him even realizing it was happening, this wonderful, impossible thing has become real.

This thing between you, this thing that was supposed to be undefined, a quantum maybe — it’s never been uncertain. It’s never been both platonic and not platonic, no matter how long he tried to pretend otherwise.

No, the box is open now. It probably always was. 

And Spencer had never been so happy to kill the cat.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

What about cutie first season Spencer Reid who is desperately in love with his coworker and is kinda blind sided when Lila kisses him🥺 He wants to make it really clear that the kiss was one sided but his soon to be girlfriend is jealous jealous🩷

jealous — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader being jealous , mention of lila ( obviously ) a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this :)

When you read in books the phrase “jealousy boiled in her veins,” you never quite understood it. Sure, you’d felt jealousy before, in fleeting moments of insecurity or longing.

But boiling jealousy? That had always seemed like an exaggeration. 

Not until four days ago. 

Though, boiling wasn’t the right word for it. No, what you felt then was explosive jealousy.

A kind of heat so intense it made your skin prickle, your throat tighten, your hands curl into fists at your sides. It was the kind of jealousy that made your stomach churn and your heart pound with something dangerously close to heartbreak. 

Because four days ago, you saw them. 

Spencer and Lila. In the pool. 

The images were burned into your memory, tattooed on the inside of your eyelids like a cruel joke. Every time you closed your eyes, there they were—her arms wrapped around his neck and their faces too close.

You had barely slept since. 

And work? Work was even worse. 

Two days ago, when you walked into the BAU for the first time since that dreadful moment, you told yourself you’d be fine. You could be professional. You could pretend it didn’t bother you. 

But you couldn’t even look at Spencer. 

Every time he stepped near you, all you could see was her in his arms. Every time he spoke, all you could hear was the laughter they shared in that damn pool. You forced yourself to act normal, to keep your voice steady and your posture composed.

But it was so, so hard. 

Elle had noticed. She kept shooting you those pointed glances, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Are you okay? 

Of course you weren’t. 

How could you be when you had been crushing on Spencer for so long, you could barely remember a time when you hadn’t been? How could you be okay when the sight of him with someone else had nearly shattered you? 

Spencer noticed too. Of course he did. 

He wasn’t oblivious—not when it came to you. He saw the way you avoided his gaze, the way your once warm smiles had faded into stiff nods and clipped responses. He saw the way your shoulders tensed when he entered the room, how you kept your distance like even standing next to him was unbearable. 

And it was unbearable. 

He wanted to talk to you, to explain. 

To tell you that what happened was one-sided. That he hadn’t meant for it to happen. That he hadn’t wanted it to happen. That it had been unexpected and overwhelming and, ultimately, meaningless. 

That he was in love with you, not Lila. 

But how could he say that when you wouldn’t even look at him? When every time he tried to get close, you turned away? When the words on the tip of his tongue kept dying in the silence you forced between you? 

Today, when you walked into the bullpen, the first thing you noticed was Derek. He was leaning against Spencer’s desk, a smirk playing on his lips as he held a paper in his hand.

The moment he saw you, he straightened, casually tossing the paper into the trash, his expression softening as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greeted smoothly. 

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a small, tired smile. 

You already knew what he had been holding. The pictures. The ones of Spencer and Lila in the pool. The same ones Derek had undoubtedly been using to tease Spencer with before you arrived. You also knew why Derek immediately threw the magazine away.

Because Derek, just like the rest of the team, knew exactly how you felt about Spencer. 

And how Spencer felt about you. 

Everyone with eyes and ears could tell. The way you gravitated toward each other, how you always seemed to seek each other out, how Spencer’s face lit up when you laughed. It wasn’t just friendship. It had never been just friendship. 

Spencer glanced up from his desk as you passed by, flashing you a hesitant, almost hopeful smile. 

You only nodded, forcing yourself to keep walking. 

You settled into your chair, taking a slow breath as you forced your hands to stay busy, flipping through the files on your desk. You could feel Spencer’s gaze lingering on you, like he was trying to gather the courage to say something. 

Spencer missed you. 

He missed the conversations, the inside jokes, the way you used to nudge his shoulder whenever you walked by. He missed the way your voice softened when you said his name, the way you actually listened to his rambles instead of tuning them out like most people did. 

And he wanted—needed—to explain. 

But every time he opened his mouth to speak, the words tangled in his throat. Because what if he ruined everything? What if trying to explain just made things worse? 

He had been so close before all of this happened.

Just a few days ago, he had been sitting right here, talking to Elle, asking for advice on how to ask you out. He had been nervous, but excited. He had a plan, one he had been going over in his head a hundred times—something simple, something meaningful. He just wanted you to know how much you meant to him. 

But then Lila happened. 

And now, instead of planning a date, he was trying to figure out how to make you look at him again. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

Spencer stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with a quiet scrape against the floor. He hesitated for only a second before crossing the room, stopping just beside your desk. 

“Can we talk?” His voice was quieter than usual. 

You didn’t look up right away, your fingers tightening around the file in front of you. A moment passed before you finally let out a slow sigh and nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Spencer felt his heart stutter in relief. 

The two of you walked to the breakroom in silence. 

Spencer closed the door behind him, the soft click sounding much louder in the quiet space. He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. 

“I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply. Then exhaled. Then hesitated again. 

You leaned against the coffee counter, arms crossed, waiting. Your heart pounded a little too fast in your chest. You felt awkward—just a tiny bit. Because Spencer wanting to talk to you meant he had noticed your behavior. Not that you had been subtle about it. 

But it also meant he had noticed your jealousy. 

And that was almost worse. 

Finally, Spencer spoke, his voice quiet, careful. Earnest. 

“I miss you.” 

Your head snapped up and you just stared at him, wide-eyed. 

You didn't expect him to be so direct.

Spencer was blushing, a deep red creeping up his neck, dusting the tips of his ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear, like saying those three words had been the most terrifying thing he had ever done—which, knowing him, it very well might have been. 

But the way he was looking at you, like he was afraid he had already lost you, made something twist painfully in your chest. 

“I—” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “You… what?” 

Spencer gave a small, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I miss you,” he repeated, voice softer this time. “And I—I know you’re upset. I know why. And I just… I need you to know that what happened with Lila, it—it wasn’t what it looked like.” 

You pressed your lips together, your fingers gripping the counter behind you. “It looked like you were kissing her,” you muttered, unable to stop the sharp edge in your voice. 

Spencer winced. “She kissed me,” he corrected quickly. “I—I didn’t expect it, and I definitely didn’t want it. I pulled away as soon as I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It wasn’t what I wanted.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. He was shifting anxiously, his hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he could. His brows were drawn together, his lips pressed into a tight line, like he was bracing himself for you to tell him you didn’t care. 

But you did care. That was the problem, wasn’t it? 

You looked down, inhaling deeply before meeting his gaze again. “Then… what do you want, Spencer?” 

His breath hitched. 

For a moment, he said nothing, just looking at you like he was memorizing every detail of your face, like he needed to get this right. Then, finally, he took a small step forward, eyes locked onto yours. 

“You,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped. 

And then it started again, thundering against your ribs, because Spencer Reid had just admitted—out loud—that he wanted you. 

The jealousy that had been burning inside you for days was suddenly replaced by something else entirely. 

Hope. 

“I—what?” Your ability to form sentences had seemingly vanished. Your mouth hung slightly open as you stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Spencer, for his part, was barely looking at you. His eyes flickered to yours for a second before darting back to the coffee pot behind you, like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Me?” you finally managed to say. That was it. That was all your brain could come up with. Me? 

Spencer nodded, still not quite meeting your gaze. 

Silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words.

Then, finally, he spoke again. 

“I was—I was trying to figure out how to ask you out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “I was talking to Elle about it, actually. Trying to…to make a plan.” His hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “And then Lila—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Everything just got messed up.” 

“Really?” you asked, your lips curving into the smallest hint of a smile. 

Spencer finally looked at you again, his expression both relieved and vulnerable all at once. “Yeah,” he breathed out. 

The heaviness in your chest eased, just a little. 

You took a slow step toward him, close enough that you could see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was stopping himself from reaching for you. 

“So…” You tilted your head, your voice softer now. “How were you going to ask me?” 

Spencer let out a short, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I had a whole thing planned. Something about books and coffee and, um, statistics on first-date success rates…” He trailed off, his face burning. “It was probably a bad plan.” 

You bit your lip, your smile growing. “I don’t know,” you mused, your heart pounding. “I think I would’ve liked it.” 

Spencer blinked at you, hope flickering across his face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was warm.

You took another step forward, and this time, Spencer didn’t move away. He was still nervous, still hesitant, but he didn’t look away when you reached out and brushed your fingers against his. 

“I still would,” you said quietly. 

Spencer swallowed, his fingers twitching against yours before he finally, finally curled them around your hand. His grip was unsure at first—like he was waiting for you to change your mind—but when you didn’t pull away, his shoulders relaxed. 

“Then,” he said, his lips curving ever so slightly, “would you maybe want to—” 

“Yes,” you interrupted, grinning now. 

Spencer smiled, a real, relieved smile, and you felt something settle in your chest—something that had been in turmoil for days. 

Bombshell r loosing her mind when Spence walks into work late that one day and he has the “boy band” haircut

“What’s with the face?” 

Morgan raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for an answer you don’t have. 

“What’s wrong with my face?” you ask. 

“Nothing–”

“Clearly.” 

“You look way too happy, considering.” He gestures to the board currently displaying a grisly crime scene photo and the empty seat across from you. “Another case, and a severe lack of your favourite toy.” 

“Spencer isn’t my toy, he’s my sweetheart, and I’m gutted he’s running late but I’m toughing it out.” 

Being on the team is all you’ve ever wanted. With Gideon long gone and enough time elapsed between Strauss’ political push for Emily, you’re here permanently, where you’ve always wanted to be. It’s been the best few months of your life. A lot of that due to Spencer’s unfailing friendship. He’s so kind to you. You’re really getting along. 

“Let’s focus in,” Hotch says. 

You bridle with excitement, poorly contained. You don’t get very far into spitballing when JJ’s lips part in bemusement.

“Well, hello,” she says. 

You turn in your chair away from JJ and Penelope where they’re giving the presentation to the door, where Spencer is smiling genially. He sits down with his bag still on his shoulder, a heavy silence having fallen over the room. 

Spencer has cut his hair. Gone is the long, mostly straight lengths of his hair. Did he get a perm? You’re shell-shocked. “Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself. 

“What, did you join a boyband?” Hotch asks, frowning. 

His lips part in small offence. “No,” he says. 

Emily and Morgan laugh. Spencer tucks his chair in, and you don’t know who wants to say what or how quickly you’re supposed to pretend to get over this, but you don’t care. “Spencer!” you say, “Spencer!” 

“L/N, please don’t start.” 

Hotch is only saying please because he knows he had his own reaction he could’ve kept internal, how can he ask you to smother your own. You lean hard across the table and gaze at Spencer lovingly —startled but inarguably infatuated.

“You’ve never, ever looked this handsome before,” you say, true and not true, “ever. I gotta–” Your hand reaches out at the same moment your legs decide to stand. “Can I touch it?” 

Hotch sighs with disappointment. 

You pass behind your teammates' chairs to look at him. 

“Stop,” Spencer says immediately, his palm to your stomach. “You’re being mean.” 

“I’m being mean? You didn’t even consult me.” 

“It’s my hair.” 

“Spencer, you’re gorgeous no matter what, but I need some warning if you don’t want me to do this.” 

“Sit back down,” Morgan says, rolling his eyes. 

You tuck one lovely curl behind Spencer’s ear carefully. “I love it so much, I can’t believe it. This is the best thing that’s happened to me since I joined the BAU.” 

💋💋💋

the science of kisses ; spencer reid

synopsis: during a make out session, you & spencer explore the concept of erogenous zones.

warnings: established relationship with fem!reader, mentions of kissing & slight sexual suggestive content, spencer being smug af because he’s confident in your relationship, reader matching spencer’s vibe!!!

note: i just had to write this after having a psych lecture about it, so this is hella indulgent but i hope y’all enjoy 💋

minors dni with this post!

“did you like that?”.

nodding your head, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but it sounded more like a mewl as it escaped your lips.

it was late.

both you & spencer were well aware of the how the time had dipped from the late night to absurdly early morning, but neither of you cared. at least, not when his body was draped over yours like this, lips moving across your neck in languid strokes like a painter.

“feels nice” you said real breathy & cute, causing spencer to press another kiss to the same spot just at the side of your neck below your ear, smiling into your skin when your hands gripped his sides a little tighter.

he couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought of him being the reason why you were falling into bliss like this.

“do you know why it feels nice there?” he asked in a hushed tone due to the close proximity of his mouth to your ear.

you almost groaned in response because surely spencer knows what effect his words have on you, right?

“because it’s an erogenous zone?” you asked, shutting your eyes when his teeth lightly grazed your pulse point as if he was giving you a reward, feeling his thumb press harder into your hip on top of the mattress.

“good answer” he pulled back to get a good look at you, lips slightly swollen with pride as he looked down at you.

the way your chest rose up & down a little quicker, the hazy gaze in your eyes—you were enjoying every minute of it.

“erogenous zones feel so nice because the stimulation in those areas increase feelings of pleasure” your eyes stayed focused on the way his lips moved as he spoke, how they curled into a knowing smile when he realized your attention was locked in on them.

humming in response, you lifted a hand to cup spencer’s cheek, dipping your thumb to smooth over his bottom lip after a moment, relishing in its softness. “you’re real cute when you talk like that”.

latching a hand to yours, spencer pulled your hand back before pressing a few kisses to the inner part of your wrist, inching his way to your palm & back all innocently.

your jaw went slack as he maintained eye contact.

“everyone has multiple erogenous zones on their body, some are more heightened than others,” he spoke slowly as his lips touched the heel of your palm, noting how tightly you continued to grip his shirt.

that’s another one, he noted in his mind.

“why do you think that’s the case?” spencer pulled your hand away, gently placing it back onto the mattress before leaning closer to your face again, humming when your hand run through his hair, scraping his scalp in just the right way to make him preen.

you smirked with satisfaction.

“because the skin is the body’s largest organ, so it makes sense why there’d be multiple spots with—oh—uhm, heightened sensitivity” you tried keeping your composure as he made his way to the right side of your neck, continuing his kisses across you skin before sucking on a few spots, humming when you finished your sentence.

“i should give you a gold star for that one”.

“you basically already are”.

“you’re right”.

“i kno—shit, spence” you exhaled sharply when his lips sucked just above your right collarbone, aiming to leave a sweet mark as a memory.

you were sure you’d feel the slight bruise in the morning, but you didn’t mind.

not when it felt so good.

“you were saying?” he lifted his head up, ignoring the way you rolled your eyes & how your eyebrows were pinched together in relief.

“shut up” you let a smile slip loose, shoving him away weakly before reeling him back in, letting his nose nudge yours. “you’ve got a mouth on you, reid”.

“so i’ve been told. but i don’t think you mind it much, sweetheart” he said all suave, drifting a hand down to the crevice of your right knee to let him pull your thigh taut to his hip, caging him into your form without any protest.

spencer was turning you on with science, & you were falling for it. but what else were you supposed to do?

“if i say i like it, will you kiss me?” you asked, lips ghosting his own, his eyes trained on the way you bit your lip in anticipation for whatever is to come.

spencer shrugged his shoulders playfully, “i wouldn’t be against that”.

“okay, i like it. kiss me—“ he stole your breath away eagerly, chests pressed against the other as you sucked his top lip between yours, moaning at the feeling of his tongue swiping your mouth like he’s done so many times before, but the feeling never failed to send shivers down your spine.

“baby—“ you breathed, hands gripping his hair like a vice the longer he kissed you back, tummy flipping when his hips pressed firmly into yours in response to the pet name.

“yeah?” spencer licked his lips once he pulled away, pupils blown wide as his heart raced, staring at you like you were the woman only alive.

“show me where your erogenous zones are, please?”.

you’ve never seen his head nod so fast.

I love this so much 🤍🤍

state of grace ❀ s. reid x reader

in which your cat has taken liking to your friend with benefits, and you begin to battle with the consequential feelings. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff (18+ for suggestive content) tags: established friends with benefits. reader has a cat. your cat likes him more than you :(  avoidant!reader for like a teensie second. it's okay happy ending. the happiest possible ending actually. fade to black. word count: 1.9k a/n: sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things. like a cat. :) im a dog person. idk why i wrote this.

Seventeen times.

That is how many times Spencer Reid had found residence at your apartment in the past month alone, taking up the space on the other side of your bed. Thirteen of those times he had stayed the night. Six of those times, he had come for sex. The other eleven? He had come because you needed a friend. 

Or, rather, your cat did. 

You had discovered you weren't any more complex than your average man, at the end of the day. Human beings are at their core created to love and be loved, and by extension, to want and be wanted. You wanted Spencer, and you were wanted by Spencer. For both your friendship, and the intimacy your relationship provided. 

But you did not love him, and he did not love you. 

Cat's are anything but fickle creatures. A lot of your best friendships were centred around whether or not your cat developed a liking to the person or not. Oftentimes, your fleeting relationships came down to the odd sixth sense the animal had for disliking the worst people. That, and your one night stands were never a crowd favourite within the walls of your apartment. And yet; Spencer Reid. 

He was nothing short of charming. In a sort of dorky way, yes. But whatever socially romantic skills he lacked, he most certainly made up for by giving you the best of just about everything in bed. A small part of you wants to claim it's human instinct to know how to worship the person meant for you, but the logical reason is probably his eidetic memory knowing exactly what he's doing after a singular trial run. Entertaining the thought of being his soulmate was not a wise choice.

He most certainly was your cat's, though. The Ragdoll always jumping down to greet him the second he stepped foot in your apartment, usually resulting in the break of a kiss and a five minute intermission before the two of you could do anything. 

At first, it was an inconvenience. Your cat had never taken such a liking to a person you'd brought home before, and it was jarring to watch a man you were partially trying to undress, stop everything to pet your cat. Now, it is simply endearing. You've stopped trying to steal Spencer's attention before the cat does, and you've come to the conclusion that Spencer's priority list will always be the feline, then you. 

Today was, seemingly, no different. Despite the dull ache between your legs and the fact that this visit had started as something as obscene as Spencer calling from his work bathroom to ask if he could come over after for he was, and you quote, in dire need to touch you (among many other things), whatever those needs were, were put on hold. 

You smile regardless, leaning against the edge of your couch as he crouches down to meet Po — yes, like the panda — his hand immediately reaching out for the cat to run his head along. 

Spencer's head lifts to look at you. "Morgan thinks Po isn't a real cat, and we've just got a name for your—um—" his brain catches up to his mouth mid sentence, and he's stammering his way to silence. 

"Please tell me you defended my cat's honour," you retort.

"I did! I even showed him the photo I took of him while you were in the shower last week. He thinks it's a different person's cat."

You shake your head in disapproval. "Unbelievable. Your coworker thinks we've named my pussy."

"That's just Morgan."

"I wish Po could speak English. Then he could hear this nonsense, and stop loving you more than me," you grumble, and Spencer's lips twitch up into a smile, as he situates himself on the floor, the cat climbing into his lap.

"Actually, he technically can. Cat's can understand up to thirty-five words in whatever language you train them in. Also, when they meow, they begin trying to mimic the sound of certain human words. It's their vocal tract that prevents them from literally speaking English," he explains.

But, you're too invested in the way his long fingers are delicately running through the cat's hair, to both respond, and really pay any attention at all.

You had had fleeting thoughts about real feelings for Spencer two months ago. Brushing them off as loneliness and your need to satiate the hopeless romantic within you, you'd forgotten about it up until this recent week.

He'd been over every single day, sometimes for sex, oftentimes for a movie and dinner (which was usually a bowl of pasta you had overestimated while cooking). And every single time, you'd developed an overwhelming anxious pit in your stomach when watching him interact with Po, your heart fluttering the entire time, mind running rampant on domestic thoughts you should be squashing. 

Should be, but weren't. 

You'd tried to put it down to the motherly instinct you had over the animal. Seeing somebody else treat him with as much love and care as you did was endearing — it wasn't a Spencer Reid specific trait. Yet, here you were. 

"I feel like the benefits of this relationship have changed," you say, seating yourself in front of Spencer on the floor, Po lifting his head to look at the person behind the sudden movement, before he let it rest back on Spencer's thigh. 

"To what?"

"My cat," you huff, and Spencer laughs.

"He is my favourite benefit thus far," he muses. 

"The feeling is definitely mutual," you nod your head to Po, whose eyes were now shut, seemingly quite comfortable disregarding all your personal plans and taking Spencer's attention.

"Animals don't usually like me," he comments. "I don't know why Po is different."

Oh, you had a few ideas why.

"Maybe he's exercising the keep your enemies closer life motto," you offer, and Spencer's eyebrows shoot up in faux offence. 

"This is unadulterated love," he protests. "He does not think of me as an enemy."

"That's what he wants you to believe," you hum, pushing yourself up on your legs. "Well, since plans have been rudely interrupted, do you want some dinner?" 

"Sure," he answers, though his attention is back on Po. Clearly so, for he says, "I'll get to our original plans after we eat, don't worry," almost absentmindedly.

It's the kind of thing that makes you forget you're in the room with the dictionary definition of a nerd. You know it's only because sometimes he says what he is thinking without thinking. It doesn't do anything to help the ongoing internal battle about your feelings for him. 

Or maybe he does know exactly what he's doing.

"You should get a cat," you say, heading into your kitchen to find something for the two of you to eat. "You seem to like them enough."

"Why? I have yours."

"I'm not going to be around forever," you reply, unthinking. "I mean, one day we're gonna have to end this because the other has found someone they want to be with. Properly. It wouldn't be fair to keep a friendship."

He falls silent, and when you lift your head, you see he's staring at you with an almost confused frown on his face, which triggers your own confusion to appear. His scratching of Po's head has been interrupted, and you're starting to question what was wrong about what you had said. 

Sure, you're pretty sure you have feelings for him, but as far as you knew, they were one sided. Right?

"I didn't—I thought—" he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, then continues. "I thought that had changed this past month."

"What do you mean?"

"I just—I've been here for things other than sex a lot. I thought you knew I liked you, and you were subtly trying to tell me you liked me too. I'm starting to sense I misread that."

For a profiler, he was incredibly awful at reading you. 

"Yeah..." You slowly nod your head, but it's the deepening of his frown that has you rushing to add, "I mean, I—I do. Like you. I'm kind of embarrassed that was obvious. But I didn't think you liked me outside of having sex with me. I wasn't trying to communicate my feelings. I was trying to hide them."

"Oh," he falls silent again. "So the times I’ve been here in the past month weren’t makeshift dates?"

"They weren't intended that way..." you trail off. "Did you see them as dates?"

"Kind of, I guess," he's back to running his fingers through Po's fur, just to keep his anxious hands busy. "They don't have to be, if you don't want them to. I just thought this feeling was mutual and we were... I guess, dating."

"The feeling is mutual," you quickly correct him. "I know that now. I didn't think we were dating because I didn't think you liked me back. Changing our relationship kind of needs to be a conversation."

"Right," he breathes out, an awkward smile painting his lips. "Is this the conversation, then?"

"I guess?"

"So now we're dating."

"If that's what you want," you nod, head feeling a little fuzzy.

"Is it what you want?" he presses. Always the gentleman.

"Maybe," you muse, leaning forwards against the kitchen countertop. 

He's watching you, and for a second you let the silence fall over you, fearful that you've just discouraged him enough to ruin things between you. He carefully takes Po off his lap, the cat running into your room the second his paws hit the hardwood floor, and he's standing up to move over to you. 

"I don't like maybe," he frowns. "Yes or no?"

You blink, realising he was evidently too anxious of your genuine response to have any recognition to your poor attempt of a joke. 

"Yes, Spencer. That's what I want," you're breathless as you speak, and you're thankful for the relieved smile that stretches across his lips.

"That's what I want too," he answers. 

"Yeah, I figured." Your second attempt at a tease lands, and he huffs a small laugh, which warms your heart. "Do you still want dinner?"

He had somehow gotten closer to you throughout the awkward enough conversation, and he was sliding his arms around your waist. Something he had done many times before, yes, and yet this time it was feeling much more intimate, and your heart was thrumming against your chest a little harder than usual. 

"Maybe it can wait?" he offers, ducking his head down, lips ghosting over your own. "I don't have a bothersome cat keeping me preoccupied from you, now."

Despite yourself, you poke a finger into his chest and say, "Don't insult Po."

"I'm not. Just merely stating an obvious fact."

"I'll call him back in here to preoccupy me."

"He has selective hearing. And he likes me more than you."

Your lips drop into a frown, lower lip jutting out, and Spencer is quick to try and kiss it off within seconds of noticing it. 

"I'm sorry. That was mean. I promise he doesn't like me more than you," he says, though his voice is too amused to be entirely sincere. 

"That was mean," you agree with a firm nod. "You're very mean to me, Spencer Reid."

"I know, I'm awful. Can I make it up to you, sweet girl?"

Well, when he asks you like that.

"Mm..." you hesitate, but he's already guiding you around, walking you backwards, through your apartment and towards your bedroom. "Yeah, I guess so."

Hands that were around your waist hike your shirt up, his lips still kissing against your skin despite the intense multitasking he was forcing upon the two of you.

"Thank you."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡