BadWolf1271

18+ MDNI! (she/her) This is an everything blog. I have no self-control.

[badwolf1271]

A03 Masterlist

Link to my A03!

Spencer Reid x OFC (Hotchner Sister) - Beautiful Things (Pt. 1) Complete! - Couldn't Make It Any Harder (Pt. 2) Complete! - Fast Times (Pt. 3) Complete!

- Make You Feel My Love (Pt. 4) Complete!

- Just Give Me A Reason (Pt. 5) In Progress! - Running Up That Hill (Pt. 6) Coming Soon! Spencer Reid x OFC (Gideon Daughter) - Begin Again In Progress! Character Study - A Gender Analysis of Dr. Spencer Reid

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 35)

The Party

summary: Your classmates finally convince you to attend your first college party, and Spencer tries very hard not to let his profiler brain ruin it.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), alcohol consumption, underage drinking, party scene, vomiting (pretty descriptive, but it’s not til the end so you can skip it easily), discussions of consent, drunk!reader, caretaker!spencer, ummmm reader keeps trying to get spencer to have sex with her but he wont so yay him

_____

“Friends” was a word you didn’t necessarily associate with college. It wasn’t like you were completely alone there, but you definitely didn’t have a social circle. Sure, there were a few people that you had multiple classes with that you’d always sit by or say hi when you saw them on campus, but they didn’t extend outside of that.

You didn’t have a group chat of college friends, or have any light night hangouts that were disguised as study sessions, no spring break trips, no real sense of community. Not that you minded, you’d much rather be with Spencer. Aside from his job, Spencer was very predictable. He always ordered the same thing from every coffee shop, except in October when he would switch to pumpkin spice lattes, he would always call you at the same time of day, except for when he was on a case, of course, and most importantly, he was always nice to you. You never had to worry about anything bad happening when Spencer was with you.

You always felt bad denying people of anything. “No,” wasn’t a word that really had a place in your repertoire. But sometimes you can be a shock to your own mind. Three times your classmates asked you to go to a party with them. And all three times, you told them no. You started to think they’d given up. It’s been three weeks since the semester started and they hadn’t asked once. 

Which is why, as you walk the hall after your Thursday afternoon in person lecture, you were completely caught off guard as one of them falls into step beside you.

“Hey,” she smiled. “A bunch of us are going to this party tomorrow night.”

You look over at her.

“It’s not a huge thing,” she continued. “Just music, food, probably a little drinking. You should come.”

I’ve got plans.

The familiar excuse breaches your tongue automatically. Except…you didn’t. Spencer had already told you he had to work late tomorrow. Your uncle was leaving for a book signing at noon tomorrow. Your biggest commitment was a four page article analysis that wasn’t even due until next Tuesday.

Maybe it was because you’d finally recognized enough faces around campus that the idea didn’t feel quite as intimidating. Maybe it was because you hadn’t really interacted with someone your age in…a long time. Or maybe you were simply tired of hearing all their stories begin with “Last weekend” while yours all began with “Spencer said…”

“What time?” you ask.

“Wait,” she stops walking. “Seriously?”

“I…” you stop walking too. You’re just as surprised with your response as she is. “Yeah. I guess.”

_____

Your uncle sat in his usual spot in his armchair with a glass of scotch balanced against one knee. Spencer lounged beside you on the couch, one arm draped lazily along the cushions behind your shoulders as you leaned against him. HGTV played quietly in the background, less because anyone was actively watching it and more because your uncle insisted the house was "too damn quiet" without the television on.

"...There's absolutely no reason to knock down that wall," Rossi muttered from his armchair. 

"They haven't even started yet," you smiled. 

“He’s actually right,” Spencer says. "The wall they're removing appears to be adjacent to the central staircase." Spencer leaned forward slightly. "Assuming the floor plan is original to the house, it’s likely load bearing."

"They wouldn't tear down a load bearing wall on television,” you say.

"They absolutely would," your uncle scoffs.

You laughed quietly, resting your head against Spencer's shoulder. His hand found yours without either of you thinking about it.

The TV somehow has all three of your attention. No one dares speak, unless it’s a judgement of the monstrosity being done to the poor house.

"...Hey," you say quietly to Spencer during a commercial break. 

"Hm?" he hummed beside you.

"My classmates invited me to a party tomorrow."

"...A party?" he repeated. Rossi looked away from the television for the first time since you'd sat down.

"It'll just be for a few hours," you explain. "I told them I'd go."

"You already said yes?" Spencer asks.

"I did,” you say. “They’ve asked me like ten times, I keep making excuses.”

His expression didn't change much, but you knew him well enough to notice the shift anyway. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. His thumb stopped absentmindedly tracing circles over your knuckles. He wasn't upset. He was thinking.

Spencer tried, as always, not to sound overbearing. “Statistically, fraternity parties have significantly higher rates of alcohol-related injuries and sexual assaults than almost any other campus gathering,” he said carefully. “The combination of binge drinking, crowded environments, lowered inhibitions–”

"I don't think it's a fraternity,” you say.

"That does improve the statistics somewhat."

"You don’t want me to go, do you?” you say.

"I–" He paused, choosing his words with visible care. "I’m concerned."

“Same thing,” your uncle says, taking a sip of his scotch.

“Do you actually want to go?” Spencer asks.

“I think I do, yeah,” you answer.

"...I don't want you to think I don't trust you," he says. "Because I do. Completely."

"But?"

"I don't trust everyone else." He rubbed his thumb against the back of your hand, eyes fixed on where your fingers were intertwined instead of looking at you.

"I profile violent offenders for a living," he says softly. "I spend forty to sixty hours a week studying the kinds of people who hurt people in exactly this kind of scene. It's...difficult to turn that part of my brain off."

You squeezed his hand.  He sighed through his nose.

"I also know you're twenty years old. You should be allowed to go to parties with your classmates without your boyfriend citing crime statistics," he mumbles, almost like he didn’t want your uncle to hear him being so vulnerable.

"...That was exactly what you were about to do, wasn't it?" you asked.

"...I had three studies prepared."

"I believe that,” Rossi says.

"I wasn't going to recite all of them,” Spencer says defensively.

"Just the highlights?" you smiled.

"...Probably," he admits

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I appreciate the concern."

"I just..." He hesitated again. "Will there be alcohol?"

"There usually is at parties."

"I know there is alcohol at parties," he deadpanned. "I'm asking if you're planning on drinking."

"...Maybe a little?" you say, earning looks from both him and Dave. 

"How much is 'a little?'" he asks, looking worried.

"I don't know," you admit. "I'll figure it out when I get there."

"I was afraid you were going to say that,” he groans.

Welcome back to Dream Home Makeover. With just two weeks left on the clock, a surprise behind the drywall threatens to derail the entire budget. Will the team be able to reroute the pipes in time, or will this pivot destroy their budget? Coming up…

“I have a proposal,” Spencer says over the TV. You look at him.  "If, at any point, you feel uncomfortable..." he started counting on his fingers. "...or overwhelmed, or if you drink more than you intended to, or if you simply decide you don't want to be there anymore...Call me."

"Spence–" you start.

"No matter what time it is,” he interrupts.

"What if you’re sleep–”

"I won't be."

"You don't know that."

"I do." He shook his head once before looking back at you. "Actually..." He hesitated. "I want to come get you. Text me when you're ready to leave."

"You don't have to do that," you say, feeling a little guilty.

"I know." His expression is earnest in that unmistakably Spencer way, like the thought had never even occurred to him that there was another option. Of course he'd come get you. Why wouldn't he?

"...Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll text you."

A visible wave of relief settles over him. His shoulders loosen, and his thumb resumes its slow circles against the back of your hand.

"Thank you."

Rossi watches the two of you over the rim of his glass, a knowing smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"I think it's good you're going,” He says from his chair. Both you and Spencer look over at him. "You can't spend your entire college career hiding out with us old people."

"I’m not old," Spencer mutters automatically.

Rossi gives him a look.

"I'm not planning on staying very long," you reassure them both. "I just...I don't know. I feel like I should experience at least one college party."

"That's reasonable," Spencer says after a moment. "Novel experiences are generally associated with increased psychological resilience and stronger autobiographical memory formation."

"You really can justify anything with neuroscience."

"...Sometimes psychology."

The commercial break ends, cutting off any chance Spencer has to elaborate. You lean farther into Spencer's side, smiling as the two of them begin casually debating whether open floor plans were worse than traditional layouts. The conversation drifts away from the party, but Spencer's hand never leaves yours.

_____

You could feel the music before you even stepped inside the house. The house was packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder in the dim, multicolored lighting that shifted lazily from blue to purple to red. The air was thick with the smell of beer, cheap perfume, and some residual marijuana from tshirts. Sticky floors clung to the bottom of your shoes as you followed your classmates deeper inside.

It was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, laughing too loudly, shouting conversations over the music, moving with the confidence of people who had done this a hundred times before. You stuck close to the small group you’d come with, clutching a red plastic cup that had been pressed into your hand almost immediately. The drink was sugary and strong, burning slightly on the way down. You sipped it slowly.

The kitchen was the brightest room in the house. People crowded around a makeshift bar of liquor bottles and mixers. Someone had turned the counters into a dance floor, and a few girls were laughing. In the living room, a group was playing beer pong on a folding table, cheering and groaning with every missed shot. The backyard, visible through sliding glass doors, had even more people crowded around a fire pit.

You drifted between rooms with your classmates, smiling when they introduced you to people whose names you immediately forgot, or maybe never took in in the first place. The alcohol loosened something in your chest after the second cup, making the noise feel a little less sharp and the lights a little softer. You found yourself sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, legs swinging, talking to a girl with bright pink streaks in her hair about whether penguins had knees. 

But as the night wore on, the fun started to fray at the edges. The music grew harsher. The crowd pressed in tighter. The floor got stickier. Your head felt fuzzy and warm, the kind of buzz that made everything slightly slower and louder at the same time. You watched a couple arguing in the hallway, saw someone being helped outside by their friends after drinking too much, noticed the way certain guys lingered a little too long when they looked in your direction.

The novelty was wearing thin.

You slipped your phone out of your pocket, the screen bright. Your thumb hovered over Spencer’s contact for a moment as the weight of the night settled in. You missed the quiet predictability of him. 

You don’t even have time to bring the phone up to your ear before he answers the call.

“Hi,” he says, sounding awake. Not groggy or confused like he’d been asleep. He sounds alert, like he’d been staring at his phone.

"Spence," you breathed, smiling the second you heard his voice.

There was a pause. "...Hi," he repeated, softer this time.

"I miss you."

"You've been drinking," he observed gently.

"A little."

"Y/N."

"...Maybe a medium amount."

He sighed, and you could practically picture him shaking his head at you. "How many drinks?"

You looked down at the empty red cup in your hand as if it held the answer. 

"...I don't know."

"Do you know where you are?"

"...the kitchen."

He let out the tiniest breath through his nose. "Can you be more specific than 'the kitchen?'"

"It has..." You looked toward the living room. "...stairs."

"...Does it?"

"Mhm."

"Good."

"It also has..." You squinted toward the backyard. "...fire."

"...Outside?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Fire outside is preferable."

You giggled. "I knew you'd know."

"I need the address."

"I don't know the address."

"Can someone there tell you?"

You turned toward the nearest person.

"Hey!" The pink-haired girl looked over. "Do you know where we are?"

"...Austin’s house?"

"Noooo..." you laughed. "Like...the numbers."

"Oh." She pulled out her phone. She read it off, and you repeated each number carefully to Spencer.

"I've got it," Spencer said.

"You do?"

"I'm leaving now."

"Nooo..."

"...No?"

"No..." you giggled again. "Come get me."

"...That's literally what I'm doing."

"Oh." You thought about that for several seconds. "...Right."

"Can you do something for me?"

"Mhm."

"Stay exactly where you are."

"I can do that."

"No wandering."

"I wasn't wandering."

"You called me from the kitchen."

You looked around. "...I'm still in the kitchen."

"Perfect."

"And don't accept any more drinks."

You looked down at your empty cup. "...My cup is empty."

"I mean don't let anyone refill it."

"Oh." You considered that. "...Okay."

"And stay with your classmates."

You looked around again. "I lost them."

"...Y/N."

"What?"

"Can you find the girl who helped you with the address?"

You turned. The girl with pink hair smiled awkwardly and waved.

"I found her."

"Good."

"She's got pink hair."

"That’s cool."

"I like her."

"I'm sure she's lovely."

You leaned your head against the cabinet behind you. "...You're so nice."

His voice softened even more. "I'm coming, sweet girl."

Your eyes closed. "...Can you hurry?"

"I am."

"I just..." Your voice suddenly became much quieter. "...I want you."

"I know."

"I miss you."

"I know."

"I wanna go home."

"You will."

"When?"

"I'm walking out my door now."

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. "...You're the best boyfriend."

"I appreciate the endorsement." A tiny laugh escaped you. "I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen?"

"Approximately."

"...That's so many."

"I know." You heard the familiar beep of his car unlocking through the phone. "I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m going to hang up now, if you need anything please call me back.”

“Okay, bye.”

“I’ll be there soon, Y/N.”

True to his word, Spencer arrived 15 minutes later. The music was still pounding, loud enough that you knew he would hate it. The floors were even stickier now, and the house felt even more crowded than when you first walked in. People were everywhere. It was no where he belonged

You stayed perched on the kitchen counter like he’d asked, a plastic bead necklace someone had dropped over your head now resting cool against your collarbone, still half talking to the pink haired girl. Then you saw him.

He looked so out of place in the best possible way, scanning the crowd. A random guy near the entrance asked him something, but Spencer’s eyes had already found you. The second you spotted him, everything inside you lit up.

"SPENCERRRRR!" you exclaim. You hopped off the counter and ran straight toward him, launching yourself into his arms. He caught you easily, his arms wrapping around you like they were ready for this exact moment.

"...Hi," he murmured into your hair, voice low and relieved.

"You're soooo pretty," you sighed, pulling back just enough to stare at his face.

"...Thank you."

"I was telling everyone about your IQ."

He blushed, that familiar pink covering his ears as he held you close, one hand gently rubbing your back, the other guiding your head back into him. 

“Are you ready?” he asks you. You nod into his chest.

Spencer kept one arm securely around your waist as he gently guided you through the crowded house. The music was still thumping painfully loud, but he didn’t flinch, he was too focused on you. His hand stayed steady on your back, steering you around clusters of people who barely noticed you leaving.

“You’re doing great,” he murmured softly near your ear when you stumbled a little on the front steps. “Just keep leaning on me.”

The night air outside felt cooler and cleaner compared to the stuffy house. You shivered slightly as the breeze hit your skin, and Spencer immediately shrugged off his cardigan, draping it over your shoulders without a word. It smelled like him, coffee, old books, and that faint trace of his cologne, you pulled it tighter around yourself, humming happily.

He led you down the sidewalk toward where he’d parked, his steps slow and patient to match your slightly wobbly ones. When you reached his car, he opened the passenger door for you, one hand resting lightly on the top of the frame so you wouldn’t bump your head.

“Easy,” he said, carefully helping you lower yourself into the seat. He leaned over to buckle your seatbelt, his fingers brushing against your side as he clicked it into place. “There we go.”

You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing his jaw. “You’re so nice to me.”

Spencer’s expression softened, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips despite the lingering worry in his eyes. 

“I love you,” he said simply. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, then closed the door gently and walked around to the driver’s side.

Once he was settled in the car, you reached over and took his right hand in both of yours, holding it tightly in your lap. Your fingers traced his long ones, playing with them absentmindedly, running along the knuckles, gently squeezing, occasionally lifting his hand so you could press a clumsy kiss to the back of it. Your head rested heavily against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing and the soft hum of the engine making everything feel safe and warm.

Every few minutes you’d tilt your face up to look at him, studying his profile in the glow of passing streetlights.

“You know you have really nice eyelashes?” you said seriously, but your words a little slurred.

Spencer’s cheeks flushed pink. He kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“You do,” you insisted, reaching up to gently touch the side of his face. “They’re so long. It’s not fair.”

He blushed harder, ears turning red. You smiled sleepily and went back to playing with his fingers, content to stay pressed against him the entire drive. The city lights blurred past the windows, but all you could focus on was how solid and warm and Spencer he felt beside you.

Spencer pulled into his usual parking space and shifted the car into park. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, but neither of you moved right away.

"I think..." you murmured, still staring at his face. "...I like your car."

He looked over at you with a tiny smile. "I'm glad."

"...Because it brought you to me."

"It did," he agreed quietly as he shuffled to leave the car. He climbed out first, circling around to your side before you had the chance to fumble with the handle yourself. He offered you his hand without a word. You took it immediately.

"I've got you," he said softly.

You let him help you out of the car without protest, your legs feeling strangely disconnected from the rest of your body. The walk from the parking lot to his building wasn't far, but Spencer kept his pace slow enough that you never had to think about matching it. Every now and then your shoulder bumped into his arm, and every single time he steadied you with a hand against your back, as if it had become instinct.

Spencer unlocked the security door, waited for you to step through first, then led you toward the staircase. Inside, the hallway was almost unnervingly quiet after the party.

"Careful," he murmured as you started up the first few steps.

"I'm being careful," you argue.

"You just missed an entire stair," he points out

"...That one's optional."

"No," he said, holding back a laugh and tightening his hand around yours just enough to keep you steady. "I need you to touch every step."

You stop walking, squatting down to place both of your palms on the stair above you. "There," you say proudly. "I touched it."

Spencer stares at you for a full second. "...I meant with your feet."

“...Oh,” you say, looking up at him. He’s fighting back a smile.

“Come here,” he says, offering both hands down at you. You take them, allowing him to pull you back to your feet. “I need you to step on every stair.”

“Ohhh,” you nod. “You should’ve said that.” 

“I…thought I did,” he says, starting to lead you up the stairs again. He waits while you deliberately plant one foot on each individual stair, announcing each one under your breath.

"Step."

Another.

"Step."

Another.

"Step."

By the time you reach the top, Spencer is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

"You know..." you say once you're walking the hallway toward his door.

"Hm?"

"Your hallway echoes."

"It does."

"I like it."

"I'm...glad?" He smiled to himself as he unlocked the door.

The apartment smelled exactly the way it always did. Coffee. Old books. A faint hint of cedar from the bookshelves.

Home.

He flicked on the lamp instead of the overhead light.

"Sit down for me?" He directs you. You obediently wandered to the couch before flopping onto it with far more force than necessary. He disappeared into the kitchen for only a moment before returning with a glass of ice water. "I need you to drink this."

"...All of it?" You ask, taking the cup with both hands.

"Preferably."

You took an exaggerated sip.

"It's wet," you observe.

"...I'd certainly hope so."

You giggled at that. While you slowly worked your way through the water, Spencer crouched in front of you. His fingers moved carefully to the buckle of your heels.

"Can I?" he asks, looking up with wide eyes from between your legs.

"I forgot I was wearing shoes," you nod.

He eased the first shoe off your foot before setting it neatly beside the couch. Then the second. The relief on your face made him smile.

"Better?" he asks. 

"So much."

He looked up at you then. You were already looking at him. Smiling.

"What?" he asks.

"You know..." you say, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

"Hm?" He knew. The smile disappeared from his face almost immediately.

"...I think we should have sex." you smile.

He froze. Not because he was shocked, but because he had expected it the second he'd heard how intoxicated you were over the phone.

"No," he shakes his head.

"...Why not?"

Spencer stayed exactly where he was, kneeling in front of you so your eyes were level. His voice was impossibly gentle.

"Because you've been drinking."

"But I want to!"

"I know."

"So..."

"So..." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Your brain isn't making decisions the same way it normally would."

You frowned.

"...It's not?"

"No."

"I feel normal."

"I know it feels that way." He rested one hand lightly over yours. "Alcohol suppresses activity in the prefrontal cortex before people become consciously aware of the impairment. That's the part of your brain responsible for executive functioning, judgment, impulse control, long-term decision making. One of the paradoxes of intoxication is that the worse your judgment becomes, the less capable you are of recognizing that it's become impaired." 

"So..." You blinked at him.

"So I'm not saying no forever, just tonight."

You considered that for a long moment. 

"...Why?"

"Because you deserve to be able to decide something like that when you're completely sober."

"But..."

"I know."

"I already know I love you."

"I know."

"And I think you're hot."

"I know."

"And I wanna–"

 "I know." He laughed quietly before you could finish.

"So why can't we?"

He looked at you with so much affection it almost hurt. "Because I love you more than I want anything else."

"...That's very annoying," you pout.

"I'm sorry," he says, not really sounding sorry.

You leaned forward anyway. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. Before your lips reached his, he gently caught your chin and kissed your forehead instead. A tiny, disappointed sound left you.

"I appreciate your understanding," he stood, offering both hands.

"I don't understand," you pout.

"I know," he says, pulling you off the couch.

"Where are we going?" you ask, following him anyways.

"I need you to change into something more comfortable."

"But I like my dress."

"I know you do."

"You like my dress."

His ears turned faintly pink. "...I do."

"So why am I taking it off?"

He cleared his throat. "Because sleeping in satin isn't particularly comfortable to sleep in." He opened his dresser and pulled out one of his old Caltech T-shirts. "I need you to take your dress off."

You brightened immediately. 

"Ooo–"

He sighed, already knowing where your brain had gone. "We are still not having sex."

"...Right."

"You are changing clothes."

"I forgot."

"I know." He turned around, facing the bedroom door instead of you. "I'll stay right here."

A minute passed. "...Spencer?"

"Yes?"

"...My arm is stuck."

He closed his eyes for a brief second. "I'm going to turn around now."

The shirt was halfway over your head, one arm somehow through the neck hole. He couldn't help the tiny smile that escaped him. Very carefully, and with the practiced patience of someone untangling Christmas lights, he guided your arm where it belonged and pulled the shirt down over your head.

"There," he says, giving your waist a pat.

"It smells like you."

"...That's because it's mine."

"I know."

"One more thing."

"I've already done one thing."

"I know."

"But I need you to brush your teeth."

"Why?"

"So you'll thank me tomorrow."

He handed you your toothbrush with toothpaste already on it. You made it approximately five seconds before dissolving into laughter at your own reflection.

"What?"

"You have...two toothbrushes."

"...Yes."

"You were prepared."

"I generally like having one here for you."

Your grin softened. "That's really cute."

He felt warmth creep into his ears.

"Brush."

You saluted him with your toothbrush. "Yes, sir."

It took considerably longer than it should have, mostly because you kept trying to talk around the toothbrush. When you were finally finished, Spencer guided you back toward his bed. 

He pulled the blankets back. You climbed in without argument, immediately burrowing into his pillows.

"...Spence?" you say, peeking over the blanket that's hiding your face. You reached out, catching the sleeve of his shirt in your hand.

"Hm?"

"Stay?"

He looked down at you. There was something so small and vulnerable in the way you asked that his heart ached. A soft smile spread across his face.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere."

Satisfied, you closed your eyes.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Within minutes, your breathing evened into the slow rhythm of sleep. Spencer stayed sitting beside the bed, your fingers still loosely wrapped around his sleeve. Every so often he brushed your hair away from your face, made sure you were still resting comfortably, and kept the glass of water within easy reach on the nightstand. He remained awake for another hour, not because he expected anything to go wrong, but because he'd rather lose a little sleep than spend tomorrow wondering if he'd missed something. Only when he was certain you were sleeping peacefully did he finally let himself relax. Your hand was still holding onto his sleeve. He smiled to himself, carefully settled back against the headboard so he wouldn't wake you, and quietly decided he could sleep there for the rest of the night.

_____

You wake up in Spencer’s bed. He’s asleep beside you, arm wrapped around your waist holding you close. You’re unsure of the time. Come to think of it, you don’t even remember getting into Spencer’s bed. 

Spencer’s apartment is hot, which is strange because he always kept the thermostat at 68, and you could hear the air conditioner running. You gently lift Spencer’s arm from you and place it down next to him, the need to escape from the heat of the blankets outweighing the comfort of his embrace. Saliva begins to coat your throat, the kind that swallowing won’t help. Oh. Oh.

You are going to puke. 

You hurriedly sit up on the bed, not giving yourself enough time for your body to stretch before jumping down and rushing into Spencer’s bathroom. You kneel in front of the toilet just in time before the contents of your stomach have become the contents of the toilet bowl. Tears well in your eyes as you struggle to catch your breath between bouts of vomiting. You’re trying not to gag, trying to be quiet, just wishing it would be over. The sound of your sickness echoes through the wall shared by the bathroom and Spencer’s bedroom, waking him from his sleep. Spencer jumps to his feet, hurrying to the closed door to the bathroom.

“Y/n?” He called softly while pushing the door open. You’re sat on your knees in front of the toilet, pale and trembling. Once he sees you, there’s no hesitation before Spencer is knelt beside you, gathering your hair in one hand and gently scratching comforting patterns on your back with the other. Another wave of vomit hits you, leaving tears streaming down your face as you recover. 

Spencer shushes you softly, still scratching your back. “It’s okay baby, I’m right here,” he whispers at you as he wipes tears from your eyes. “You’re going to be okay, baby. Do you want me to get you some water?”

You can barely muster a nod in response, feeling a bit neglected when he gets up to go retrieve it for you. Yes, you did want water, but you also wanted Spencer. 

As soon as he leaves the bathroom, you’re hit by another round of vomiting, this time left to deal with on your own. Spencer hears you from the kitchen, causing him to rush. “I’ll be right there, Y/n,” you hear him yell from across the apartment as the bile spills past your mouth, some trickling down onto the shirt he’d let you borrow. 

Damn it.

Spencer returns to the bathroom, glass of water in hand. He sees you frantically trying to pat away the vomit on your shirt with a few squares of toilet paper. He sits the glass on the edge of the counter, rushing to your aid. “Hey, let's just take this off,” he says, helping you to pull your shirt over your head. Only being left in your bra, the air is cool as it hits your bare back. It feels good. 

Spencer grabs the glass of water off the counter, handing it to you. “Here,” he says, “rinse your mouth out real quick.” You do as he says, swishing the room temperature water around in your mouth and spitting it into the toilet. Spencer fills the bathroom sink about half way full with water, then places the soiled shirt in the basin to soak. After, he returns to you, taking the glass of water from your hand and situating himself back on the floor behind you. 

You lean back against him, your back to his bare chest. You sigh, grateful beyond words for his presence, for the warmth of his touch amidst the cold grip of illness. His steady mind anchored you in the midst of discomfort. You remain there together on the floor of the small apartment bathroom for what felt like an eternity. Spencer offered you quiet words of reassurance and helped you to drink water while you struggled to regain composure. Eventually, the violent spasms of sickness subsided, leaving you exhausted and shaky in Spencer’s arms.

“Can we go back to bed?” You whisper, your voice hoarse and raw from vomiting. 

“Of course, let's brush your teeth though. Vomiting exposes your teeth to the stomach’s highly erosive acids which eat away at enamel.” Spencer rambles. You groan in response, not having the energy to hold your arm up for that long. “I can help you, you just got to stand up for me, ‘mkay?”

You nod, struggling to your feet. Spencer picks you up bridal style, carrying you the few steps to the sink and sitting you on the counter facing him. He removes the soaked shirt from the sink and hangs it over the edge of the bathtub to drip dry. 

Spencer situates himself between your legs, takes your toothbrush from the cup and wets it, applying a swipe of toothpaste to the bristles. You part your lips as Spencer brings the toothbrush to your mouth. 

His brushing was gentle and slow, yet thorough. You rest your head against his shoulder as he does so, too weak to hold your own head up for long periods of time. He uses his left hand to cup your cheek so as to keep your head still as the toothbrush makes friction against your teeth. 

“You’re doing great, Y/n,” he says as he moves the toothbrush away from your mouth. “Need to spit?” He directs your head over the sink by your cheek, allowing you to spit the toothpaste into it. He rinses your toothbrush off and returns it to the cup, then hands you the glass of water. You drink the rest of it. 

Spencer plants a heavy kiss on your lips, your cool minty breath causing him to shiver. “Ready to go back to bed?” He asks, locking his arms around your waist and pulling you up to his chest. You nod into his shoulder and wrap your legs around his hips and arms around his neck as he carries you back into his bedroom.

He carefully lies you on the mattress, pulling the covers snug around your cold, bare torso. He joins you on the other side of the bed, climbing under the covers himself and snuggling up against you. 

_____

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a/n: hi ummmm idk what im gonna do for the next part ummmmm idk ope nvm i figured it out thank u anon who sent that ask, next part is smut tongue out emoji

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[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 34)

Something Nice

summary: Spencer takes you on a real date. Candles, dinner, and a satin black dress that your uncle definitely disapproves of...

Word count: 7.5k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut, but like sweet smut? idk lol ummm protected sex (yay good), perv!spencer a bit, yeah. awkward spencer hehe, um whimpering? idk what else maybe fingering and loss of virginity (spencer)

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Summer comes to a close without you really noticing. It slips through your fingers so easily through syllabi, a few too many trips to the campus bookstore, and the slow realization that you’ve stopped counting the days since the hospital.

The bruises disappeared weeks ago, the surgical incisions have turned from scabs to scars, and your ribs have stopped aching when you laugh.

Life hasn't returned to exactly what it was before. You're not sure it ever could. There are still moments when a stranger walking too close makes your shoulders tense before your brain catches up. You still wake from the occasional nightmare, convinced for half a second that you're back in the dark before remembering you're safe in your own bed.

But those moments are becoming fewer. They're no longer every day.

Your second year of college begins with more confidence than your first ever did. You switched to a hybrid of in person and online courses. You know where your classes are now. You recognize professors in the hallways. You don't have to pull up a campus map every twenty minutes pretending you definitely meant to walk in the opposite direction. 

By Friday afternoon, though, your brain feels like it's been wrung out like a sponge.

Three lectures, two discussion sections and a journalism ethics assignment already due Sunday.

You drop your backpack onto your bedroom floor with enough force that one of your notebooks slides halfway across the room. You collapse onto your bed immediately afterward, staring up at the ceiling.

So much for easing into the semester.

Your phone buzzes beside you. It’s Spencer. You smile before you've even opened the message.

It's ridiculous, really. You haven't gone a single day without talking to Spencer Reid in months. Sometimes it's only a five-minute phone call before bed because he's on a case in another state. Sometimes it's three hours spent sitting on opposite ends of Rossi's couch while you do homework and Spencer reads journal articles aloud every few minutes because he found something fascinating.

You look down at the message.

SPENCER: So, how did your first week go?

YOU: i think my brain has liquified.

SPENCER: Good thing that’s not possible. I like your brain. 

You smile. Your phone rings before you have time to answer. 

“Hi,” you smile into the phone.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is quieter over the phone than it is in person. You can hear papers shuffling somewhere in the background.

"Still at work?" you ask.

"For approximately another..." he pauses, presumably checking the time. "...eleven minutes."

“So why are you calling me if you’re still at work?”

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner tonight,” he says carefully. “Like…a date?”

“A real one?” you ask, smiling as if he could see it.

“I wasn’t aware there were fake ones,” he says.

“You’re funny,” you tell him.

“So, is that a yes?” he asks.

“Yes, it is a yes.”

“Cool,” he says. You can practically hear his smile. “I’ll um…I’ll pick you up at 6:00?” He says it like it’s a question.

“What kind of ‘date’ is this?” you ask, meaning…attire? You assumed that was obvious.

“A real one?” he says, echoing your earlier statement.

“I meant what do I wear,” you say, giggling at how dense the smartest man you know can be.

“O-oh,” he realizes. “Um, just something nice,” he says. 

“Okay,” you smile again. He can’t see it, you just can’t hold it back. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“See you in an hour,” he repeats before hanging up the phone.

You sit your phone to the side and stare at your ceiling for a moment, thinking of what ‘nice’ means. A dress? That could be too formal. A skirt? That really depends on the top. Pants? Too risky for informality. You get up and look in your closet, hoping something jumps out at you. Somehow, you feel like you’ve never owned fewer clothes in your life.

The first dress you pull out is dark green and floor length, rhinestones outline the corset area. It feels far too formal, so you put it back. The next is shorter, light pink, with white and pale yellow flowers scattered everywhere. Too summer-y. You look at a few skirts. They all feel…professional. 

You stare blankly into your closet like the right outfit might appear if you just look at it for long enough. 

What does ‘something nice’ even mean?

You push through the entirety of your closet, the sound of hangers scraping along the metal bar starting to hurt your ears. At the very back, there’s a solid black satin dress with lace trim that you haven’t worn in…ever?

You take it off the hanger and stare at it, convincing yourself to just put the damn thing on before you drive yourself crazy by looking through your clothes for the third time.

It’s short, probably a little shorter than you would normally go for, but it wasn’t awful. It had thin spaghetti straps and sat low enough on your chest that made you feel a little…exposed, but it wasn’t completely whoreish; nothing a cardigan couldn’t make feel better. It hugs your waist in a way that feels elegant, highlighting the curvature of your body. You smooth your hands over the fabric, deciding that it was either going to be this, or you were cancelling. 

Your eyes wander across your room until they stop on the back of your desk chair. Folded neatly over it is a grey cardigan that Spencer had left a while ago and just never took back.

You slip it on over the dress, leaving the buttons undone. The oversized sleeves fall just past your wrists, and the familiar scent of cedar, coffee, and whatever laundry detergent Spencer used had faded over time but never disappeared completely. It was comforting in a way you couldn't quite explain.

You glance back at the mirror. The black dress still looked like something you'd wear on a date. The sweater made it feel like a date with Spencer. Satisfied, you move into the bathroom to figure out something to do with your hair and makeup.

By the time you’re finished, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 5:53.

Seven minutes.

You make your way downstairs, smoothing your hands over the front of your dress for what has to be the tenth time. It suddenly feels shorter than it did upstairs. Much shorter.

Your uncle is sitting in his usual armchair with a manuscript spread across his lap, his reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up when he hears your footsteps. You can feel his eyes assessing you.

“What?” you ask, acting like you don’t know exactly what he’s thinking.

“I didn’t know you owned clothes that didn’t belong to Spencer,” he says, taking his glasses off and folding them on the coffee table.

“I mean, the sweater is his,” you say, fondling one of the buttons.

“Thank god,” he mumbles. You don’t know if he means ‘thank god the dress isn’t also Spencer’s’ or ‘thank god you’re wearing something to cover it up.’ Either way seems like a legitimate concern he’d have.

“So what’s the issue?” you ask.

“There isn’t one,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes. “But there will be one if Spencer even looks an inch below your face.”

You can feel heat rush to your cheeks. If there was an award for worlds most embarrassing uncle, you’re fairly positive David Rossi would have it in the bag.

“It’s not even that bad,” you say. You don’t know if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

Before he can answer, the doorbell rings. Your uncle stands to get the door on his own. He pats your shoulder as he walks past you.

“The sweater was a good idea,” he says, turning to the door.

You hear Spencer’s voice first. A little higher than normal, and a little hoarse. You can tell jus tby the way he sounds that his ears are red. 

“Good evening, Dave,” he says.

“Evening,” your uncle answers, stepping aside to let Spencer in.

He'd traded his usual work attire for something just a little softer. Dark slacks instead of brown, a black and white flannel button down with a plain black jacket over it. His curls were still a little unruly despite what looked like an honest attempt to tame them, his glasses sat straight on his nose, you’d almost bet he made sure of it in the mirror of his car before coming inside, and his messenger bag was nowhere in sight for what felt like the first time since you'd met him.

Instead, he was holding a small bouquet of pale pink roses.

"...Hi," he says, somehow sounding surprised.

"Hi,” you smile.

His eyes meet yours. Then involuntarily drop. Not far, just from your eyes to the neckline of your dress, Almost immediately, like he'd burned himself, he jerks his gaze back up.

You can actually watch the color climb into his ears. He clears his throat.

"You..." His eyes betray him again, flicking downward for the briefest second before snapping back to your face. "...You look..." he pauses again, searching for words. "...beautiful." 

He rubs the back of his neck, still refusing to let his eyes stay anywhere except your face for more than half a second.

"The dress is..." his voice catches in his throat. "...It's very flattering."

His eyes betray him again, looking a little lower, at your waist now. He forces them back up. He looks genuinely annoyed with himself.

Behind him, Rossi watches the entire exchange with folded arms. He notices every stolen glance, every panicked correction, every increasingly red shade of Spencer's ears. You’re grateful for his silence, because you know if he were to say anything, there was a better chance of Spencer bursting into tears than not.

Finally, Spencer remembers the flowers in his hand.

"Oh," he chirps, looking down at them as though he'd forgotten they existed. "These are for you." He holds them out a little awkwardly. "I know roses are the most common flower to bring on a first date, but pink roses traditionally symbolize admiration and gratitude rather than romantic passion, which I thought was more appropriate because we’ve been together for 146 days."

"They're beautiful,” you smile, taking the bouquet before he can say anything else.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You simply look at him. He looks back, actually at your eyes this time, though it’s obvious it’s taking effort.

Rossi finally clears his throat. Loudly.

Spencer straightens so fast you'd think he'd been caught committing a federal crime.

"You ready?" you ask him, knowing he was just going to stand there until you made him move. He nods.

You slip your purse over your shoulder and walk toward the door. Spencer automatically reaches out, taking it from you before you can protest. As you step onto the porch together, Rossi follows close behind.

"You kids have fun,” he calls out.

"We will," you answer. Spencer nods politely.

Rossi points directly at him. One finger. Very serious.

"Reid."

"Yes, sir?" he answers.

"Be safe."

“I will be,” Spencer smiles. 

They’re definitely thinking two totally different things.

Spencer opens the passenger door of his car for you, waiting until you buckle your seatbelt before shutting it and making his way to the driver's side. The car is silent as he pulls out of the driveway and starts down the road, not an awkward silence, just…a silence that is filled with a search for a conversation.

Spencer keeps glancing over at you. Between you and the dark road. Over and over again. After the sixth time, he finally speaks.

“Y/N,” he says sheepishly.

“Yeah?” you turn toward him.

“You look…” he glances at you. “so…” he pauses, seeming dissatisfied with every adjective his brain supplied. “...hot.”

“I know,” you smile. 

“...You know?” he blinks.

“You’ve looked at my body far more than my eyes,” you say smugly.

“I-I’m sorry,” he apologizes, immediately feeling guilty. "I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," you assure him.

"No?"

"No."

He risked another glance. "You really do look beautiful."

This time there wasn't any fumbling. No nervous explanation. No attempt to correct himself. Just simple honesty.

"Thank you."

He smiled to himself before looking back at the road. A comfortable silence settled over the car again. It lasted almost three whole minutes before Spencer spoke again.

"...Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"You know what I mean," he sighs.

"I do."

"...Do you think Dave believes I'm a bad driver?" He frowned thoughtfully.

"...What?" you look over, confused on what could’ve made him think that thought.

"When we were leaving he told me to be safe," he explains. You hold back a laugh, because you know if you let it out, he’ll stop talking. And you are very curious where he is going with this.

"I've never been in a motor vehicle accident while operating one,” he continues. "I've also only received one speeding ticket."

"You got a speeding ticket?" you’re surprised.

"It was in Nevada."

"Of course it was."

"I was 20," he defends.

You smile. He glanced over briefly, smiling at your smile before his face falls again and he turns back to the road. "...Do you think he doesn't trust my driving?"

You stared at him for a second. "...Spence."

"Yeah?"

"You genuinely don't know what he meant?"

"...No?" He looked completely confused.

You tried very hard not to laugh.

"You have no idea?"

"No! What am I missing?”

You pressed your lips together. He was so earnest. So completely, painfully sincere.

"...Dave wasn't talking about your driving,” you start.

"Then what was he talking about?" Spencer interrupts.

"He meant..." You bit the inside of your cheek. "...Use a condom."

Silence. Absolute silence. Spencer's entire body went rigid. You watched the realization travel across his face in real time. Confusion. Recognition. Understanding. Humiliation. Mortification. So many emotions explode across his face all at once.

"Oh." His ears turned bright red. "...Oh."

He stared so intensely at the windshield you were fairly certain he forgot you were sitting beside him. You feel a little guilty for laughing, but you can’t help yourself.

“I thought he was expressing concern for road safety,” Spencer says, still looking horrified.

“He was expressing concern,” you crack.

“...Not about the road,” he says, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I am never speaking to David Rossi again.

“I don’t think that’s an option,” you laugh.

The car stills as you reach a red light. Spencer drops his forehead softly against the steering wheel.

“This is the worst day of my life,” he mumbles.

“No it’s not,” you giggle, reaching over and resting your hand on his forearm.

“...Top ten?” he asks, peeking over at you.

“Maybe top fifty,” you smile.

“I’ll take top fifty.”

The light turns green. Spencer lifts his head with all the dignity he could manage, which at the moment, is very little.

“I’d like to let you know,” he mutters after another minute of silence. “I had no intention of doing anything that would’ve required that to have been said.”

“I think that’s why he likes you so much,” you say.

“Really?” he asks, glancing over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road.

“Yeah.”

A small smile finally finds its way back to his face.

“So…” you say, vaguely suggestively.

“No,” he groans, knowing you’re about to make fun of him for something.

“You’re saying you weren’t checking me out?” you ask.

“...Y/N,” he says, knowing he’s caught.

“I’m just asking,” you say innocently.

“I was,” he admits, letting out a long sigh. “you look…so good. I mean, you always look good, you just look…exceptionally beautiful tonight. And it’s distracting.”

“Is it?” you ask, feeling a blush warm your face.

“Very,” he nods, looking at you momentarily.

“I’m sorry,” you say, smiling anyways.

“No,” he protests. “Don’t apologize.”

“I thought apologizing was my thing,” you say.

“It is, I’m sorry–”

“So now we’re both apologizing?”

“Neither of us should be apologizing.”

“You’re rambling,” you grin. 

“I know,” he exhales. “My point is…I find you very attractive.” He glances at you. “And that’s…normal. I mean, finding someone attractive doesn’t obligate them to have sex with you, I don’t expect that, a-and I don’t need that.” He winces at his last few words.

“Need what?” you ask.

“...Sex,” he clarifies.

“Oh.”

“...That came out wrong,” he says, sensing the disappointment in your tone. “Wanting something and needing something are psychologically distinct concepts. Human attachment isn’t dependent upon sexual intimacy, despite popular media implying–”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t want to fuck me tonight?” you interrupt.

His eyes go impossibly wide at your bluntness.

“NO!” He shouts loud enough to echo through the car. His voice quiets immediately. “I-I mean– That;s not–” he groans, trying to gather thousands of thoughts all at once. You would think he’d be better at that by now.

You’d think.

He takes a steadying breath, and lowers his voice impossibly low. If the sound waves weren’t trapped in the car you probably wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“...I do want to…fuck…you,” he whispers, not daring to look at you.

The curse comes out so softly it almost completely dissolves beneath the sound of the tires on the road.

“Well,” you smile. He braces himself, not daring to look at you. “...Good.”

“...G-good?” he echoes, peeking over at you with just one eye.

“Good,” you repeat. “Beecause I want to fuck you tonight too.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he tries to regain his composure. 

“...T-that s-sounds…” he stammers. His entire face is completely red now and it threatens to spread down his neck. “...amazing.”

You smile at him, feeling a buzz deep in your stomach.

“B-but,” he continues. “I…” you can hear him swallow. “I don’t have…” he trails off, then his eyes widen all over again. “...Dave asked us to be safe.”

You laugh quietly.

“I mean, he–” he spits.

“Spencer,” you say, trying to calm his spiraling brain.

“...Yes?” he looks at you.

“We can buy condoms after dinner.”

“...Oh.” He nods to himself. “...right. That’s how stores work.”

“It is,” you giggle. For someone so smart, he can sometimes have the funniest realizations when he’s flustered. 

“I’ve never…” he shakes his head with a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “...I’ve never gotten that far.”

“I’ve noticed,” you smile. 

“I’ve never…this has never…” he stammers again. “I’ve never had to think about…potential logistical considerations after dinner.”

You reach across the center console and lace your fingers through his free hand that isn’t on the wheel. He squeezes gently, finally in control of his breathing. He smiles as he turns into the restaurant parking lot, parking in a spot away from any other car in the parking lot.

“We’re gonna need to sit here for a few minutes,” he says, his face going red again. 

He grips the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles go white, redirecting blood flow. You watched him manually breath, in for three, out for three. Again. 

“Okay,” he exhales, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He looks over to you. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been waiting on you,” you smile at him.

“So have I,” he says seriously, but it’s funny. He can be very funny when he doesn’t mean to be. 

He climbs out of the car, automatically circling to your side. He pulls your door open and holds out a hand to help you out. His hand stays intertwined with yours the whole way inside.

The restaurant is undeniably nice. The lighting has an ambery tint that spills out of the windows, soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, doing far more for the ambiance than it would seem. The tables are round with white table cloths and centerpieces of a single rose in a vase, a lit candle, and fancy ceramic salt and paper shakers. 

This was a date restaurant. 

Spencer gives his last name to the hostess, then follows as she leads the two of you toward the back of the restaurant. Your table sat beside a large window overlooking the city. The evening sun had long disappeared, leaving everything washed in deep blues beneath the orange candlelight.

Spencer pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. Neither of you immediately reach for the menus, you just looked at each other. His ears and cheeks were still faintly pink from the drive.

"So," he says. "We're on a real date."

"We are,” you smile. "I think you're handling it pretty well."

"I don't," he chokes. He looked down at the folded napkin in front of him before meeting your eyes again. "I've wanted to take you on one like this for a while."

"You have?"

He nodded. "I just...kept waiting for the right time."

"What made you decide now was the right time?"

"Do you want me to tell you?"

“I do,” you smile.

“I was worried that you were going to…get bored…of me,” he admits quietly. It almost sounds funny coming from his mouth. He nervously straightens the silverware that was already perfectly aligned. You reach across and put your hand on top of his, causing him to look up at you.

“I love you,” you tell him sincerely. “You don’t have to worry about me getting bored.”

“I love you too,” he smiles awkwardly. You can still feel his hand fidgeting below your hand.

A waiter arrives with water glasses and introduces himself before asking if either of you want anything to drink besides water.

“C-can I get a Root Beer?” Spencer asks. 

The waiter looks a little confused. Normally people order…wine? But he goes to get Spencer his Root Beer nonetheless.

Once the waiter leaves, Spencer reaches for the menu.

“I already know what you’re going to order,” he says, opening the first fold.

“You do?” you tilt your head.

"You've ordered some variation of pasta at the last six restaurants we've gone to," he points out.

"You keep track of that?" You raise an eyebrow.

"I keep track of everything,” he says, like it’s somehow new information to you.

The waiter returns with Spencer’s glass of Root Beer and takes your orders. Spencer was right. You did get some variation of pasta.

As you wait for your food, you tell Spencer about one of your professors assigning a five page paper on the second day of class.

“He also quoted Spider Man,” you say.

“The professor?” Spencer frowns.

You nod.

“With great power comes great responsibility?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say, taking a sip of your water.

“Did you know that while that quote is commonly attributed to Spider Man, it was actually Voltaire that technically said it centuries ago? ‘T-they must consider that a great responsibility is the inseparable result of a great power.’ although there are even earlier parallels in French philosophy and religious texts. Spider Man just popularized it for post-modern audiences.” 

You stare at him for a moment. 

“Well, considering he had a ton of Marvel posters around the classroom, I’m going to assume he is part of the ‘post modern audiences’ that Spider Man got to…”

“You’re probably correct,” he says.

The waiter returns carrying two plates balanced effortlessly on his arm. He remembers whose plate is whose without having to ask. He checks your glasses to make sure they are still at an acceptable level before telling you to enjoy and walking to another table to check on them.

The food is delicious, by far one of the best pastas you’ve had from a restaurant, because obviously it couldn’t beat your uncles.

Every few minutes one of you would steal a bite while the other talked. Spencer absentmindedly gestured with his fork whenever he got excited about something, occasionally catching himself halfway through a sentence and setting it back down with an embarrassed smile. You caught yourself watching his hands almost as much as you watched his face. 

“They’ve been married a long time,” Spencer says, gesturing toward an older couple in the opposite corner.

“How do you know?” you ask, covering your mouth because there’s a small amount of pasta still inside.

“Couples who’ve been together for years tend to mirror each other’s posture and timing without realizing it. They reach for their drinks at almost the same time and they’re doing the same gestures. Studies show that couples begin to match each ‘speech rhythm and in some studies they even synchronize blinking!”

You watch the couple for a moment, and sure enough, every time one of them smiles or took a drink or a bite, the other does the same.

“That’s really sweet,” you smile.

“Long term relationships change behavioral patterns in measurable ways–” he starts rambling again. You don’t process what he’s saying, your mind is far elsewhere.

“Do you think we’ll do that someday?” you interrupt. Your face gets a little warm after realizing what you said. 

That was meant to be an inside thought.

“I’d like to,” he says without hesitation, taking a bite of his food like he didn’t casually steal all the air from your lungs with two words and a contraction. 

You don’t say anything, just take a bite of your food as well while watching him. The warm light above the table catches the deep brown of his eyes every time he looks up. His hair is messy, but in a way that looks…hot. And not disheveled. He gestured with his fork while explaining something, only to stop halfway through each time because he forgot he was holding it. 

He apologizes to the waiter every time he has to refill a water cup, even though the waiter assures him that it is his job. He thanks him every single time too. The waiter brings the check, and you can’t help but smile as Spencer pays.

You don’t argue, not this time. Because you know he wants this to feel like a real date. Not that the endless coffee shops and bookstores weren’t ‘dates.’ Those were just…casual. And this one is…formal.

Outside, the air is cooler than when you’d arrived. The atmosphere is something that is only captured in cities at night. Traffic is heard, there’s a train in the distance, somewhere down the road live music from a bar or a nightclub spills out. Streetlights cast warm toned circles across the sidewalk. There’s a light dribble of rain that falls from the sky.

Spencer slips his jacket over your shoulders before you can protest.

"You've already given me one sweater," you tell him, despite the fact that the jacket is already caped around you.

"This one's temporary," he says, resting his hand on your lower back through the layers.

"...Okay," you say a little suspiciously. You don't give it back. 

His jacket still smells like him.

He opens the passenger door and helps you in again before walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, and just…sits. For several minutes. And doesn’t speak. 

You don’t either, because despite your earlier confidence, and maybe cockiness, now there’s something sitting between the two of you. A conversation, or rather, a purchase.

“...So,” you say carefully, deciding to break the silence he had no signs of stopping.

“So,” he echoes, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel again.

“We should probably…” you start.

“Go,” he finishes. “Yes, go.”

He turns the engine on, a slight shake of the car making a loose curl fall in front of his eyes. He brushes it away.  Spencer shifts the car into reverse, one hand settling over the top of the steering wheel while the other reaches behind your headrest. He twists in his seat to look through the rear window, checking carefully for approaching cars before easing backward.

Your breath catches. It should be such an ordinary thing. People back out of parking spaces every day. But somehow Spencer manages to make even that look unfairly attractive.

The sleeve of his flannel pulls back just enough to reveal the veins of his forearm, tendons shifting beneath his skin as he turns the wheel. His jaw is slightly set in concentration, lips parted just enough that his perfectly imperfect teeth peek through them while his eyes flick between the mirrors and the rear window. 

He's completely focused on the parking lot and completely unaware of how fucking HOT he looks.

You'd spent months memorizing the way he looked when he laughed, when he read, when he got excited enough to ramble about constellations or obscure historical trivia. You hadn't realized "carefully backing out of a parking space" deserved a place on that list.

He looks so ridiculously handsome that it's almost offensive.

Oh, I'm in trouble.

Not because of the date. Not because of the dinner. Not even because of the conversation you'd had on the drive over.

Just because this absurdly brilliant man has absolutely no idea what he looks like when he's concentrating.

He straightens the wheel and glances over.

"What?"

"...Nothing,” you blink.

He narrows his eyes for only a second before returning his attention to the road.

“You have a staring problem and a lying problem," he says, dropping one hand off the wheel and onto your thigh.

Oh I am so fucking this man until he can’t form a single coherent thought.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,” you smile innocently at him.

"I don't believe you," he says, glancing over at you.

"That's okay."

He lets out a quiet, suspicious little hum.

You turn toward the window before the smile spreading across your face gives you away completely.

The pharmacy parking lot is almost completely empty. Spencer still parks toward the back. Neither of you moves, or speaks, or breathes.

“...Spencer?” you say quietly, getting his attention. He looks at you. “You carry a gun and chase serial killers for a living.”

“I do,” he says, looking at your mouth.

“But you draw the line at buying condoms?”

“...When you phrase it like that it sounds stupid,” he says.

“So come on,” you say, cracking your door open and stepping onto the pavement. Surprisingly, he follows. Like a dog.

The store is busier inside than it looks outside. It’s not busy per se, but there's more people inside than the three cars outside makes it look. The greenish fluorescent lights seem impossibly bright compared to the dim orange light of the restaurant.

Once you reach the aisle, Spencer just…stares. There are far more options than he could’ve ever imagined. You let him look for a while. He picks up a box and reads the entirety of both sides. Then another.

“This one has ribs,” he says. “For…increased stimulation.”

“Mhm,” you hum, playing around with a holographic bottle of lubricant. 

“...Do you want…” he immediately stops talking. “That’s probably not a conversation we should have in aisle 7.”

A woman pushing a cart passes by. Spencer pretends to be deeply fascinated by the pregnancy tests, which somehow he deems less embarrassing than condoms.”

“Just get normal ones,” you say, leaning into him. You grab a box of three and hand it to him.

“Thank you for being significantly better at this than I am,” he says, fidgeting with the punched out hole on the flap that was used to hang it on the hook.

Spencer doesn’t look the cashier in the face once, just sits the box on the counter and pays, then mutters a small ‘thank you,’ on the way out. 

By the time you're back in the car, the awkwardness has dissolved into quiet laughter. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with yours as he starts the drive toward his apartment, the small paper pharmacy bag sitting innocently in the back seat like it hadn't just caused the two of you ten straight minutes of mutual panic. The hardest part, somehow, was over.

As Spencer drives out of downtown D.C., and storefronts become neighborhoods, four lanes become two, he cracks his window just enough to let cool air drift inside, the rain having subsided.

His hand transitions from holding yours to gripping protectively on your thigh, yours sitting atop his. You watch him as streetlights sweep across his face, painting him gold. When he passes under a bridge or a larger car, the lights get blocked and his features soften to a shadow. 

You’d never met someone who wore their mind so visibly. Every tiny expression crossed his face before he realized it had. Every thought seemed to live just the smallest layer beneath the surface. You’d spent months memorizing Spencer Reid when he wasn’t looking.

The way he’d absentmindedly chew on the inside of his cheek while reading. The way his eyebrows pinch together whenever he is concentrating. The way he’d smile to himself after remembering some obscure fact, and then immediately share it without restraint.

“What?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you, snapping you out of whatever clouded state you were in.

“I love you,” you say, unsure of what else to do.

“I love you too,” he smiles, accepting your answer immediately as though it made perfect sense.

An old jazz standard drifted quietly through the speakers. Spencer hadn't turned the radio on. It must've come on automatically when he'd started the car. He listened for a few seconds.

"Do you know why music triggers autobiographical memories more effectively than almost any other sensory stimulus?" He asks, like he sort of expects you to know the answer.

"Why?" you smile.

"The auditory cortex has unusually strong connections with the hippocampus, which is heavily involved in long-term memory formation." His voice slipped naturally into the cadence you loved so much. "Because songs are processed rhythmically and emotionally at the same time, hearing one years later can reactivate entire neural pathways. People often remember where they were, who they were with, sometimes even what they were wearing."

He glanced over for half a second before returning his attention to the road.

"It's one of the reasons patients with Alzheimer's can sometimes remember lyrics long after they've forgotten conversations."

You nodded. Not because you were particularly invested in neuroscience. You weren't. You were listening because it was Spencer.

Because when Spencer talked about something he loved, the rest of the world always seemed to disappear. You could listen to him explain absolutely anything forever. The neurological effects of music. The migratory habits of geese. Tax law. The history of paperclips.

You honestly didn't care. You would still sit there smiling at him exactly like you were right now.

He kept talking, hands moving a little as he explained despite one remaining on the wheel. Outside, the city continued slipping past unnoticed. Inside, you quietly wondered how someone could make talking about the hippocampus feel romantic.

You still didn't have an answer. Maybe it was just him.

_____

You follow Spencer into his apartment, latching the door shut as he turns on the lamp. He turns back to you, sitting his keys down in the process.

“So, I was thinking–” he starts. 

You don’t let him finish.

You tiptoe to press your lips against him with a hunger. He makes a surprised noise that melts into a low groan as he reciprocates the kiss. His hands over awkwardly at your waist before sipping under the cardigan and gripping the satin of your dress. You shrug the cardigan off, letting it fall to the floor as you push him toward his bedroom, helping him to shed his jacket and unbutton his flannel along the way.

He bumps you into the doorframe, a gentle bump, one that only results in a muttered ‘sorry’ into your mouth. You fall back down on the bed, pulling him down on top of you. He obediently settles with his legs between your thighs. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, pulling back from the kiss to study your face. “Because I’ve never actually…I mean– we’ve done other stuff, but…this is different and I don’t want to ruin it or hurt you or–”

“Spencer,” you whisper seductively, pulling him close to you. “Fuck me.”

He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to yours again desperately. His hands slide over your dress, tracing every curve of your body like he’s studying a map.

“G-god this dress,” he murmurs against your neck, voice cracking. “You need to warn me next time you’re gonna look this good. I never want to hide another erection from your uncle again. That was mortifying.”

“I thought you had more self control,” you smile into his mouth, pushing his shirt the rest of the way off. You run your hand down his chest, to his abs, then down to the front of his pants, wrapping your fingers loosely around the outline of his cock. He lets out a small whimper into your mouth.

“I’ve been trying to act like a gentleman all night,” he says breathlessly as you lazily stoke him. “I-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but you’re making it really hard.”

You laugh softly, squeezing him a little tighter in your hand. His face flushes darker.

“You know exactly what that dress is doing to me, don’t you?” he asks, more inquisitive than seductive.

You nod, squeezing your thighs together under him. His eyes darken slightly.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he asks, almost accusatory, but his voice is so shy and high pitched because he’s so turned on that he just sounds adorable.

He pushes one of the straps of your dress down, taking one out overtop the lace. He lowers his head just above it, almost as if he’s daring himself to take it in his mouth.

“C-can I?” he asks, looking up at you with doe eyes.

“You can do whatever you want to me, Spencer,” you say, ruffling your free hand in his hair.

His mouth is immediately on you. He sucks the nipple into his mouth as he brings his other hand up to palm the other through the dress. You can feel his hips starting to stutter into your hand, so you bring both hands around his neck. He pouts momentarily at the loss of friction, but seemingly remembers the plans that were made.

“Can you get on…top of me?” he asks quietly, already climbing off you. You roll over on top of him, straddling his waist in a way that makes your dress ride up past your hips. He stares up at you with his lips swollen and parted, looking in awe of you.

His hands come up, one resting on your waist, the other inching up your thigh. You grab his wrist, moving his hand between your legs. He picks up on your hint, two fingers pushing inside you. You moan a little provocatively, not having anything to stifle it as he curls his fingers just right, just the way you taught him, and his thumb finds its way to your clit.

“Y-you’re soaked,” he says quietly, sounding both awed and embarrassed. 

“All for you, Spence,” you moan, rocking slowly against his hand. You brace yourself by holding his shins behind you, giving him the ability to push his fingers impossibly further into you. 

“I’ve been trying so hard not to make you feel like I only think about sex,” he admits apologetically. Which is a little comical as he’s looking at his fingers dipping in and out of you rather than your face, or even your waist. Literally anywhere else. “Because I don’t.”

You know he doesn’t. He always made you feel loved. Always. Anything sexual was a product of you being emotionally fulfilled with him. But your emotional needs are some of the last things you're thinking about as you start to feel a familiar heat pooling inside of you. 

“But tonight,” he continues, letting out a shaky breath. “I want you so bad, Y/N,” he whines. 

His begging was enough to break the knot in your stomach. You clench around his fingers with a high pitch moan that has him shushing you. Your thighs tremble as the orgasm washes through you, but you don’t give either of you any time to recover.

“Fuck me now, Spencer,” you pant, rolling over and tugging him on top of you. “I need you. Please.”

His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark. 

“O-okay. Yeah. Okay,” he stammers, sounding utterly overwhelmed. He fumbles in his pocket for the condom he’d shoved in there earlier, tearing the wrapper open with shaky fingers and nearly dropping it twice.

You sit up enough to unbutton his pants, tugging the zipper down. Spencer helps, pushing his slacks and boxers down his hips in one clumsy motion. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He makes a tiny, embarrassed noise when it slaps against his stomach.

He tries to roll the condom on himself, but his hands are trembling too badly. After a couple failed attempts, he looks up at you with burning red cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “This is probably so weird. I just… I’ve never done this and my hands won’t stop shaking and–”

“No, Spencer, it’s okay,” you murmur, taking the condom from him gently. “You’re okay. Let me.”

You roll it down his length with steady hands. He watches the whole time with parted lips and ragged breathing. The second it’s on, you guide him between your legs, helping line the head of his cock up with your entrance. He braces himself on his elbows above you, the bunched satin of your dress rubbing between your bodies.

He nudges forward sliding against you a few times before finally pushing inside on the third try. The stretch is intense and perfect. You moan at the thick feeling of him sinking deeper and deeper until his hips are pressed flush against yours.

The sound Spencer makes is filthy. A raw, guttural groan that sounds almost too dirty coming from him. His whole body shudders hard as he bottoms out, like the sensation is overwhelming every nerve he has.

“Oh my god,” he whimpers, voice high and broken. “This is better than I’ve ever imagined it being. Your… your pussy feels so much better than my hand.”

The second the words leave his mouth he freezes, eyes flying open in mortified panic.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying that,” he rushes out, face burning crimson. “I’m sorry, that was disgusting, I just–”

You pull him down into a messy kiss before he can spiral further, and he melts into it with a needy whine. Slowly, he starts to move. His thrusts are shallow and awkward at first, like he’s still figuring out how to do this. He’s an absolute whimpering, moany mess above you, soft desperate sounds spilling from his lips with every roll of his hips. 

“Fuck… you’re so tight and… warm and wet,” he pants against your neck, voice trembling. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this so many times and it never felt this good. I’m sorry…I shouldn’t keep saying stuff like that but I can’t shut up–”

His hips stutter, losing rhythm for a second before he finds it again, thrusting a little deeper. The bed creaks quietly beneath you. One of his hands grips your waist through the dress, the other braced beside your head as he tries so hard to be gentle even while falling apart.

“I’ve wanted you like this for months,” he rambles breathlessly, words punctuated by shaky moans. “I never…oh god…imagined you in a dress…but…fuck…it’s almost better…I’m already so close. I wanted to last longer for you but you feel too good and I-I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay Spencer,” you moan, bringing a hand up to cup his jaw. “Cum for me.”

His thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate, but still uncoordinated and shy. He keeps pressing soft, apologetic kisses to your neck and shoulder between the filthy little confessions, like he can’t decide whether to worship you or be embarrassed by how badly he wants you.

A few more deep thrusts and Spencer buries himself inside you with a broken, overwhelmed moan. His whole body shakes as he cums hard, hips jerking against you in uneven pulses. The raw, desperate sounds he makes are almost pornographic.  

Afterward, he collapses half on top of you, still buried inside, breathing hard against your neck. For a long moment he just clings to you, arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. 

“I’m really sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, voice small and embarrassed. “That was… really short. And I said too much. I didn’t mean to be so… gross. I just… I’ve thought about you like that for a long time and actually being inside you was…a lot.”

You smile and cuddle closer, fingers playing with his messy curls. The black dress is still bunched around your waist, warm and damp with sweat.

“It was perfect, Spence,” you whisper. “I loved it.”

He lets out a shy, relieved huff of laughter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

_____

Check Out Reader's Instagram (there's a new post hehe)

Read Part 35 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: um hi this is an awkward spot to be at um did u guys like the smut or am i washed?

_____

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[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 32)

Visiting Hours

summarry: one by one, the team comes to visit you as you recover in the hospital after being kidnapped.

word count: 7k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), hospital setting, recovery, discussions of trauma, pain meds and IV descriptions, brief references of addict!spencer, hospital coffee

_____

You wake up to see sunlight spilling through the window of your room. Your eyes flick to the clock on the wall.

7:07 AM.

Your eyes find Spencer afterwards. He’s awake this time, sitting in the chair beside your bed, legs crossed, with a book balanced on one knee. Though from the way he immediately looks up at you at the first sign of movement you show, he clearly hasn’t been reading very much.

“Good morning,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”

You think for a second. “...Good.”

“Good?” he repeats, eyebrows lifted over his glasses. 

“Hospital good,” you say, taking a sip of your water.

He smiles, looking relieved. “Are you still okay with everyone visiting today?”

“Yeah,” you say, fondling the tube of your IV.

Spencer’s face shifts to concern. “You don’t have to if you’re tired or don’t feel good,” he tells you.

“I know,” you say, “I want to see people.”

“Garcia texted me and asked 8:00 was too early to come.”

“That’s fine,” you say, staring at him. “You should fix your hair though.”

“I know,” he says, typing on his phone, presumably texting Penelope. “You should see yours.”

“I didn’t even think about my hair,” you say, smile disappearing. “Is it tangled?”

He stares at you. Well, at your hair.

“It’s…worse than that,” he says quietly.

“How bad?” you ask.

“It resembles a moderately sized bird's nest,” he says.

You hide your face. “Everyone’s going to see it,” you say into your hands.

“They won’t care.”

“I care.”

He gives you a weak, sympathetic smile. “I can put it up for you, it would at least look…smaller,” he offers, trying to spare your feelings. 

“Do you remember what happened when you tried to braid my hair?” you ask him.

“I can do a ponytail,” he says confidently. “It’s much easier.”

“Fine,” you say, moving your hair from your shoulders. “Go ahead.”

“You sound like you don’t trust me,” he says.

“I trust you, just not with my hair,” you say as you try to scoot forward. Then immediately regret it. “Ow!”

“Hey,” he says nervously, rushing toward the bed. “Let me help you.” 

He holds his hand out for you to take, and braces your back with the other, slowly leaning you forward. It’s not painful with his help, your body just feels tense. He pulls on the knot just a little bit, to see how tight it is.

“You know,” he says, pulling out a few loose pieces from the knot. “Hair is incredibly strong. A single strand can support around 100 grams before it breaks.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better while you’re ripping it out of my head?” you ask.

“No, sorry. I’ll just put it up, I can help you brush it out later.”

“You don’t have to help brush it out,” you tell him. 

“What if I want to?” He says, finally gathering your hair together and smoothing it back. 

“I guess if you’re offering,” you say. He starts to wrap the hair tie around. “Pull a little tighter. It’s gonna fall out.”

“A-are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’ll fall out, Spence.”

He pulls tighter and begins wrapping the hair tie around your hair once. Then twice.

“How many times does this go?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” you say. “It depends on how big it is.”

“That…doesn’t help me.”

“Try one more time.”

He does one more loop then steps around so you can see him again. 

“I think,” he starts, stopping to stare at you.

“You think?” 

“I’ve achieved ponytail.”

You smile at him, reaching around behind your head to feel the finished product. It’s a little crooked, and a few hairs have escaped around your face, but it’s secure.

“It actually feels pretty good,” you say. He smiles a proud smile.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in!”

Penelope

8:00 AM

Garcia enters the room, carrying a large gift bag, three balloons, and a drink carrier, with two coffees and a bakery bag inside of it. She walks through the entry past the bathroom to where she has a good view of you.

“Oh! Look at you,” she says, her face lighting up. “You’re awake! And conscious! And making eye contact!” She sets her bags and balloons and coffees on the table and trots over to you, her heels clicking loud. “I’ve been waiting four whole days to see those beautiful little eyeballs!”

You smile, still unable to laugh. “Hi, Penelope.”

“Oh my god, she said hi,” she looks excitedly at Spencer. “She said hi to me!”

“I told you she was awake,” Spencer says, quietly sitting back down in the chair next to your bed. 

“Can I hug you?” Penelope asks.

“Yes,” you say, holding your arms open.

“Gently,” Spencer calls from the chair.

She gives you a hug lighter than you thought was possible from her. She steps back, looking at you through glistening eyes that she blinks away.

“Oh, honey,” she says, “We were all so scared.”

You smile softly. “I’m okay,” you say.

“I know,” she reaches down and squeezes your hand gently. “And I would like to officially request that you never ever do anything that terrifying ever again.”

“I don’t plan on getting kidnapped again,” you joke.

Spencer clears his throat. “...Do you like her ponytail?” he asks quietly from the chair.

Penelope looks at your hair. It wasn’t anything special. “It…looks like a ponytail…”

You contort your voice to a loud whisper, one that Spencer can still hear, but that conveys the fact that you’re pretending he can’t. 

“He did it,” you say, pointing at Spencer. “And he’s very proud of himself.”

Penelope’s eyebrows shoot up and she nods solemnly. She turns back to Spencer, who is in fact smiling with unmistakable pride.

“Boy Genius,” she exclaims, pulling his attention to her. “You did her hair?”

“I did,” he grins.

“By yourself?” Penelope asks, stepping behind you to study your ponytail with exaggerated seriousness.

“Yes,” he says.

“I have notes,” she says, after circling you once like an art critic examining a sculpture. “I have tips,” she tucks an escaped strand behind your ear. “But for a first attempt, it looks great.”

Spencer smiles impossibly wider. looking so proud of himself. “I even got the tension right!”

You smile at him, then look at Penelope. “He asked me how tight it should be,” you explain. “Then he gave me a lecture about the strength of human hair.”

Penelope giggles, looking between the two of you. “Oh sweetheart,” she says, sitting on the edge of your bed. “You have to keep this one,” she motions toward Spencer. Spencer, who looks adorably confused. 

“Keep me?” he repeats, a mix of confusion and almost offense in his voice.

“Yes, Boy Wonder,” Penelope says.

Spencer looks at you with betrayal in his eyes. “I wasn't aware I was available for exchange.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Penelope beats you to words, so you just shrug.

“Oh, you are not!” Penelope says, waving a dismissive hand. “Final sale, no refunds, no exchanges, Manufacturer warranty has expired.”

“I don’t think that’s how–” Spencer starts.

“Nope,” she cuts him off, then turns her attention toward you. “Do you know how monumental this is?”

“...The ponytail?” you ask.

“Spencer Reid doesn’t just voluntarily touch people’s hair,” she says quickly.

“That’s a misleading generalization!” Spencer says faster.

“It’s not!” Penelope rebuts.

“It is. I’ve–”

Penelope looks at you, cutting him off again.”Do you know how long I’ve known him?”

You shake your head, well, you more shake your eyes and only slightly move your head.

“Almost four years!” She holds up four fingers. “And in that time I’ve seen him touch a total of…” she pretends to calculate. “Oh! zero other people’s hair.”

“That’s–” Spencer tries to argue, but Penelope keeps talking. She’s good at that, you’ve noticed. 

“You’ve hugged me…” Penelope continues.

“Don’t.” Spencer interjects, sounding almost offended.

“...four times in those four years, and you’ve only initiated one!” Penelope says.

“One of them was a side hug,” Spencer says, like somehow that helped his case. “On Halloween last year.”

“You remember?” Penelope’s eyes sparkle as she looks at him. Spencer just widens his eyes in return, giving her a look that says ‘eidetic memory.’ Penelope softens for exactly half a second before she picks up on the look. “Right, he’s a genius.”

“What’s your point?” Spencer says, starting to sound a little bit annoyed at the attention he’s getting from her.

“My point is,” she grabs your ponytail, “hair.” She points at Spencer with her other hand. “You.” She then gently pulls your ponytail toward him, soft enough to not move your head, just to move the hair in his direction. “Personal space!?” 

“She can’t do it herself right now!” Spencer argues.

“I mean…” you finally speak quietly. “He does braid my hair sometimes…”

Penelope’s entire face lights up. She lets go of your hair and grabs your shoulders. She’s gentle, but she’s moving so quickly and erratically that it worries your boyfriend.

“Be careful with her!” he says a little too loud.

“She’s okay, Spence,” you say, not taking your eyes off Penelope, who is looking down at you like you just told her you were getting married.

“He braids your hair!?” She repeats ecstatically. You nod with a smile. “Honey, that’s Spencer Reid’s version of writing your name in the sky!”

You smile at her, then glance over to Spencer, who looks adorably mortified. His eyes are blown wide and the tips of his ears have begun to turn red in the way that you love.

“It is not!” He argues at her immediately. He shifts his attention to you “N-not that I wouldn’t w-write your n-name, Y/N, I love you!” you can visibly see his brain click on. “Skywriting is actually a very inefficient form of communication and the message is usually only visible for less than ten minutes a-and about 72% of people who see skywriting don’t actually remember what it said within an h-hour. I just think there’s more memorable ways of telling y-you that I love you. I mean if you w-want me to get a skywriter I could but it just doesn’t seem practi–”

“Spencer,” you say, stopping him from his seemingly endless spiral. “She was making a joke.”

His face burns redder as he looks down at his shoes to try to hide it.

“I knew that,” he mumbles.

Penelope tells you a few stories about Spencer avoiding physical touch at all costs, and you smile at the thought. Not the thought of him avoiding contact, but the thought that he never was weary to touch you. Even during the beginning of your friendship, he was okay with touching you. The idea that you were taking the hugs and casual hand holds for granted was something that never crossed your mind.

After about an hour, Penelope stands from the foot of your bed.

“As much as I hate to do this,” she says, smoothing out her dress. “I have to mind the visiting schedule.”

You smile at her, not thankful for her to leave, but thankful for the chance to take a nap. “Thank you for coming,” you tell her.

“Oh of course, honey. Anything for you,” she grabs her purse, then pauses as she’s reminded of the drink carrier she brought in. “That’s yours,” she says, looking at Spencer.

“...M-mine” he stutters.

“Yes, yours,” she says, handing the cup to him. She points at the bakery bag. “And there’s a croissant in there too. Make sure you’re eating.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, smiling at her.

You watch as she leaves the room, you swear you could hear her heels clicking all the way out the front door of the hospital. After a moment, you turn to Spencer.

“When is the next person coming?” You ask through sleepy, hooded eyes.

“Morgan is coming at 10:30,” he says.

“What time is it now?” Your eyes are noticeably heavy.

“9:15, are you wanting to sleep?” He looks at you with a slightly concerned face. “I can tell him to come later.”

“N-no,” you say, struggling to keep your eyes open. “J-just wake me up at t-ten.”

He smiles, reaching his hand out to hold yours again. You lazily wrap your fingers around his, not grasping, just holding. His hand squeezes yours, one of the most comforting things to feel as you fall asleep.

Derek

10:30 AM

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep for when you feel something warm brush against your cheek, but it definitely doesn’t feel like it’s been long enough. You keep your eyes closed, pretending to not have woken up. A thumb traces slowly over one of the only parts of your face that isn’t bruised or surrounding a bruise. He whispers your name, you only hum in response.

“Are you awake?” He asks softly. 

“No.” you say. He laughs softly. “...Five more minutes.”

“Morgan will be here in about ten minutes,” he says. Your head starts tipping further into the pillow like you’re dozing off again. “I can ask him to come later if you want to sleep.”

“No…” you say. Your eyes stay closed. “...want to…see him.” 

“Are you sure?” He asks you, not sounding convinced.

You sit your head up, eyeing him with heavy lids. “Yeah…just…tired.”

Your head starts falling sideways again. Spencer catches it before it falls completely. 

“I know,” he says, his hand staying lightly against the side of your head. “Come on, let’s sit you up.”

“But…comfortable,” you groan as he slips a hand behind your back. 

“Do you want to be awake when Morgan gets here?” he asks. You nod. “Then you need to sit up. You’ll be less likely to fall asleep when sitting upright.”

“You’re just…saying that,” you say.

“No, it decreases sleep onset because your postural muscles remain active,” he explains.

“...fine,” you say, grabbing his hand that’s not behind your back as he begins to pull you forward. He lifts slowly, stopping every few inches.

"Too fast?"

"No."

"Hurting?"

"No."

"You'll tell me?"

"I promise."

Once you're sitting comfortably against the raised hospital bed, he adjusts the pillows behind you until you stop squirming. Then he hands you your water.

Knock.

Knock.

The door opens just enough for a familiar head to poke through.

"You decent?"

“Come in,” Spencer calls.

You hand your water back to Spencer. He takes the cup automatically, setting it beside your bed as Derek pushes the door open the rest of the way.

Unlike Penelope, he isn't balancing gift bags or balloons or enough supplies to open a small gift shop. It's just him in jeans and a leather jacket, his hands shoved into his pockets like he'd simply stopped by on his way home.

"What's up, Kid?" he says, crossing the room. He stops beside your bed and holds out a fist. “How ya feeling?”

“Tired,” you say, bumping his fist gently. “But it doesn’t really hurt right now.”

“That’s good,” he says. His eyes drift to the IV hanging beside your bed, then back to you. “They’ve got you pretty pretty high, don’t they.” He chuckles.

“Yeah,” you grin.

Morgan laughs before turning to Spencer. “Has Pretty Boy here been taking good care of you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s been perfect.”

Spencer’s ears immediately turn pink. “I-I haven’t really done much. I get her her water and the TV remote.”

“You’ve been here for four days,” Morgan says, staring at him. “I’m guessing you’ve done a little more than handing her the remote and playing waterboy.”

“I don’t know…” Spencer says.

You know.

Sure, he’s grabbed the remote and your water the most, but he’d also held your hand through every nightmare, and he learned which side of the bed hurt your ribs less, he remembered every medication, every side effect, every nurse, every doctor, everything. He’d slept folded into that uncomfortable chair because he refused to leave the room, even when there were no signs of you waking up soon, he’d stayed.

And to you, that was way more than grabbing the remote or handing you a plastic cup.

“You have,” you say softly.

“I have?” Spencer looks over to you, confused.

You nod, opening your eyes wide at him. He smiles that shy smile you’ve started to recognize before he shrugs like none of had been anything special.

“Why don’t you get some fresh air for that genius brain of yours,” Morgan suggests, patting Spencer on the shoulder.

“No,” Spencer answers immediately, shaking his head. “I don’t want to leave her.”

“You look like hell, Kid,” Morgan says. “Just five minutes, I’ll stay here.”

“What if something happens?” Spencer argues, still not showing any time of moving. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” Morgan assures him.

Spencer glances toward you, like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.

“Go,” you smile. He looks almost offended by your answer.

“A-are you sure?” he says. You nod at him. “W-what if you need someth– You can’t reach your water.”

“I can hand her her water,” Morgan says.

“What if her pain gets wor–” Spencer tries to argue.

“I can get a nurse,” Morgan interrupts.

“What if–” Spencer tries again.

“Go,” you interrupt. Spencer falls quiet, staring at you.

“Youll be okay?” He asks softly.

You smile. “I’ll be okay, Spence.”

He studies you for a moment before his face fills with relief. He leans down and brushes a loose strand of hair back behind your ear and presses the gentlest kiss you’ve ever felt onto your forehead. He lingers for just a moment, before exhaling. “...Okay.”

Spencer starts to leave, walking slower than you’ve ever seen him move before. He takes one last look at you as he leaves the room, as if he’s committing everything to memory exactly the way it is.

Morgan waits to hear the door click shut before he walks around the bed and sits in the chair Spencer has all but lived in for the past four days. He looks at you intently.

“He hasn’t left at all, has he?” He sighs.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “He needs to shower.”

“You know you’re going to be the only person able to convince him to, right?” he asks you.

“Yeah, I know,” you give him a half smile.

“I don’t know how you did it,” he says. “But you got my boy bad.”

You smile, unsure of what to say.

“You walk him like a dog, you know that?” he says, shaking his head with a smile.

“Nuh uh,” you protest playfully.

“You’re right,” he smirks. “The leash would mean he’d pull back every once in a while.”

“He’s not that bad,” you say.

“Kid, he’d ask for your permission to breathe if you’d let him,” he jokes. You can’t help but smile.

You notice his eyes flick toward your ponytail. He nods toward it. 

“Reid do that?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching up and squeezing the base.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Garcia wasn’t exaggerating,” he says.

“She told you?” you ask.

“She told everybody,” he chuckles. “Whole group chat knows Pretty Boy put your hair up.”

You start to laugh. Then regret it.

“Ow,” you impulsively say, grabbing your side. You squeeze your eyes through the pain.

“Easy,” Morgan coaches, the teasing tone gone.

“I’m okay,” you say while holding your breath.

“No, you’re hurting,” he points out.

You nod after a moment, the pain mostly subsided. 

“Laughing just hurts,” you say.

“Makes sense,” he nods. “You’re pretty banged up, huh?”

“Little bit,” you say, taking a deep breath to control the pain.

“Medicine wearing off?” he asks.

You nod.

“You know when you can get another dose?”

“I don’t,” you start, then remember. “S-Spencer um…he keeps a little notebook where he writes the times. It’s on that table over there,” you point to the table in the corner.

Morgan walks to the table and picks up the small spiral notebook. He flips it open to find pages after pages filled top to bottom. Medication, dosage, time administered, pain level before, pain level after, when you slept, when you asked for water; everything someone could ever need to possibly know is in here. He looks at it for a minute before carefully closing it. 

“...Huh,” he says.

“What?”

“Just forgot how…Reid he is.”

You smile, “He likes writing things down.”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting the notebook back exactly where he found it. His eyes linger on it for a moment longer before looking back to you. “You can have more meds in like fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, cool,” you nod.

Morgan settles back into the chair quietly, resting one arm over the armrest. It’s quiet for a moment.

“So,” he says, “You ever been bowling?”

“Yeah?” you say, confused.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Cause next time you decide you want attention we’re taking you bowling,” he says. “No more getting kidnapped.”

“Dang,” you say, “There goes my weekend plans.”

He smiles. “You had us all worried sick, Kid.”

“I’m sor–” you start.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “I’ve been briefed by Rossi, no apologies.”

“Sorry,” you say.

“Don’t keep apologizing for something someone else did.”

“...I know,” you say, looking down at your blanket.

He lets the silence sit for a moment before bumping your knee gently with the back of his hand.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“About bowling?” you ask with a small smile.

“About bowling,” he smiles back.

One of your favorite things about most of your friends being profilers was that you didn’t always have to explain everything, they just know. 

You hear the doorknob turn, you turn to see Spencer entering, still looking like he’s been through hell and back. His eyes find yours before the door can even latch shut.

“Are you okay?” He asks, already having reached the side of your bed before you can answer.

“I’m okay, Spence,” you assure him.

“How was your walk?” Morgan asks him.

“Unhelpful,” he shrugs, then immediately turning his attention back to you. “Are you hurting?”

“...A little,” you admit.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes turning only slightly glassy.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him.

“I know…” he says, starting to lose some of the color in his face. “I just–” he sniffles back a tear.

“Have your chair back, man,” Morgan says, standing up.

“It’s okay–” Spencer starts.

“No, go sit,” Morgan says, nodding toward the chair. “I've already had to clean up your puke four times this week. Don't make it five.”

“Morgan!” He shouts, accusatory.

You look at Spencer. “You threw up four times?”

"What?" Morgan shrugs innocently. "She was gonna find out eventually."

Spencer rubs the back of his neck, refusing to look at you. "...I was scared."

Just three words, quiet and matter-of-fact. Like that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

He walks back around to his chair and sits beside your bed, reaching for your hand before he's even settled all the way down. Your fingers lace together automatically. You squeeze once. He squeezes back. No one says anything for a moment.

Knock.

The door opens just enough for one of your nurses to peek inside.

"How are we doing in here?" She asks

"Good," you answer.

She smiles. "Ready for some more pain medicine?" You nod. "I'll be right back."

The door closes again. Spencer looks over at Morgan.

"Uh..." He clears his throat. "She usually falls asleep about...ten minutes after they give it to her." 

Morgan nods.

"You’re welcome to stay,” he says, “I’m not kicking you out, just… be quiet."

"Nah," Morgan stands, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. "I'll get outta your hair."

He stops halfway to the door, turning back and looking directly at Spencer. He’s not smiling, he’s serious.

“You good?” Morgan asks him, his eyebrows raised.

You feel Spencer squeeze your hand ever so slightly tighter. His eyes shift up to meet Derek’s.

“I’m okay,” he says sincerely.

“You sure?” Morgan asks.

“I am.” Spencer nods.

Morgan studies him for a moment, nodding once he seems satisfied. 

“If that changes…” Morgan starts.

“...I’ll let somebody know,” Spencer finished for him.

“Good,” Morgan says, nodding. He looks over to you. “Oh, and don’t worry about your car,” he says casually.

“My car?” you repeat, furrowing your eyebrows at him. 

“Fixed it,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You didn’t have t–” you start.

“I know,” he interrupts. “I wanted to.”

“Derek…” you say, feeling a little guilty.

“Didn’t want you stuck without a ride once you’re outta here,” he says causally. The nurse returns, pushing a little cart through the door. Morgan steps aside to let her through. “I’ll see you two later.”

He gives Spencer one last sympathetic look as he slips out of the room. The door clicks shut as the nurse begins uncapping your IV.

JJ12:30 PM

JJ enters your room quietly. She’s more calm than Penelope, but more professional than Derek. She radiates comfort. You’re already awake, absentmindedly watching whatever daytime television happens to be on. Spencer isn’t awake. For the first time since you’ve woken up, he’s asleep, curled awkwardly into the hospital chair with one arm folded across his chest and his head tipped against the back cushion. His hair is somehow even messier than it had been this morning. 

JJ notices him immediately, a smile spreading across her face.

“I can’t believe he’s sleeping,” she says, looking toward you.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him asleep while I’m awake,” you tell her.

She glances back at him. “It looks like he needs it.”

You nod. 

She walks over and quietly sits at the foot of your bed, careful not to make noise to wake him, and to not hurt you. She places a gentle hand on your shin that’s hiding under the blanket and looks at you sympathetically.

“I know you’ve heard it a million times, but I’m glad you’re okay,” she says.

“Yeah, thank you,” you say sheepishly.

She’s silent for a moment, just looking at you. “...You scared all of us,” she says. You open your mouth to speak, but she continues before you can. “You’ve made him cry more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Seriously?” you say, a little bit disbelieving. 

She nods, looking over toward him sleeping in the chair. You follow her gaze. He is completely out, his hand that isn’t across his body sits loosely wrapped around your blanket, like even when he’s asleep, he still wanted to make sure he was close enough if you needed him.

“He really loves you,” JJ smiles.

You don’t answer right away, you just keep looking at him. “...I know,” you finally say.

“He looks exhausted,” she says.

“He really needs to go home and shower,” you say. “And sleep somewhere that isn’t…there.

She laughs quietly. “I was going to ask him what he wanted to eat but he seems a little…preoccupied.”

“He’d eat literally anything you got him right now,” you smile.

“Has he eaten today?” she asks.

“Penelope brought him coffee and a croissant this morning,” you think for a moment. “I’m pretty sure he ate it.”

Spencer stirs slightly in the chair. “I can hear you guys, you know,” he grumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

You and JJ look at each other and giggle quietly. 

“So,” she says, turning toward him. “What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t want anything,” he says, cracking one eye open to look at the two of you.

“You need to eat,” she says.

“I had a croissant,” he argues.

“At 8:30,” you remind him.

He opens both eyes, giving you a betrayed look that you have to admit is absolutely adorable.

“You guys are ganging up on me,” he says.

“We want you to take care of yourself,” JJ explains. “What do you want?”

He glances between the two of you. You can visibly see his face of realization when he accepts that neither of you are going to budge.

“...Soup?” he offers cautiously.

“And crackers?” you suggest to him.

“And crackers,” he tells JJ.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” she says with a smile. She grabs her purse and starts walking out of the room. “I’ll be back with soup…and crackers,” she says as she steps out of the room.

Spencer watches her leave before he looks at you. 

“I liked it better when everyone was worried about you,” he says.

Emily4:00 PM

Emily peeks her head in your hospital room about fifteen minutes after you wake up from a nap. She steps inside, holding a cardboard coffee cup she had to have gotten from the waiting room. 

“Hey,” she says as she walks in. “How are you?”

“Hi,” you say, smiling at her.

She takes a sip of the coffee and makes a face. “This tastes like drywall.”

You let out a managed giggle.

“Where’s Reid?” she asks, scanning the room, eyes lingering on the chair beside your bed.

“I finally convinced him to go home and shower while I took a nap,” you smile.

“Good,” Emily says, sitting the coffee down on the table.

“He smelled terrible,” you say, shaking your head. “He was still wearing the same clothes.”

“I believe it,” she says, not sounding shocked at all. “I’m surprised he left you here alone.”

“It took a lot of convincing,” you say. “He really didn’t want to go, I literally had to tell him he smelled bad, then he kept apologizing.”

“I still can’t believe he went four days without showering,” she says. “Even during cases I’ve never seen him go a day without one.”

“He hasn’t shaved either,” you smile slightly. “I honestly didn’t know he could even grow a beard.”

“Me either,” Emily looks horrified at the thought of Spencer Reid with a beard.

“I feel bad,” you say, glancing over at the empty chair.

“For what?” Emily glares at you.

“He shouldn’t have slept in that chair for four nights,” you say. “I wish he would at least go home to sleep.”

“He wants to stay,” she looks at you sympathetically.

"I know, but–" you start.

"And before you apologize..." she interrupts. You immediately close your mouth. "I've noticed something."

"What?" you ask.

"You keep taking responsibility for everyone else's feelings."

You look down. "...Do I?"

"You apologized because Spencer hasn't showered,” she points out. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “Morgan says you apologized to him for being kidnapped.”

“Yeah…” you admit.

"You don't have to spend all your energy making everyone else feel better,” she says. "I've seen people do that after something like this."

She chooses her words carefully, you could tell she was purposely avoiding certain ones. 

Victim.

Kidnapping.

Your fingers twist together in your lap. "...I just don't want everyone worrying."

"I know,” Emily says it so simply that it catches you off guard. "I get it."

You look up at her. “I just don’t want to be…too much.”

"You don't have to protect them from this,” she assures you. “You’re surrounded by the best people for this, we see this everyday.”

“But he can’t even take care of himself because he’s so worried about me,” you say quietly.

Emily looks over at Spencer's empty chair that you don’t realize you’re staring at.

"He loves you,” she says.

"...I know."

"So does Rossi,” she continues. “So they're going to worry. They're going to hover. They're going to ask you how you're feeling fifty times a day."

A tiny smile tugs at your lips. "...Probably."

“Definitely,” she smiles briefly before her face goes serious again. “Eventually, you’re going to have one of those days where you can’t sleep, and where you…remember. And you’re going to tell yourself that you can’t tell Rossi because he’l blame himself, or that you can’t tell Spencer because he’s already dealing with so much…”

You stare at her. She’s exactly right, and it is slightly scaring you. You feel your throat start to tighten up.

“When that happens, call me,” she says casually, but seriously. 

“Okay…” you smile at her. 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” she looks deeply at you. “No matter how early or how late it is, if you need someone who isn’t your uncle, or so…Spencer-like, or you just need another girl to talk to, call me.”

“I will,” you exhale.

She nods, letting the silence settle in the air. For a moment, the only sounds is the heart monitor beeping quietly, the hum of several machines, and the TV on the lowest audible volume level.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “When you’re no longer attached to all this crap, Morgan says we’re taking you bowling.”

You smile, “he told me.”

"I told him you'd probably still have stitches,” she says

"What'd he say?"

Emily straightens in her chair and drops into her best Derek Morgan impression. "'That's why they'll never expect her to win.'"

You laugh silently, you’ve noticed that doesn’t hurt as bad. "...That sounds exactly like him."

"I know."

Emily tells you about Garcia attempting to organize everyone's hospital visiting schedule into a color-coded spreadsheet.

"She made Hotch RSVP,” she tells you.

"...Did he?"

"He replied with exactly one word."

"What?"

"'Received.'"

You laugh silently again.

Knock. Knock.

Spencer appears from behind the door, carrying his satchel and a tote bag you recognize as your own. For a moment, all you do is look at him.

His hair is still damp from the shower, darker than usual where it hasn't dried yet. He'd changed into a red FBI Academy hoodie you'd seen him wear dozens of times before and a pair of grey sweatpants that looked soft enough to sleep in. He still hadn't shaved, the few days' worth of stubble starting to cover his jaw.

He looked tired. Really tired. The shower hadn't erased the dark circles beneath his eyes or the exhaustion that had settled into his face, but it had washed away the hospital. The antiseptic smell. The dried tears. The four days he'd spent refusing to leave your side.  He looked a little more like your Spencer again.

His eyes find yours almost instantly. 

"Hey,” he says, already crossing the room before the word is finished. "How are you feeling?"

“I’m okay,” you smile.

He sits his sachet and your tote bag beside his chair before he leans down over your bed.

"Nothing happened while I was gone?" he asks gently.

"No,” you assure him.

"No nightmares?"

"No."

"No nausea?"

"No."

"You've been okay?"

"I've been okay."

“Okay,” he exhales. You can visibly see the tension leave his shoulders. “Good.”

He stands from your bed, looking over and seemingly realizing Emily was in the corner for the first time. She’s sitting in one of the table chairs, just staring at him with her mouth so slightly agape.

“...What?” he frowns.

“You…have a beard,” she sounds distraught.

“I’ve been a little too busy to shave,” he says, immediately bringing a hand up to run along his jaw.

“And you’re wearing…sweatpants,” she tilts her head toward his lower half.

“Yes?” he questions, looking down at himself.

“I’ve known you two years and I have never once seen you in sweatpants.”

“They’re comfortable,” he shrugs.

“I’ve just never seen you dress…normal,” she says like her entire world has changed.

“I don’t think I typically dress abnormal,” he argues.

“No, you just typically dress nice,” she explains. “It’s just weird to see you in a hoodie.”

You can’t suppress your giggle at their exchange.

“...What?” Spencer asks, looking over at you.

“Nothing,” you smile. “I think you look cute.”

“Thanks,” he says, his face and ears turning a light shade of pink. He reaches down into your tote bag he sat next to the chair. “I brought you something.”

“You did?” you ask, trying to peek down into the bag. He nods, pulling your planner out and lying it gently across your body. “My planner?” you say, feeling your heart swell. 

“I thought you probably missed it,” he shrugs. He pulls out another thing from the bag and puts it across you as well. “I brought you a sweater too…the one you always steal. A-as long as you’re able to pull the sleeve up to show the IV it should fit over everything.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes. Not only did he bring your planner, which you had thought about at least once an hour since you woke up, but he brought his favorite sweater of his for you to wear. The sweater that you know for a fact was in your closet.

“You went to Uncle Dave’s?” you say, looking up at him. “You didn’t even go to your apartment, did you?”

He freezes, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “...no.”

“Why?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“I just figured you’d want your planner,” he shrugs awkwardly. “And I knew I still had clothes in your room from the last time I stayed over.

You glance over at Emily, looking shocked at how naturally the words spill out of Spencer’s mouth. She looks between the two of you. 

“...Rossi lets you stay over?” she sounds, sounding disbelieving.

“Once,” Spencer answers, settling into the chair.

“After trivia night,” you add, knowing that Emily would have far more questions than Spencer, who was at the end of the day, still a man, would answer without being prompted. “He just forgot to take him home.”

“That’s insane,” Emily says, standing and starting to gather her things as the sun starts to set in the windows outside. “I think you have a second reason to call me now,” she smiles.

You nod, knowingly, and thankful for her for not mentioning the previous promise with Spencer here now. She grabs the undrank coffee from the table, and stands near the door. 

“I’m heading home before it gets too dark,” she announces. “Please take care of yourselves, both of you.”

You and Spencer both nod at her as she slips out of the room, leaving you two alone again.

HOTCH7:30 PM

You and Spencer are sitting in comfortable silence, him reading, and you watching him read, when a firm knock sounds at the door.

“Come in,” Spencer calls, looking up from his book.

Aaron Hotchner steps inside. You almost don’t recognize him, not in a full suit. He’s still in slacks, but he wears a grey polo shirt rather than a white button up, tie, and jacket. You understand how Emily felt seeing Spencer in his sweatpants and hoodie now.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says first. “I had Jack today.”

“You didn’t have to come,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, walking over beside your bed. He studies you for a moment, like he’s assessing. "You look better."

"You did well,” he says. You tilt your head slightly. “...in there.”

"...I tried not to die,” you say, half smiling.

"You were severely injured,” he recalls. "And you still kept his attention on you."

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but Spencer tightening his grip on your hand makes you realize.

The unsub.

"I was just trying to keep him talking so he didn’t hit me again,” you admit.

"Exactly,” he nods. "You bought time."

"I didn't really think about it like that," you say, looking down at your blanket.

"Have you ever considered hostage negotiation?" he asks.

You laugh, but look up at him to see that he is dead serious. "...What?"

"You stayed engaged,” his tone stays perfectly even. "You regulated his emotions, you redirected his attention, you kept him invested in the conversation despite your injuries." He looks at you for another second. “Did Dave teach you to do that?”

“No, I just…did it.”

"I think you'd be good at it."

"I'll...keep that in mind."

"I hope you do."

The door creaks a little, opening without having been knocked on. A nurse wheels in a small medication cart.

"Evening meds,” she sings, coming to the side of your bed. She checks your bracelet before pushing medication into your IV. The familiar warmth spreads through your arm. Your eyelids immediately feel heavier.

"You'll probably be asleep in about ten minutes," Spencer tells Hotch.

The nurse finishes disconnecting the syringe before wishing you goodnight. By the time she leaves, you're already struggling to keep your eyes open.

"I'm not tired," you mumble.

Spencer smiles. "You've said that every time."

"I'm serious!” you argue.

"Mhm,” he hums, scooting his chair closer to you. Instead of taking your hand, he lays an arm over your body and onto your thigh in a protective way. You sit your hand on top of his.

"Night," you mumble.

"Goodnight," both men say in unison.

Hotch lingers a moment after you fall asleep. He silently watches as your breathing evens out. Once he’s sure you are out, he turns to Spencer.

“How are you doing?” He asks.

"I'm okay." Spencer says.

"Are you?" Hotch studies him.

"...I'm tired."

"I can see that."

"Are you taking care of yourself?"

"I'm trying,” Spencer nods

Hotch's eyes drift toward the table in the corner of the room. "We know about the notebook,” he says sternly.

"...I'm just keeping track,” Spencer says quietly.

"Is that all you're doing?" Hotch stares.

"...Yes."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No,” Spencer says strongly. Hotch doesn’t let up his intimidation stare. "I promise."

"You're doing a good job, Reid,” Hotch says, a little softer in both his tone and his look. "I'm proud of you."

"...Thank you."

Hotch nods once. "Get some sleep."

Spencer looks back toward you. "I..."

"She'll still be here. And she'll probably sleep better if she knows you are too."

Spencer considers that. "...Okay."

"Promise me."

"I will."

Satisfied, Hotch straightens his jacket.

"Take as much time as you need," he says as he opens the handle of the door, preparing to leave.

“Thank you, sir.” Spencer answers, smiling with relief as Hotch quietly lets himself out.

The room falls silent again. Spencer looks down at your sleeping face, his arm rests across you, holding you in the only way he can right now. Your hand is still wrapped loosely around his. He smiles to himself, leaning forward and kissing your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers before lying his head across you, using your lap as his pillow for the night.

_____

Read Part 33 Here!

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a/n: this took SO long i’m sorry (don’t tell me not to apologize i will continue to apologize even though i don’t need to) anyways um yeah idk what to really do next with this series, i think i might lowkey do like a three month time jump because i don’t want like 8 parts in a row being spencer taking care of ur broken ribs lmao thats so repetitive

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@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmhh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive @allidoisreid

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 31)

No Apologies 

summary: Three days after you fall unconscious in the ambulance, you wake up to Spencer's hand in yours, and discover he never let go. 

word count: 4k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), ambulance descriptions as the patient, vomiting blood, loss of consciousness, hospitalization, IV descriptions, vague dilaudid mentions

_____

Read the Kidnapping Part HERE

Spencer doesn’t wait for the stretcher. He just runs. 

He doesn’t even hear what Morgan shouts from behind him. And he barely notices Rossi matching his exact speed on the side of him. Right now, the only thing that exists is the weight in his arms and the way your breathing hitches against his chest as he runs through the field.

The ambulance doors are already open by the time he reaches them. Two paramedics jump down instantly.

“What happened?” one of them asks.

Spencer doesn’t even pause to think.

“18 year old female, kidnapping victim. Approximately 8 hours in captivity. Multiple blunt force injuries to the head and torso. Possible concussion. Check for broken ribs. She just vomited blood,” he says the words so fast, it was like he rehearsed. He hadn’t. 

Who would rehearse their worst nightmare?

The two paramedics exchange worried looks with each other.

“How much blood?” the other once asks.

“I-I don’t know,” Spencer swallows. “Enough to cover…” he looks down, holding you out a little to keep you off his soiled sweater. “...me.”

One of the medics nods. The other speaks. “We need to get her on the stretcher.”

“Can you hold her for a second longer?” The other medic asks, already climbing in the back of the ambulance.

“Yeah, yeah I got her,” Spencer says. He holds you close to him. He knows the second he puts you down, there’s an unknown amount of time before he can hold you again. Anywhere between 3 days and 3 weeks, he guesses. He pleads for it to be days.

The two medics lower the stretcher beside him and count down from three. They gently lay you on the mattress. You don’t even feel them sit you down. You hope it’s because they’re just gentle, but you know it’s because the pain is overtaking your body and causing light sensories to be less noticeable. 

The second Spencer’s hands are off of you, one of the medics is already checking your pulse while the other slips an oxygen mask over your face. The feeling of the air being blown on you is cold.

“Ma’am,” one of the medics says, trying to get your attention. “Can you hear me?”

You blink to say yes.

The medic nods. “Good, can you speak?”

“...Y-yeah,” your voice feels fried. Which is strange, because you didn’t do much screaming.

“Okay, good. I’m going to ask you some questions, alright?”

“Yeah.”

He shines a dim flashlight in your eyes, checking your pupils. 

“What’s your name?” He asks.

You blink slowly, you stutter, but you answer.

“What year is it?”

“...2007.”

Spencer, who is hovered over the paramedics still, watching you, corrects you before the medic is able to. 

“Eight,” Spencer corrects. “It’s 2008.”

“That’s what I said,” your words slur. You can see worry cover the entirety of Spencer’s face. You don’t know why.

“What hurts?” The medic with the light asks.

You try to laugh, but wince from the pain the diaphragm contractions cause. “...everything.”

The medic uses the hand that isn’t holding the light to your eyes to check your body. His hand is gentle, but the second it reaches your left side pain shoots through your entire body. You suck in a sharp breath, which only makes it worse.

“There?” the medic asks. 

You nod.

“Don’t nod,” the medic says. “Keep your head still.”

“O-okay, sor- i’m sorry,” you spit.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says as he keeps examining you. “Do you remember the last time you lost consciousness?”

“...car.”

“So only the one time?” 

“No…”

Your words are becoming slower and more slurred. And Spencer is becoming more worried.

“Y/N?” He says, looking down at you on the stretcher. You look toward him, your eyes clouded. You can’t really make out his face very well, but you know it’s him. He reaches for your hand without thinking, your fingers curling weakly around his. “I’m right here, Y/N.”

Can y-you,” you look between Spencer and the “c-come…”

You try to lift your head at him, but immediately regret it. A wave of blood pours out of your mouth down the side of your face and the stretcher onto the ground. Far more blood than before. Far darker than before. Thicker than before. Enough that every bit of color leaves Spencer’s face. 

The medics start moving noticeably faster around you. The other one hangs fluids and sets up IVs in both of your arms.

“Pressure is 86/75, tachy at 130.” the medic who formerly held the light says. “We need to go.”

You cough again, your entire body shaking with it. 

“You’ll be okay,” Spencer says, squeezing your hand. He’s unsure if he’s talking to you or himself.

You feel your eyelids drooping and hear Spencer say your name. “T-tired…” you say.

“I know,” Spencer says.

“Stay with me,” one of the medics says.

“S-Spen…” you try to say his name, but you can’t force it out.

“I’m here,” he says, not making you use your energy to finish his name. 

“...’m s-sorry,” you try to apologize.

“For what?” he asks, tears pricking at his eyes.

“Blood…on…you…”

He lets out something between a laugh and a sob as he looks down at his sweater. He can’t believe that out of everything going on right now, you feel like you have to apologize for getting blood on his sweater.

“one of…fav..o..rite,” you try to continue.

“I can buy a new one, Y/N. It’s okay,” he says sincerely.

“...’m sorry,” you repeat, a tear falling from your eye.

Your grip loosens on his hand as your eyes roll shut.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls. You don’t respond.

The monitor starts beeping faster. Spencer’s heart skips a beat.

“Y/N!” he yells, you don’t answer.

One of the medics reaches across you, buckling you into the stretcher. “She’s unconscious.”

The other medic climbs into the back of the ambulance. “We’re good, load her.”

The medic on the ground locks the stretcher into the landing and begins to raise it up. Spencer stands on the ground, standing with tears in his eyes.

“Sir–” one of the paramedics starts.

“She asked for me to come,” Spencer says.

The medics share a glance, then one sighs. “Get in.”

“Just stay out of the way,” the other adds.

_____

You don’t know how long you were out for. There were no dreams, or nightmares, or anything to give you a sense of passing time. It was just empty.

Sound is the first thing to return. There is a steady beeping and the soft hum of an air conditioner near you. That’s different from the steady dripping and buzz of a lightbulb. You hear a distant squeak of shoes against polished floors, different from the loud thud of steel toe boots on concrete. 

Then comes the ache. It’s everywhere. 

Your ribs feel like they’ve been smashed. Your stomach burns. Your head pounds with every beat of your heart. Even simple breathing feels abnormal. 

You slowly open your eyes. The room is dark, the light is off. White walls, white floors, white ceiling, IV pole. Hospital room.

Your eyes drift to your left. 

Spencer.

He’s asleep in a chair he pulled up right beside your bed. He’s folded on top of himself awkwardly, his arm against the metal bar on the side of your bed and his head is leaned against it like a pillow. His hair falls in front, completely hiding his face. His other arm is sprawled out in what almost looks upside down. His hand is in yours.

You use what feels like every ounce of strength you have to squeeze it. 

His head jerks up so fast his arm slips off the metal bar.

“Oh my God,” he says, the look on his face is something you’ve never seen before. It’s a mix of maybe grief, shock, happiness, relief, and like five other things. His chair scrapes loudly across the floor as he shoots to his feet. “You’re awake!”

His eyes fill with tears as he laughs a disbelieving, shaky laugh. He grabs one of your hands and holds it with both of his.

“Hi,” you say weakly. Your throat scratches painfully as you speak.

He lets out another broken laugh once he hears your voice. One of his thumbs continually rubs circles over the back of your hand like he needs constant confirmation that you’re really alive and awake and lying in front of him. 

“I thought–” he stops himself, swallows, then starts over. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

You try to speak something, but your throat feels like sandpaper. 

“Water?” you manage to get out, painfully.

“Oh,” he says, reaching for the cup sitting beside your bed that the hospital had offered him. “Yeah, yeah, here.” 

He helps you lift your head just enough to get the straw to your lips.

The water is cold. It feels so good against your raw throat. You only manage a tiny sip before the pain in your ribs reminds you to not get so ambitious. Spencer lowers the cup as soon as you pull away from the straw.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. 

“What day is it?” you ask. You see his face change.

“...Tuesday.”

You frown. Your brain feels slow to process information. Spencer seems to notice you struggling to put the pieces together.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” he tells you.

You stay silent, staring at the ceiling.

Three days?

“You needed surgery to stop internal bleeding,” he explains carefully. Your face twists with a small amount of fear. “They stopped it, don’t worry. They said everything went just fine.”

“Three days?” you say, still stuck on that. 

Spencer nods. You look at him, and you realize he’s telling the truth. He’s wearing the same clothes, his sweater has been shed and sits on the back of a chair, leaving him in a white t-shirt that he wears under the sweaters that no one sees. The shirt is full of wrinkles from days of wear. His eyes are bloodshot like he hasn’t slept. His hair, which he hasn’t cut in a while, lays flatter than normal against his head, like days of not being washed. His face is unshaven, his beard longer than you’d ever seen it.

He looks older.

“Have you been here–”

“Yes,” he interrupts.

“The whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Spencer…” Your heart twists in your chest,

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone…” he says quietly.

“You s-should’ve…gone home…sleep,” you say.

“I slept here,” he says like he truly believes it counts.

“S-spencer you look–” you stop yourself. You look him up and down again. His eyes follow yours. 

I know,” he says. “But I didn’t want to be gone when you woke up. And I wasn’t, so deal with it.”

You smile, only slightly, but he still notices. 

“What time is it?” you ask, realizing you have no idea.

“1:13 pm, why?”

“D-do you need lunch?” you ask. You know him. If he says he hadn’t left the room, he meant it. You hope the hospital staff brought him food, because you knew he didn’t leave to get any.

“Rossi is out getting food, he should be back in 20 minutes,” Spencer says.

“Is Unc-uncle Dave okay?” you ask. You’d been too focused on the pain in your own body and the train wreck covering your boyfriend that you hadn’t even thought about Dave. 

“Yeah, he’s been here every day. He tried to stay here all night the first night, but I asked him to go home to sleep,” Spencer said.

“He l-listened when you told him…go home?”

“I didn’t tell him to go home,” he argues.

“You s-said–”

“I convinced him to.”

“How’s that…different?”

Spencer looks almost embarrassed. “I reminded him that if you woke up and found both of us wearing the same clothes we wore Saturday you’d be mad,” he smiles weakly.

“You’re r-right.”

“He agreed,” Spencer says. “He said you’d yell at him before you yelled at me.” 

You laugh, forgetting that it is one of the most painful things you could possibly do. The pain was apparent enough on your face that Spencer pointed it out.

“I was going to tell you to not laugh,” he says.

“You were t-too s-slow,” you say.

“Garcia and Morgan stopped by too. They brought me a crossword book…but I finished it in 30 minutes…” he tells you.

You smile, wanting to laugh, but remembering the pain it brought.

“What’d they…say?” You ask, remembering how vulnerable you were toward all of them now that they…knew.

“Well Penelope brought you like ten stuffed animals, they’re all over there,” he motions to the window sill. Sure enough, there were about ten stuffed animals lined up on it. “And Morgan told you that if you ever got kidnapped again he was going to be mad at you. Then he asked why you ignored him.”

You can’t stop your laugh this time, but you were able to control it, keeping the pain to a minimum.

“Everyone else has been texting me every few hours,” he says. “They’re all wanting to visit you once you’re feeling a little bit better, if you are okay with that, of course.”

You smile and look around the room. “Maybe…tomorrow?” you say. “D-do you know how l-long I have to…be here?”

He looks at you for a moment. “I don’t,” he admits. “I could make an estimate.”

“I know you could,” you smile. There isn’t much more in the world right now that you could want more than to hear him ramble about something. Even if that something was the amount of time you’re going to be stuck in this bed.

“You had surgery to stop internal bleeding,” he says, starting to count on his fingers without realizing it. “Multiple rib fractures, concussion, and significant blood loss, so presumably they’ll want to monitor your hemoglobin, neurological status, and pain management and make sure there aren’t any postoperative complications.” 

You wait for him to give his estimated number. He doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know. 

“...So?” you ask, forcing him to estimate.

“If everything progresses normally,” he tilts his head. “I’d say between four and seven days.”

Between four and seven? Those are two completely different answers. 

“So basic’ly you…don’t know,” you say, smiling.

“No,” he says shyly.

“Thought you were…a d-doctor,” you tease.

“You know I’m not that kind of doctor,” he says, smiling. A real smile. A wide smile. 

“You’re s-smiling,” you point out.

“I’m happy,” he says. “You’re alive.”

“I’ve b-been alive,” you say sarcastically.

“Yeah I know.” His eyes start to shine. “But you’re awake now. And you’re…” you can practically hear the lump form in his throat. “you’re still making fun of me.”

“I’ll always m-make fun of you,” you tell him, smiling back now.

His tears run down his face instantly. Not from panic or grief this time, but from relief. He doesn’t try to hide them from you.

“I was prepared for a lot of outcomes,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “You being sarcastic and making fun of me immediately wasn’t one of them. But I think it’s the best one.”

You smile, fighting tears of your own. Normally, you’d welcome them, however you can imagine crying is going to be even more painful than laughing.

“Come h-here,” you say, giving him a weak smile. “...hug.”

“Y-you have three broken ribs,” he says hesitantly through his tears. “I could hurt you.

“You w-won’t,” you say. “even if y-you…do I w-won’t be mad.”

He smiles, carefully leaning over the bed. You weakly wrap your arms around him. You can’t squeeze, but they’re there against him, and that’s more than he had for the past three days. His hair tickles your face.

“Y-you need a…haircut,” you tease.

He rests his forehead against yours instead of putting his weight on you.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I l-love you t-too,” you say, taking one hand off of his back to pull one of his hairs out of your mouth.

“I promise I’ll get a haircut as soon as you're home,” he smiles.

Knock. Knock.

Spencer quickly wipes his face with the back of his hand as you slowly unwrap your arms from around him.

“Come in,” Spencer says, his voice the loudest sound you’ve heard since waking up.

The door opens as you finally lay your arms back down to your sides. Spencer stands, opening your view to see your uncle entering the room carrying a pizza box.

“We’re back,” he announces automatically. Then he glances towards the bed and freezes. “...Kid?”

You can feel your face brighten. “Hi Uncle Dave,” you say, smiling.

“You’re awake?” His voice barely works. 

Behind him, you see a floppy mop of hair peeking over his shoulder. A floppy mop of hair you weren’t expecting to see.

“...Logan?” 

Spencer smiles slightly. He purposely left that part out of the story.

“I was about to call–” Spencer starts, feeling their eyes.

“No you weren’t,” Rossi says, walking further into the room to put the pizza on the little table in the corner.

“I was about to!” Spencer argues.

“You were making kissy faces with my niece,” Rossi raises an eyebrow. His voice is serious, but you know your uncle, and you know that when his eyebrow raises like that, he’s joking. You’re pretty sure Spencer knows that too.

Rossi sits the pizza box on the small table in the corner of the room and then immediately walks toward you. Spencer steps away, returning to the chair he pulled only inches away from your bed.

“You gave me one hell of a scare, Kid,” your uncle says, reaching out and resting his palm against your one unbruised cheek.

“I know…I’m s-sorry,” you say.

His face mixes with happiness and relief from hearing your voice and sadness and grief from hearing how slow and drained your voice is.

“Don’t say that you’re sorry,” he says.

“O-okay. Sorry,” you didn’t mean to say it that time.

He shakes his head. “We’re done with that word.”

“...Okay.”

“I’ve been waiting three days to hear your voice, I don’t want to hear you apologize.”

“Missed me?” you smile.

“I’ve had enough peace and quiet,” he teases.

Logan is still in the doorway, not having moved a muscle. His eyes are completely fixed on you.

“...Hey,” you say softly. You’re unsure if your voice is even loud enough to reach that side of the room.

He crosses the room in just a few steps, standing next to Rossi by your bed. “You look like shit,” he says, his voice a little higher than normal. 

You smile at him, he’s not being mean, he’s being your brother. And that’s what you need far more than sympathy right now.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he tells you, still staring at the bruises and cuts covering your face.

“I know,” you say with a weak smile.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t think you do.”

“I f-feel bad,” you say slowly. “...can’t say s-sorry though. Unc-uncle Dave… grounded m-me.”

Your uncle looks partially offended standing next to you. 

“I brought pizza,” he says, like that was somehow a help to you.

"You think... I can eat pizza?" you ask.

“No,” he says. "I brought pizza for everyone else."

“Oh,” you frown.

“I brought you hospital-approved ice chips."

He hands you a cup of ice that you assume was originally for his drink. You find it comical that he’s still acting like a host, even in a hospital room. He reaches into the pizza box and pulls out a slice, handing it to Spencer. 

“Eat,” Rossi says, his voice demanding. Spencer couldn’t protest if he tried. He takes a bite. Logan also gets handed a slice and demanded to do the same. He accepts without arguing. Only after both of them have food in their hands does Rossi finally take a slice for himself.

You chew on a piece of ice as you watch them. Your uncle, your brother, and your boyfriend, all standing in your hospital room. Apparently for the fourth day in a row now. They all look exhausted, Spencer a little more than the other two, but they were all here, and they’d all sacrificed over half of their week to be here with you even when you didn’t know they were.

“...T-thank you g-guys,” you say, drawing each of their attention. They all look inquisitive. “...for ev-everything.”

Your uncle gives you the look he’s given you thousands of times since you moved in with him. The look that said ‘don’t be ridiculous.’

“Kid,” he says, his voice smooth and gentle. “There wasn’t anywhere else we were going to be.”

You sit there slowly crunching ice chips while Spencer obediently eats the pizza Rossi forced into his hands. Logan leans against the wall with his paper plate, picking the pepperoni off. You smiled, remembering how when you were younger he’d always give them to you to eat. 

The television mounted high on the wall plays some daytime game show with the volume turned almost all the way down. You hear nurses passing in the hallway and some muffled voices through walls and doors.

You almost feel calm. 

Knock. Knock.

Before anyone can answer, the door opens. A woman in a white coat steps inside, followed by a nurse pushing a computer cart. She glances down at her clipboard, then up at you.

“Well,” the woman says, “Look who’s awake.” She walks to the side of your bed while the nurse begins to check the monitors. “I’m Dr. Williams, I performed your surgery.”

“...Thanks,” you don’t really know what else to say.

“You’re welcome,” she laughs softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts a…lot,” you say.

“Yeah, we’ll get you something for that,” she looks toward the nurse, who nods and walks out of the room. “I’m gonna do some pushing, this is going to be a little uncomfortable.”

She starts gently feeling around your abdomen. It is very uncomfortable actually. You feel almost balloon-like. You suck in a sharp breath as soon as her fingers reach the incision in your midsection. She eases her hands a little bit.

“The surgery went very well,” she says, still feeling around on your abdomen and moving toward your ribs. “You had a laceration in your spleen that was causing internal bleeding into the stomach, which is what was causing you to vomit blood. We were able to repair it completely without removing anything.”

You glance toward Spencer, who is now standing, and hanging on to every word.

“We’ll keep monitoring your blood counts,” the doctor continues. “You’ve got three fractured ribs, and a concussion along with…” she glances at your chart. “numerous bruises and contusions that we want to keep an eye on.” 

The nurse comes back to your room with a small syringe with no needle attachment. She moves immediately toward your IV.

“What is it?” Spencer asks quickly.

“It’s Fentanyl,” the doctor says as you watch the clear medication disappear into the IV line. “If she needs something more we can look into Hydromorphone.” 

Spencer’s face goes white. 

The medicine going through your IV doesn’t feel like much at first, but then, all at once, your whole body gets warm. Not hot, it’s a comforting warmth. You lose feeling in everything. The pain has completely subsided. 

“Woah…” you blink as the edges of the room begin to soften.

“What?” Spencer immediately notices.

“I think…” you murmur, your words slowing more than they already are. “...this is…stronger than…ice c-chips.”

That earns a chuckle from everyone, including the doctor and nurse. You didn’t realize it was funny. 

“It works quickly,” the doctor says. “You’ll probably fall asleep soon.”

She wasn’t kidding. Your eyelids suddenly weigh a hundred pounds. You battle to keep them open, but you lose.

“...m’sorry,” you mumble, unable to open them back up.

“No,” you hear three voices answer at once. 

“...Right,” you smile.

No apologizing. 

You remember.

The last thing you feel before falling unconscious, this time by sleep, is Spencer’s fingers lacing through yours, exactly where they had been when you’d woken up. 

And this time, you know they’ll still be there when you wake up again.

_____

Read Part 32 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: i wanted to continue the part with visits from the team and a deep convo between spencer and reader but this is already so many fucking words so i guess there’s going to be more parts in the hospital then i originally planned for.

also, hydromorphone is the generic name for dilaudid, that’s why i made spencer go :0

i was in the hospital for almost a month last summer and they gave me dilaudid and i felt very spencer then

_____

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 28)

Ordinary

summary: a collection of ordinary things that you and spencer spend your week doing.

word count: 7,1k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut (dry humping x2, cumming in pants x1, oral (f recieiving) munch!spencer is in the making, i promise)

_____

Sunday May 18, 2008: The Farmer’s Market

Spencer didn't understand farmer's markets. That became obvious approximately forty-three seconds after the two of you walked through the entrance.

"So..." he said, looking around at the dozens of white tents lining the street. "These are... vegetables."

You looked at him. "Correct."

"...Being sold."

"Also correct."

"...Outside."

You laughed.

"I'm confused," he admitted.

"I know," you smile, grabbing his hand and walking through the street.

The Sunday morning crowd drifted around you, people carrying canvas tote bags overflowing with flowers, bread, peaches, jars of honey, and things you couldn't immediately identify. The whole place smelled like fresh herbs and coffee. Someone was playing acoustic guitar near the entrance. Children ran between booths while their parents tried unsuccessfully to keep up.

It was busy. Loud. Chaotic. In other words, exactly the kind of place Spencer Reid would never voluntarily choose to spend his Sunday. Which was precisely why you'd brought him.

"I only need strawberries," you promised.

He looked down at your intertwined fingers. "You said that before we left."

"I did."

"You also said we'd only be here twenty minutes."

"Also true."

"It's already been twelve."

You smiled innocently. "We're making excellent time."

The first booth had strawberries. Beautiful ones. You picked up a container of bright red ones. Spencer did too. He lifts them above his head and hums as he observes them.

“What?” you ask, looking at hin.

“Modern strawberries are significantly larger than their medieval ancestors. They’re also much sweeter.”

You flick your eyes between Spencer and the woman running the booth who was looking at him like he was an alien. You can’t even blame her.

“They’re descendants of two separate wild strawberry plants that were hybridized in the 18th century,” Spencer continues, ignoring the weird looks he’s getting. “The average medieval strawberry would’ve been approximately a quarter of this size.”

You and the vendor stare at him for a moment. He smiles.

“So,” the woman says slowly. “Do you want to buy them?”

“Yes,” Spencer says.

You and Spencer both left the booth with your own carton of strawberries. And a container of homemade jam.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Spencer whispered as the two of you walked away.

“I know,” you say, smiling at him.

“Do you think she thought I was weird?”

“Oh 100%,” you say. He looks horrified for a moment. “But I like weird.”

He smiles, taking your hand again. Because that answer was good enough for him.

You’re just finishing up checking out at a raw honey stall when you turn around to discover Spencer had disappeared. You circle the stall to find him just a few over, standing in front of huge wooden crates of pumpkins.

Not little decorative pumpkins, but enormous heirloom pumpkins in every imaginable color and shape. There were bright orange, yellow, white deep green, and even blue ones.

Your boyfriend stood holding an oblong orange one and a light green one with some bumps on it. You quickly pull your phone out and take a picture of him before he turns around and notices you and immediately starts sharing information that you have no idea how he even knows.

“Did you know modern pumpkins contain significantly more flesh than 17th century varieties?” He tells you, almost like he was expecting you to say yes.

“Why would I know that?” you asked.

He gently runs his hand over one of the circular white pumpkins in the crate. “Cucurbita maxima,” he says, looking at you.

“What?” 

“It’s a cucurbita maxima; a species of herbaceous vine in the gourd family. Originally domesticated in South America around 4,000 years ago. The seeds were originally used as an anthelmintic to treat intestinal parasites. They can grow to weigh over 100 pounds if you know what you’re doing!”

"I thought we only needed strawberries,” you say.

“I didn’t know these would be here…”

By the time the two of you reached the car, you’d bought 17 things. You only wanted the strawberries.

Monday May 19, 2008: Braids

After dinner at Spencer’s apartment, the two of you had settled in for a quiet evening. A Doctor Who episode played quietly on the TV as you sat on the floor in front of the couch, legs crossed, trying to get a French braid to go straight back on your head rather than veering off to the side again. You’d been at it for almost twenty minutes, and the frustration was starting to show.

Spencer was sitting on the couch behind you, watching with quiet amusement. He kept glancing down every time you let out a small huff of annoyance.

“You know,” he said gently, “if you start the braid a little higher and keep the tension more consistent on the right side, it might–”

“I’d like to see you try,” you interrupted, dropping your hands into your lap.

Spencer closed his book without hesitation and slid further down the couch behind you. “Braiding is really just applied mathematics,” he said, already warming up to his own explanation.

“It is not.”

“It actually is.” He centers you between his legs “You have three independent variables that repeatedly exchange positions according to a predictable sequence.” He held up three fingers in front of your face. “One.” He crossed his index finger over his middle. “Two.” Then his ring finger under his middle. “Three. The only added complexity in a French braid is the incremental introduction of additional strands into the outer variables before each exchange.”

You stared at him. “…Outer variables?”

“Your hair.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

“You’re my nerd,” you confirm.

“That works,” he says, smiling as he gently gathered sections of your hair. He was careful, almost clinical at first, then he started. And immediately got it wrong.

The braid went crooked almost instantly. One section was way tighter than the others, and the whole thing started twisting off to the left. You tried not to laugh. 

“I’m still in the experimental phase,” he said seriously, trying to fix it. “The tension distribution is proving more difficult than I initially calculated.”

“You’re terrible at this,” you laugh, failing at holding it in.

“I’m not terrible,” he protested, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m… learning. If you let me practice I’d figure it out easily.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want to practice braiding my hair?”

“Only if you’ll let me,” he said, suddenly a little shy. “I like learning things that are important to you.”

“Fine,” you say, acting like it’s a chore for you. “But only because you’re cute when you’re concentrated.”

He smiled, ears turning pink. “Deal.”

After a few more failed attempts, you finally gave up and just leaned back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you from behind as the Doctor Who episode continued playing on the TV.

“Hypothetically,” Spencer said after a while, still playing with a strand of your hair.

“Oh no.”

“If someone accidentally tied two sections together…” He paused. “How difficult would that be to reverse?”

You laughed, tilting your head back to look at him. “Spencer, did you tie my hair together?”

“I’m just curious,” he said innocently, but the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away.

You never did get your hair braided that night.

_____

Tuesday May 20, 2008: Surprise

You’d gotten used to not seeing Spencer on Tuesdays. That was just how it was.

If he wasn’t on a case, he was usually stuck at the BAU working on paperwork. Tuesday was paperwork day, and he was often there late. He usually called you around five, when he would normally get off work, and you’d talk for a little while before he started his mountain of files. 

Today was no different.

Your phone rang right on time. You answered with a smile, curling up on the couch in your uncle’s living room.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” Spencer replied, voice warm but tired. “How are you?”

“I’m okay, just watching T.V.”

“Cool, what are you watching?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you’re watching?”

“No.”

Spencer laughs at you. He makes fun of you for not paying attention, but you argue that there’s nothing good anyway. Which of course, ignites something in him. He starts talking about the declining ratings of TV shows and a bunch of other statistics that you aren’t fully paying attention to. 

You talk for about fifteen minutes before you decide that he probably needs to get to work if he wants to be out at an acceptable hour.

“You should probably go so you’re not at the office all night,” you said gently.

Spencer was quiet for a second. “Yeah… okay. I’ll call you later if I’m not too swamped.”

“Only if you have time,” you said. “Don’t stay too late.”

“I won’t. I love you. Bye.”

“Bye.”

You hung up and tossed your phone onto the couch cushion, letting out a small sigh. Tuesdays were always like this. You turned on the TV and tried to get comfortable, flipping through channels without really watching anything.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the front door.

That was strange. Your uncle had a key, and he usually got stuck at the office until at least nine on Tuesdays too. You got up, walked to the door, and peeked through the peephole. Spencer was standing on the porch, holding a paper sack of takeout in one hand.

You opened the door, surprised. “Spencer?”

He smiled, looking a little shy. “Hi.”

You stepped aside to let him in. “I thought you had paperwork?”

“I did,” he said, following you inside. “But I skipped lunch and got it done early. So… I brought dinner.”

You looked at the bag in his hand: one container for him, one for you. Your chest felt warm.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, stepping inside. “But I wanted to.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “Well… I’m glad you did. I like hanging out with you.”

The two of you sat at the kitchen island and ate together. The takeout was warm and smelled amazing, Chinese food from the place you both liked. Spencer had gotten your favorite sesame chicken and extra spring rolls without even asking.

“So how bad was the paperwork?” you asked, taking a bite.

“Brutal,” he said, poking at his lo mein with a fork. “There were three different reports with conflicting timelines on the same unsub. I spent forty minutes just trying to reconcile the dates. Then I found a typo in one of the M.E. reports that completely changed the estimated time of death. It was… frustrating.”

You winced. “That sounds awful. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling a little. “I got through it faster than I thought I would. Mostly because I kept thinking about seeing you. What about you? How was your day?”

You shrugged, stealing one of his broccoli pieces. “It was pretty chill, honestly. I did some studying this morning for my Friday exam, then I drew for a while. Then I filled out my planner for the rest of the week, read a book for a bit, and then you called. We talked, I watched some TV, and then you showed up at the door.” You smiled at him. “And now we’re here.”

Spencer looked at you with that soft, fond expression he got sometimes. “That sounds nice. Much better than paperwork.”

“It was,” you said. “But this is better.”

He smiled, ears turning a little pink.

After dinner, you led him upstairs to your room. You were already in comfy at-home clothes, grey sweatpants and a cropped tank top that ended just above your belly button, leaving about an inch and a half of skin showing between the hem and the waistband of your shorts.

You and Spencer lay in your bed, him on his back and you curled up against his side with your head on his chest. The whole time you talked, his fingers kept running gently along the exposed skin of your waist. His eyes kept drifting down to it.

You finally smiled and looked up at him. “You like it when I wear cropped shirts, don’t you?”

Spencer’s face went bright red. He swallowed hard, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah… I do. I’m sorry. You’re just… really attractive. I’m sorry I keep looking.”

You giggled softly. “It’s okay, Spencer.”

You leaned up and kissed him. The kiss started soft. But it didn’t stay that way for long.

Spencer’s hand slid further under the hem of your tank top, fingers brushing against the warm skin of your stomach. You shivered at the touch, pressing closer, your own hands fisting in his sweater as you deepened the kiss. His tongue brushed against yours, tentative at first, then bolder, and you let out a soft sound into his mouth that made him groan quietly.

His mouth moved against yours with increasing urgency, tongue sliding hot and eager against yours as his hands roamed your sides. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers as they traced up your ribs. You arched into his touch, gasping when his hips rolled just right, pressing his hard length directly against your core through your sweats.

You moaned softly into his mouth, hips rolling up to meet his. Spencer let out a broken sound, his hands gripping your waist tighter as he rocked against you harder, the heat between you building with every desperate grind. The fabric between you only made it more teasing, more frustrating, more perfect.

You were both breathing heavily, lost in the heat and friction, when you pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips. “How much paperwork did Uncle Dave have today?”

Spencer’s breath was shaky, his voice rough. “Enough.”

You smiled and kissed him again, harder this time. You swung a leg over him and pulled him on top of you, your bodies pressing together. Spencer settled between your legs instinctively, still fully dressed in his work clothes. You could feel him even better now.

You’d gotten used to this feeling. The feeling of the weight of him on top of you, the way his body fit so perfectly against yours. It wasn’t the first time you’d done this, and every time it happened, it felt a little more natural, a little more addictive.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there as his hips continued their steady, needy rhythm. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and he whimpered against your throat, grinding down harder.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “I love it when you’re desperate.”

Spencer let out a shaky, embarrassed moan, his face burning as he buried it in your neck. I- I can’t help it,” he stuttered, voice wrecked. “You’re so…You feel s-so good.”

You rolled your hips up harder. He choked on a whimper. His hands tightened on your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he rutted against you with more urgency, the wet spot on his slacks growing with every thrust.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered against his ear, voice low and teasing.

Spencer made a broken, flustered sound, his ears burning red as he hid his face in your neck again. “I-I’m sorry, I just– you feel so good, I can’t stop–”

“Don’t stop,” you moaned, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I love feeling you like this.”

He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he rutted against you faster, chasing the building pleasure. You could feel him throbbing against you, the wet spot on his pants growing as he lost control. Your own hips moved in rhythm with his, grinding up desperately, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in you.

The kiss broke only when you both needed air, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling hot and heavy. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he looked down at you, lips swollen and shiny.

You pulled him back down, kissing him again, deeper, hungrier. His hands slid under your tank top, palms hot against your bare skin as he rocked against you with more urgency. The wet sounds of your kisses and the quiet creak of the bed filled the room, mixing with your soft moans and his shaky breaths.

You were both trembling, lost in the heat and friction, when the sound of the front door opening downstairs made you both freeze.

You heard your uncle’s keys jingling, then the door closing. Footsteps moved through the entryway.

Spencer’s eyes widened, still flushed and breathing hard. You pressed a finger to his lips, both of you staying perfectly still, hearts racing.

After a moment, you heard Rossi head toward the kitchen. The danger passed.

Spencer’s eyes widened, still flushed and breathing hard against you. His body went rigid on top of you, every muscle locked as he stayed perfectly still, his hard cock still pressed firmly between your legs through his slacks.

“We should stop,” he whispered immediately, voice shaky and panicked. “Rossi’s home. I-I can’t do this with him right downstairs. I–”

He cut himself off, face burning red as he carefully rolled off you, both of you lying on your backs, chests heaving as you tried to calm down. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing together tightly.

You turned your head to look at him, both of you still breathing hard, bodies buzzing with unfinished tension.

Spencer swallowed hard, ears still red. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m already kind of scared of him a-and I think he might kill me if he walked in on us…like that.”

You squeezed his hand, smiling softly. “It’s okay. I understand.”

He let out a shaky breath, still clearly worked up but relieved. “Thank you.”

You both lay there for a moment, listening to the sounds of your uncle moving around downstairs. 

You smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Rain check?”

Spencer nodded, still flushed. “Definitely.”

_____ Wednesday May 21, 2008: Would You Still Love Me?

You and Spencer were curled up together on his couch after dinner. The TV was playing some random documentary neither of you were really watching. You were lying with your head in his lap, his fingers gently playing with your hair as he read one of his books with his free hand.

You’d been thinking about something for a while, and the quiet moment felt like the perfect time to bring it up.

“Hey, Spencer?” you said, looking up at him.

“Hm?” He glanced down at you, still absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Spencer blinked. Then blinked again. His fingers paused in your hair as he processed the question. “…A worm?” he repeated, sounding genuinely confused. “Like… an earthworm?”

“Yeah.”

He sat up a little straighter, clearly taking the question seriously. “Well, biologically speaking, if you were an earthworm, you wouldn’t have the same neural structures required for complex emotional attachment. Worms have a very rudimentary nervous system. Basically a ventral nerve cord with minimal ganglia. They don’t experience love the way humans do. So technically, I couldn’t love you if you were a worm because ‘you’ as a conscious entity capable of reciprocal love wouldn’t exist in that form.”

You stared at him.

He continued, completely earnest. “Also, earthworms are hermaphroditic, so the entire concept of romantic pairing would be different. And I’m not sure I’d be attracted to a worm. Not that there’s anything wrong with worms! They’re actually quite beneficial for soil aeration and–”

You started laughing, cutting him off. “Spencer.”

“What?” He looked genuinely concerned. “Did I answer wrong?”

You sat up, still giggling, and climbed into his lap, straddling him. “It was a hypothetical silly question. You were supposed to say yes and be cute about it.”

“Oh.” His ears turned pink. “I… I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“A little,” you said, smiling as you looped your arms around his neck. “But it’s okay. I love how you are.”

He relaxed a little, hands settling on your hips. “I would still love you,” he said softly. “Even if you were a worm. I’d… build you a nice terrarium. With really good soil. And visit you every day.”

You laughed again, leaning in to kiss him. “That’s better.”

He smiled against your lips. “Good.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, still grinning. “Okay, new one. Would you still love me if I was a zombie?”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed again. “Well, if you were a zombie, you’d be clinically dead. Brain function would be severely impaired, mostly basal ganglia activity with no higher cognition. So the person I love wouldn’t really be there anymore. But hypothetically, if some part of your consciousness remained, I’d probably try to find a way to reverse the infection. Or at least keep you safe. I’d build a secure enclosure and–”

You kissed him again, laughing into his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m just being logical,” he mumbled against your lips, but he was smiling now too.

“Would you still love me if I had no legs?”

“Yes. I’d carry you everywhere. Or build you a very efficient mobility device.”

“Would you still love me if I was a cat?”

“Absolutely. I’d learn cat behavior and make sure you had the best enrichment toys. Though I’d probably be allergic, so I’d need to take daily antihistamines–”

“Would you still love me if I was bald?”

“Of course. Hair is just keratin. It has no bearing on my feelings for you. Plus, you’d look beautiful with or without hair. Symmetry and facial structure are more important for attraction anyway.”

“Would you still love me if I forgot how to speak?” you asked, tracing patterns on his chest.

Spencer thought for a second. “Yes. We’d develop our own communication system. I’d learn sign language, or we could use written notes, or even just gestures. Love isn’t dependent on verbal language.”

You smiled, resting your chin on his chest. “You’re such a nerd.”

“I’m just being honest,” he said, ears pink again.

You leaned up and kissed him softly. “I know. I love you.”

He smiled against your lips. “I love you too.”

The rest of the night passed in quiet, silly conversation and gentle kisses, the kind of easy, comfortable evening that made you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

______ Thursday May 22, 2008: Noticeable

You were like ten pages deep in your notes at a table in the student rec center when probably the only voice that could distract you broke through your concentration.

“Hey,” it said.

You looked up, surprised to see Spencer standing there with two coffees in his hands and a small, shy smile on his face. He has a few case files tucked under his arm. He’s wearing his usual work clothes, but on top is a dark blue FBI wind breaker. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, smiling at him.

“I had a late lunch,” he explains, sitting one of the cups in front of you. “I thought I’d come by for about an hour, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” you grin. “Sit.”

He slid into the seat across from you. He reviewed his case files while you studied. He occasionally glances across the table to check on you. And every time he does, he has a cheesy grin on his face when he looks back down. You don’t tell him you notice it.

However, you do tell him how many students keep staring at him as they walk past.

“You know everyone is staring at you, right?” you lean forward to tell him.

“What?” He says, looking up from his file. “Why?”

You smirk at him. “Well, you’re wearing an FBI windbreaker and reading case files in the middle of a student rec center. That’s not really something that usually happens here.”

“Oh, I didn’t really think about that when I put the jacket on…”

“You look like a criminal justice professor.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I’m much too young to be mistaken for faculty. The average age of a tenured professor in the United States is over 44 years old. I don’t look 44.” 

You laugh at him. “No, minus the jacket you’d blend right in here.”

He smiled, a little embarrassed but clearly happy to be here nonetheless.

You spend the rest of the hour studying while he reads his files. He was just a quiet company, but he was your favorite company. And you’d never admit it out loud, but you study far better when he’s around.

When his lunch break was almost over, he reluctantly put all the papers back into his files.

“I need to get going, but I’ll call you tonight, is that okay?” he says, standing up.

You nod, standing up to hug him. “Be safe please.”

“I will,” he says, kissing your forehead, then your lips softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You watch him as he walks out of the rec center, everyone turning to look at him. You smiled to yourself, sitting back down.

You take a sip of the coffee Spencer brought you.

Spencer. 

Your very cute, sweet, very noticeable boyfriend.

_____ Friday May 23, 2008: Spencer's Apartment

You spent the morning sitting in a big lecture hall with the kind of fluorescent lights that always left you with the worst headache and the chairs that left you with sore shoulders by the time your exams were done. You went back home afterwards, cleaning up the kitchen and living room so your uncle didn;t have to worry about it this weekend. 

Spencer spent his day at the BAU. Mostly buried in paperwork, like he always seemed to be. Around 4:00pm, he texts you.

You smile at your phone as you grab your bag and head to your car. The drive to Spencer’s apartment was familiar by now. You knew the route like the back of your hand. 

Traffic was light for a Friday afternoon. Probably because it was before 5:00. You arrive at Spencer’s apartment just after 5:20. You grab your bag from the trunk and head up to his door, knocking lightly.

He answers with a tired but happy smile, still dressed in his work clothes. He’d taken his suit jacket off, but his button up was still on with the top two buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up to his forearm.

“Hey,” he says suspiciously, stepping aside to let you in. “You made good time.”

“I drove the speed limit,” you say, coming in. “There was no traffic.”

He smiled, closing the door behind you before pulling you into a hug. He smelled like coffee and the faint trace of his cologne, and you melted into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“How were your exams?” he asked, voice muffled against your hair.

“They went okay,” you replied, squeezing him a little tighter. “I’m just glad they’re over.”

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You worked really hard this week.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admitted. “Mostly paperwork. But I got everything done so I could actually leave on time for once.”

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him softly. “I’m glad you did.”

He kissed you back, slow and sweet at first, then a little deeper. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I got food on my way back,” he said quietly, walking into the apartment. “It’s just sandwiches, but I figured you’d be hungry.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you smile.

You went over and sat on the couch, kicking off your shoes and getting comfortable while Spencer brought the sandwiches over from the kitchen. He handed you yours and sat down beside you, close enough that your thighs pressed together.

He picked up the remote and turned on whatever movie was in the DVD player; some sci-fi thing, and the two of you ate in comfortable silence. Every once in a while one of you would comment on something happening on screen, or Spencer would say a random fact about the science behind it, and you’d laugh and tease him for it.

You finished eating first, sitting your plate on the coffee table. You noticed Spencer speeding up his chewing a little bit once you were done. He finished soon after, slotting his plate on top of yours.

You look over at him, trying to think of something to say. Before anything comes to mind, he reaches over and pulls you onto his lap, facing him. You quickly settle your knees on either side of him, his hands coming to sit on your waist.

You immediately get butterflies, everywhere. Spencer had slowly been gaining confidence in your relationship. And you have to admit, you kind of loved it.

He keeps one hand on your waist, while the other comes up to cup the side of your face. He uses it to pull you in close to his face.

The kiss started deep right away. He was quick to slip his tongue into your mouth, warm and eager, tasting faintly of the soda he’d had with dinner. You melted into it, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as you kissed him back just as hungrily. His fingers tightened on your waist, and with a gentle but firm pull, he started guiding your hips, making you rock slowly back and forth against his lap.

You gasped softly into his mouth when you felt how hard he already was. Even through your shorts, the heat and pressure made your breath catch. You’d only been kissing for maybe two minutes, and he was already this worked up for you.

The realization sent a rush of warmth through your body. You started rocking on your own, grinding down against him in slow, deliberate circles. Spencer let out a quiet, shaky groan against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening as he helped guide your movements.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. Your voice came out breathy and soft. “So… do you want to continue that rain check from the other night?”

Spencer’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen from kissing, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough. “But we should go to my bed.”

You smile into his mouth and kiss him once more before climbing off his lap. He stands up after you, taking your hand and leading you into his bedroom.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were back on him. You pushed him gently toward the bed, and he sat down on the edge, pulling you into his lap. The kiss was deeper now, more urgent. His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin as he rocked up against you.

You moaned softly into his mouth, grinding down against the hardness in his pants. Spencer let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your hips as he rutted up to meet you.

“God, you feel so good,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You smiled against his lips, rolling your hips harder. “Yeah? Tell me.”

He groaned, embarrassed but unable to stop. “I-I kept thinking about how you felt the other n-night. Spe-specifically how you s-sounded when you m-moaned my n-name…”

You whimpered, grinding down against him with more purpose. The friction was perfect, the rough fabric of his slacks dragging against your soaked underwear with every movement. You could feel every inch of him, thick and throbbing, pressing right against your clit through the layers separating you. The heat of him was intoxicating, and you were already so wet that the fabric of your shorts was clinging to you.

Spencer’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer as he kissed you hungrily. “You’re driving me crazy,” he breathed between kisses. “I want you so bad.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging gently as you rocked against him faster. The bed creaked quietly beneath you, the room filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, soft moans, and the wet friction of your bodies moving together. You were both trembling, lost in the heat and desperation. Spencer’s hips started stuttering, his grip on your waist tightening almost painfully as he rutted up against you harder, chasing the edge.

“Y/N  I-I’m close,” he gasped against your mouth, voice shaky and embarrassed. “You feel too good, I can’t–”

You rolled your hips  down harder, grinding against him in tight, deliberate circles. “I want you to cum,” you tell him. You lean in close to his ear and breathe a hot breath into it, which makes him shake. “I want you to cum for me, Spencer.”

He let out a broken whimper, burying his face in your neck as he came hard, spilling into his work slacks with a shaky moan muffled against your skin. His hips jerked against you a few more times, riding out the pleasure as his body trembled beneath you. You could feel every pulse of his cock and the sudden wet heat spreading between you as he finished.

You held him close, still grinding slowly against him through his orgasm, your own pleasure buzzing just under the surface, warm and insistent. When he finally stilled, breathing hard against your neck, you expected him to be done. You started to pull back, ready to cuddle and come down together.

But Spencer didn’t let you go.

His hands stayed on your waist, holding you firmly in place. He lifted his head, cheeks flushed deep red, eyes still dark with lingering arousal and something almost desperate.

He looks up at you, almost like he’s begging. “Can I… can I make you finish?”

You blinked, surprised. “Do you want to?”

He swallowed hard, ears burning red, but his eyes were earnest and hungry. “If you let me… I do.”

Your heart fluttered. You nodded, leaning down to kiss him softly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Spencer carefully rolled you onto your back, hovering over you for a moment before kissing down your body. He was nervous, you could tell by the way his hands trembled slightly as he pulled your shorts and underwear down your legs. When he settled between your thighs, he looked up at you, eyes wide and glossy.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice rough with awe. “I can’t believe you’re mine… you’re perfect.”

You feel yourself blush, the mix of being so exposed and the compliments making you anxious, but in a good way.

He settled between your thighs, looking up at you with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. “I’ve… never done this before,” he admitted quietly. “So… you might need to tell me what feels good.”

You reached down and gently ran your fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “I will.”

He nodded, looking determined. You guided his head closer, and when his tongue first brushed against you, tentative and warm, you let out a soft moan.

“Like that,” you breathed. “A little higher…yes.”

Spencer picked it up insanely fast. He was a quick study, always had been. Within moments he had you gasping, his tongue moving in slow, careful circles exactly where you needed him. When he found a rhythm that made your hips buck, he hummed softly against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.

“Fuck, Spencer! just like that,” you moaned, fingers tightening in his hair. “Use your fingers too.”

He slid one finger into you slowly, curling it gently as he continued licking your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You tried to keep giving him instructions, but the words kept catching in your throat.

“Two-  curl them up- yes, yes, right there- how are you so good at this already-”

Spencer groaned against you, clearly enjoying your reactions. His free hand held your thigh open, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there as he licked and sucked with growing confidence.

Every time you moaned or praised, he got bolder. You noticed him starting to rock his hips against the mattress, grinding himself down desperately as he ate you out. You didn’t say anything. You were worried it might stop him. The sight of him so turned on just from pleasuring you made your stomach flip.

Once he started sucking on your clit, you couldn’t hold back anymore. You squeezed your thighs around his head, trapping him there as pleasure built higher and higher. Spencer moaned loudly into you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. His hips jerked harder against the mattress, and you realized he was cumming again, shaking and whimpering against you as he spilled into his already ruined slacks.

The feeling of his moans vibrating against your clit pushed you right over the edge. You came hard in his mouth, back arching off the bed as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Spencer stayed between your legs through it all, licking and fingering you gently until you were trembling and oversensitive, whimpering his name like a prayer.

When he finally pulled back, his lips and chin were shiny, cheeks flushed, and he looked up at you with a shy but proud little smile.

“Was that… okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up to kiss him. “That was the best orgasm of my life.”

He smiled against your lips, still a little flustered but clearly happy.

You both stayed tangled together for a long moment, breathing each other in. Eventually Spencer pulled back, cheeks still pink as he looked down at the mess in his slacks.

“I should… probably change,” he said quietly, embarrassed.

You nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah, me too.”

He got up and grabbed a pair of clean sweatpants from his dresser, disappearing into the bathroom for a minute. You slipped your shorts and underwear back on, then pulled the covers over yourself while you waited.

When Spencer came back, he crawled into bed next to you, still a little shy as he settled on his back. You immediately curled up against his side, head on his chest, and he wrapped an arm around you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Then Spencer spoke, voice soft. “Is this… okay?” he asked. “That we’re not… having sex yet?”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Yeah. It’s more than okay. I’m in no rush. Whenever it happens, it happens. I like being with you like this.”

He let out a small breath, relieved. “I feel the same. I want to do everything right. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You’re not messing anything up,” you said, tracing circles on his chest. “I love how careful you are. It makes me feel safe.”

Spencer’s fingers brushed up and down your back. “I just… I’ve never done any of this before. Not really. So I get nervous about boundaries. I don’t want to push you too far or too fast.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I love that about you. I am ready whenever you are, but please do not rush yourself.”

He nodded, relaxing a little more.

You were both quiet for a moment, just lying there holding each other.

Spencer started talking about some random fact about the history of human sexuality and how cultural attitudes toward sex have changed over time. His voice was soft and soothing, the way it always got when he was sharing something he found interesting.

You listened for a while, smiling as his words washed over you. But the long day, the exams, and the emotional and physical release from earlier started catching up with you. Your eyelids grew heavier, your body sinking deeper into his side.

“…and the ancient Romans actually had quite liberal views on sexuality compared to later periods,” he continued quietly. “Though it was very stratified by class and gender roles…”

You hummed softly in response, eyes drifting shut. His voice became a gentle background hum as sleep pulled you under.

Spencer noticed, his hand slowing on your back. He smiled to himself, pressing one last kiss to your hair.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

You were already asleep.

_____ Saturday May 24, 2008: Bad Morning

You were woken up at 6:00am by the sound of Spencer shuffling around in his closet. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the small lamp he’d turned on. You blinked sleepily, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Spence…?” you mumbled, voice groggy and thick with sleep. “What’s going on?”

He turned around, already dressed in his work clothes, tie slightly crooked as he pulled a jacket from the closet. “There’s a case,” he said softly. “Hotch called. I have to go in.”

You groaned, stretching your arms above your head as you tried to wake up. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

You started to sit up, pushing the covers off, but Spencer walked over and sat at the edge of the bed near your feet, pulling on his shoes.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said gently, tying his laces. “You can go back to sleep and just leave whenever you wake up. I don’t mind.”

You rubbed your eyes, still half-asleep. “Are you sure? It’s okay if you’re not comfortable leaving me in your apartment alone.”

Spencer looked up at you, his expression soft but certain. “I’m sure. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t. I trust you.”

He had a point. You nodded, sinking back into the pillows. “Okay.”

He finished tying his shoes, then stood up and walked around to your side of the bed. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering for a moment.

“I’m sorry I have to leave,” he whispered. “I promise the second I’m back home, I’ll spend time with you. We can do whatever you want.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek, smiling sleepily. “It’s okay. Be safe, okay?”

“I will,” he said, kissing your forehead one more time. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He gave you one last soft look before heading out, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. You heard the front door open and close a moment later.

The apartment was silent again.

You pulled the covers back up, curling into the spot where Spencer had been sleeping. His pillow still smelled like him. You smiled to yourself, eyes already drifting shut as sleep pulled you back under.

_____

Read Part 29 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: erm i did not mean for this part to be so long but i guess its like 6 baby parts so it makes sense. i almost didn’t put smut in this part…ahah…you guys are welcome.

also if anyone was curious, as of right now this whole fic is over 78,000 words

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmhh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 27)

Birthday Secrets

summary: You overhear Spencer and Uncle Dave talking on the drive back from trivia night. They must’ve been too invested to realize that Spencer needed to be dropped off 45 minutes away…

word count: 3.7k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19)

_____

By the time everyone had spilled out onto the sidewalk and said their goodbyes, the air was chilly. You swung the trophy in your hand as you, Spencer, and Rossi crossed the parking lot. When you reached your uncle’s car, you instinctively reached for the passenger door, however stopped before you pulled it.

You glance over at Spencer, who was reaching for the back door. 

“Wait,” you say, stopping his hand by grabbing his wrist. He looks at you. “You should sit up front.”

“I’m okay,” he says, trying to reach further.

“You looked squished on the way here.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Spencer.”

“I fit.”

“You were folded in half.”

“I wasn’t folded in half.” You raise an eyebrow at him. He sighs. “Ok maybe a little.”

“That’s what I thought,” you smile.

He glanced between you and the front seat. “You don’t have to sit in the back because of me.”

“I know,” before he could argue again, you gently took hold of his sleeve and steered him toward the passenger door. “Get in.”

“I really don’t mind the back,” he says.

“Well I mind when you’re uncomfortable,” you rebut.

He looked down at you for a second, trying to decide whether or not this was worth debating. It wasn’t.

“Alright,” he says, opening the passenger door. You smile to yourself and climb into the back seat. Much better.

Rossi opens the driver door a moment later. He looks from Spencer to you and smirks.

“You traded seats,” he observes, buckling his seatbelt.

“He has long legs,” you explain.

“I told her I was fine in the back,” Spencer says.

“And? I see that she won the fight.”

“She didn’t believe me,” Spencer says.

“I usually don’t,” you joke.

Rossi chuckled as he started the engine. "You're learning."

Spencer glanced back at you. There wasn't even a hint of annoyance on his face. If anything, he looked grateful.

The car pulled away from the curb, the city lights beginning to blur together outside the windows. For a few minutes, the only sound inside the car was the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. 

The little trophy rested beside you on the backseat.

Spencer was looking out the passenger window now instead of trying to fold himself into the backseat. His shoulders looked more relaxed already.

You smiled to yourself. Good.

The city slowly gave way to quieter roads, the buildings shrinking until they were replaced by neighborhoods and stretches of dark trees. Then Spencer spoke.

"I know you're not particularly fond of birthdays," he said.

Rossi glanced over at him briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"But..." Spencer continued, almost thoughtfully, "...I couldn't help but notice that it's yours today… So... happy birthday, Rossi."

For just a second, the inside of the car was quiet again. Then your uncle smiled. It wasn't one of his smug smiles. Or one of his sarcastic ones. It was genuine.

"Thanks, kid,” was all he said. But he didn’t seem upset. Or angry. Or even annoyed. He seemed…

Appreciative.

Your eyes drifted between the two men sitting in front of you. Spencer could've said something hours ago. Garcia would've insisted on buying a cake. Morgan would've started singing just to be annoying. Emily probably would've convinced the bartender to give Rossi a free drink.

And Spencer knew that. So instead, he waited. Until it was just the three of you. Until the excitement from trivia had settled. Until nobody else could turn it into an event. Spencer had figured something out that had taken you years to understand. 

Your uncle didn't hate birthdays.

He hated attention. 

There was a difference. And somehow Spencer had learned it without anyone ever explaining it to him.

"I still think the Scooby-Doo question was ridiculous," Spencer muttered.

Rossi chuckled. "That's because you missed it."

"I've read over eight thousand books," Spencer says

"And none of them were about Scooby-Doo."

"No."

Rossi shook his head, smiling to himself. "I never thought I'd see the day Spencer Reid got humbled by a cartoon dog."

"I don't appreciate how much everyone seems to be enjoying this."

"You'll survive."

From the front seat, Rossi glanced into the rearview mirror. You noticed. Immediately, you looked back out the passenger-side window instead, pretending to be fascinated by the blur of streetlights sliding past. 

A second later he looked again. Satisfied, he lowered his voice. "You know..." Spencer turned slightly toward him. "You surprised me tonight."

"Because I didn't know Scooby-Doo?" Spencer asks

"No." Your uncle kept his eyes on the road. "You trusted her."

You almost smiled. They thought you couldn't hear them. The car wasn't that big.

"I always trust her," Spencer answered quietly.

"I know." Rossi says, glancing into the mirror again.

You kept your attention fixed outside, even lifting the trophy again like you were inspecting it.

"But you didn't hesitate," Rossi continued. "You volunteered the two of you before asking if she'd even agree."

Spencer looked down at his hands. "I guess I did."

"You weren't worried she'd embarrass you."

"No."

"You weren't worried she'd hold you back."

"No."

"You just assumed she'd keep up."

Spencer frowned. "...Because she would."

Rossi smiled. "I know."

It wasn't a correction. It was an agreement. 

Spencer’s voice stayed quiet. "I don't really understand why that's surprising."

Rossi let out a slow breath. "Because most people like you don't trust someone like that."

"They should."

"They should."

Another silence. You watched reflections move across the side window, careful not to look forward. If either of them caught your eye, especially your uncle, the conversation would be over. 

So instead, you ran your thumb over the little plastic trophy again. Pretended to read the plaque for the fifth time. Pretended not to hear every single word.

"You know..." Rossi said, quieter this time. "When I first met you..."

Spencer looked over. "I thought you were too young."

Spencer laughed softly.

"I didn't mean your age."

Your grip tightened around the trophy. "I thought you were too young to understand what loving someone actually meant. I figured you'd get bored. I figured eventually you'd decide it wasn't worth dealing with me."

Spencer didn't answer immediately.

"You proved me wrong." Rossi's voice held no hesitation. "You've proved me wrong every day since."

Spencer looked out through the windshield. When he finally spoke, it was almost too quiet to hear. 

"...Thank you."

"No." Rossi shook his head once. "Thank you."

"For what?"

Another glance into the rearview mirror. You had your forehead against the cool glass now, watching nothing in particular outside. Satisfied, Rossi looked back to the road.

"For loving my kid."

Your breath caught. Not my niece.  Not your name. “My kid.”

"You've made her happier than I've seen her in a long time."

Spencer swallowed. "I just..." He searched for the words. "I try."

"I know."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I do."

Another silence settled between them.

Then Rossi smirked. "Besides, you did beat eight people at trivia. I suppose you've earned one compliment."

Spencer laughed softly, the sound warm and a little surprised. "Thank you."

You stayed quiet in the back seat, pretending to be completely absorbed in the little plastic trophy in your hands. The streetlights outside slid across the window in soft orange streaks, and you watched their reflections dance over the cheap gold plating. But really, you were listening. Every word. Every small pause. Every shift in tone.

Rossi and Spencer kept talking in low voices up front. Nothing important, just easy conversation about the game, about how ridiculous some of the questions had been, about how Morgan had dramatically declared he was never playing trivia again (which everyone knew was a lie). Their voices blended together comfortably, the kind of rhythm that only came from people who had spent real time together. Not just at work. Not just because of you.

You had always known your uncle cared about Spencer. Respected him. Trusted him with his life on cases. But this felt different. This was easy. Familiar. Like they genuinely enjoyed each other’s company outside of the BAU. Outside of you. And somehow, that made everything feel even more solid. More real.

Rossi finally pulled into the long driveway, gravel crunching softly under the tires. The familiar lights of the house glowed warmly through the windows, but no one moved to get out right away. Rossi left the engine running for a moment, the low hum filling the quiet space between the three of you.

You sat in the back seat, heart still full from the night, the little plastic trophy resting in your lap. Spencer was in the passenger seat, shoulders a little tense. And your uncle… he just sat there, hands still on the wheel, staring at the house like he was thinking about something.

Everyone was just… waiting.

Eventually Rossi shut the car off. The sudden quiet felt loud. He looked over at Spencer in the passenger seat, one hand still resting on the steering wheel.

“You coming?” He asked, starting to get out of the car.

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He turned his head slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “...Inside?”

“Well I’m not inviting you to sleep in the driveway,” Rossi said dryly.

You immediately realized what had just happened. Nobody had forgotten to take Spencer home. Every single person in the car had absolutely noticed they’d driven forty-five minutes away from Spencer’s apartment. And every single one of them had silently decided…

Yeah.

He can stay.

Spencer sat there for a second, processing. You watched the back of his head, the way his shoulders shifted slightly like he was trying to figure out if this was real. Then he nodded once, almost shyly.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Rossi just grunted in response, his version of “you’re welcome,” and opened his door. You and Spencer followed, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you stepped out onto the sidewalk. Spencer waited for you, his hand brushing lightly against yours but not quite holding it. Not yet. Not while your uncle was still right there, locking the car with a quiet beep.

The three of you walked up the familiar path to the front door in comfortable silence. The little trophy swung gently in your hand. Spencer stayed close on your right, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours. Rossi walked a few steps ahead, keys jingling softly.

No one said anything about the fact that Spencer was still with you.

No one mentioned the forty-five-minute drive.

No one pointed out the obvious.

It felt… nice. Like the decision had been made without needing to be spoken. Like everyone had quietly agreed that tonight, Spencer belonged here.

When you reached the front door, Rossi unlocked it and stepped inside first. The house was quiet and dark except for the soft glow of a few lamps he’d left on. The second the door clicked shut behind the three of you, Rossi turned around in the entryway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Door stays open,” he said immediately, voice gruff but not unkind. His eyes flicked between the two of you like he was already running through every possible scenario in his head. “All the way.”

You both nodded quickly.

“No funny business,” he continued, raising one eyebrow. “I mean it. I don’t want to leave my room and find anything that makes me regret letting him stay.”

Another nod. Spencer’s ears were already turning pink.

“I’m checking every ten minutes,” Rossi added, pointing a finger at both of you for emphasis. “And I do mean every ten minutes. I have a watch. I will use it.”

You opened your mouth. “You don’t actually have to–”

“I know,” Rossi cut in before you could finish. “I’m checking.”

Spencer stood there like he was being briefed before a hostage negotiation, eyes wide, hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. You could practically see him calculating the probability of spontaneous combustion from sheer embarrassment.

Rossi studied both of you for a long moment, then his expression softened just a fraction, not enough to be called warm, but it wasn’t as cold.

“Look,” he said, voice a little lower. “I’m not trying to make this awkward. I’m just… being a dad about it.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little. “We know.”

“Good.” Rossi gave one final nod, then reached out and patted Spencer on the shoulder firmly, almost fatherly. “Goodnight, kid.”

Spencer blinked, clearly surprised by the gesture. “Goodnight, Rossi.”

Rossi looked at you next. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Dave.”

And with that, he headed upstairs without another word, footsteps creaking on the old wooden stairs until they faded away down the hallway.

The second he was gone, you immediately burst out laughing, covering your mouth with both hands. Spencer stared after him for a second, then looked at you, completely dazed.

“…That went significantly better than I expected,” he said, voice hushed.

You nodded, still giggling. “He didn’t even threaten to shoot you.”

“Progress,” Spencer agreed, a shy smile finally breaking across his face as he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. You melted into his hug, burying your face in his chest. You take in his smell, the comforting scent relaxing you.

You pull back just enough to take his hand. “Come one, let's go before the ten minute checks start,” you say. 

Spencer laughs softly as he lets you lead him up the stairs, your fingers intertwined the whole way. Your room was exactly how you’d left it, your bed unmade, a few books and your planner scattered on your nightstand. 

Spencer stood in the middle of your room for a second, looking around like he was still processing the fact that he was allowed to be there. The door stayed open, just like your uncle had asked. Neither of you minded. You were both too happy to care about technicalities tonight.

Spencer eventually sat on the edge of your bed and started to take off his shoes. You went to your dresser, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out the FBI Academy hoodie you’d taken from him a few weeks ago, along with a pair of your longest sweatpants. You turned around and held them out to him.

“Here,” you said, smiling as you handed them over.

Spencer looked at the clothes, then up at you, a little confused.

“I don’t want you sleeping in khakis all night.” You explain.

He took them carefully, still looking a bit surprised. “I’ve done it before,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “But you don’t have to tonight.”

Spencer’s ears turned pink, but he smiled. “Thank you.”

“You can go change in the bathroom,” you smile. “I’m gonna change while you’re in there.”

He nodded, standing and heading toward the bathroom. 

You change quickly, taking your top and bra off and pulling on a tightly fit black tank top that ends just under your belly button. You change your pants to a pair of blue and white striped sleep shorts that sit low on your hips, leaving about an inch and half of skin showing between the hem of your top and the waistband of the shorts.

You toss your dirty clothes in your hamper as you hear Spencer open the bathroom door and start walking down the hallway. He taps twice on the doorway before peeking his head in, giving you time to tell him if you still need a second.

“Come in,” you say, turning your attention to the doorway.

You immediately notice the way his eyes drop down to the exposed skin of your waist. He swallowed hard, clearly trying, but failing, to keep his gaze on your face. His ears are bright red. 

You look him up and down too, but on purpose. The hoodie fit, of course, it was his, but the sweatpants ended about an inch above his socks, which were mismatched and half way up his shins. He looked goofy.

“You look adorable,” you grin at him. His face and ears go even redder.

“I…uh…you… y-you look really g-good,” he stutters, making you giggle slightly. 

You climb into your bed, bunching the covers down on the bottom half of the mattress. Spencer just stands there, eyes still flicking between your eyes and exposed hips. You can’t help but smile.

“Are you coming? you ask, patting the mattress. 

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head like he’d been pulled out of a trance. “Y-yeah.”

He climbs into your bed, pulling the covers over the both of you on his way up. You curl up against his side, resting your head on his chest. His arm immediately wraps around you. His fingers brush along your showing skin.

For a while, neither of you say anything. Outside was quiet. The house was quiet. Your room was quiet. The only sound was the occasional creak of a floorboard as your uncle moved around his room.

Your fingers lazily traced little circles on Spencer’s chest, right over his heartbeat.

“It was nice of you to wait until it was just us to tell Uncle Dave ‘happy birthday’,” you murmur.

“I know he doesn’t really like to be the center of attention,” Spencer says honestly. You nod into his side. “I almost didn’t say anything at all.”

“So why did you?” you ask.

“Because I…” he hesitates. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“I do,” you look up at him, head still against his chest.

“My 26th birthday was the best birthday I’ve ever had. My birthdays have always either been completely forgotten, or made a big deal against my will… But last year… It was just me, you and Garcia. And it was…”

“Comfortable?” you suggest, noticing he was struggling to find the word, something you never expected from Dr. Spencer Reid.

“Yeah,” he offers a smile. “Comfortable.”

“When I was little my family would always come visit on his birthday. My mom, Logan, and I would always make him this big cake. Like…four layers,” you giggle at the memory. “I always thought he hated his birthday because he always seemed so grumpy. Turns out he was grumpy because everyone kept reminding him it was his birthday.”

“Mhm,” Spencer hums knowingly. 

Before he could respond with words, the creaking of the floorboards began getting louder, making you both freeze. A second later, Rossi appeared in the doorway exactly where you expected him to be. He had his arms crossed over his chest as he looked from Spencer, to you, to the blanket.

“Hand check,” he demands.

You laugh, thinking he’s joking. 

He wasn’t.

“Now,” his voice is stern.

You and Spencer exchanged a nervous look before both lifting your hands from beneath the blanket like you were being arrested. Rossi inspects them for a moment, nodding his head once he’s satisfied.

Spencer slowly begins lowering his hands, but Rossi stops him. “Not yet.”

“Sorry,” Spencer nervously says, raising them up again.

“The door’s still open,” Rossi observes.

“It never closed,” you point out.

“Good,” your uncle praises.

“We’re literally just talking,” you say.

He looks at you for what feels like an hour. It was maybe 10 seconds. 

“Good,” he repeats, uncrossing his arms. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“We know,” you say.

“Sleep eventually, please,” he says.

“We will.”

He nods once. “Goodnight sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Dave.”

He turns his attention to Spencer, giving him a half smile. “Goodnight, Kid.”

Spencer smiles. “Goodnight Rossi.”

Your uncle disappears back into his bedroom. His door doesn’t shut fully like normal, showing you that he’s listening. You lay silent for about three seconds, before you bury your face in Spencer's arms to muffle a laugh.

“What?” Spencer asks, looking down at you bewildered.

"He made us do a hand check,” you laugh.

"I know,” Spencer’s voice is still serious.

"He actually thought we were..." You couldn't even finish the sentence.

Spencer's face turned bright red. "...He probably has reasonable cause."

That only made you laugh harder. Eventually, after your laughter settled into quiet giggles, you sighed contentedly and rested your head against him again.

"I think he likes you."

Spencer looked down. "I mean I work with the guy.”

“No, I mean I think he likes you as my boyfriend.”

“Oh. Yeah, I hope so.”

“Actually, I think I know so.”

“How?”

“He said ‘thank you’ to you for loving me.”

His fingers stopped moving against your side. "...You heard that conversation."

"The whole thing."

His ears immediately turned pink. "I thought you were looking out the window."

"Just because I was looking out the window doesn’t mean my ears don’t work, Spencer.”

"I thought we were being pretty quiet."

"You were."

"The car's just... really small." You smiled. "I'm glad I heard it."

He looked down at you. "You are?"

You nodded. "I've always known Uncle Dave respected you, but after hearing that conversation I feel like he cares about you.”

Spencer went quiet for a long time.

“I care about him,” he finally says, voice painfully quiet.

“I know you do.”

“I mean like, outside of work.”

“I know what you meant.”

Spencer smiles down at you. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” you almost giggle.

“For understanding and not making me explain.”

You give him a half smile before yawning.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Spencer asks, pulling your body a little closer to him.

“One more thing,” you say.

“What’s that?”

“We should get up early and make Uncle Dave surprise birthday pancakes.”

Spencer smiles, “Do you think he’d like that?”

“No. But if we just told him they were surprise pancakes he would. The ‘birthday’ part can be kept secret.”

Spencer laughs and leans down to kiss the top of your head. “I love you.”

“Goodnight, Spence,” you say, finding a comfortable position to fall asleep in. “I love you.”

_____

Read Part 28 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: for once i don’t really have much to say. i finally got my olive garden, it was good as fuck. ummm yeah idk im about to lock in for the rest of the night and write as much as i possibly can (aside from maybe a grocery trip, i really want to make soup) i have the next three parts outlined so i guess expect those kinda soon

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmhh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona

[mjwatson]

bucky has a disability??

he doesn’t have an arm.

[sailing-ever-west-deactivated20]

happy almost ten years to my all-time favorite disability post on this braincell forsaken website

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 26)

Trivia Night

summary: Garcia drags the entire BAU team to a trivia night at a bar. And for the first time, you are included.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19)

_____

Apparently Penelope had been talking about this trivia night for weeks. It was some big charity event at a bar in downtown D.C. She had decided, without asking anyone, that the entire BAU team was going. No exceptions.

She’d even made a group chat that she spammed with reminders and increasingly intense threats about what would happen if anyone backed out.

“Garcia says if anyone doesn’t come tonight she’s going to hack their computers and change their passwords to ‘GarciaIsAlwaysRight’,” he read outloud, looking a little amused, but more confused.

“Sounds like you and Uncle Dave should probably go then,” you giggle. 

Rossi groans from his armchair. 

Spencer glances down at you curled up into his side on the couch, a small smile tigging at his lips. “She says I should bring you.”

“Me?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Only if you want to, but she says she’ll cry if you don’t go.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Penelope had become something like a friend since the first dinner party. She texted you a few times a week, at first just checking up on you. Then memes you did you didn’t really understand. Then random pictures of things she wanted to buy.

“I already said you could,” Rossi says, not taking his eyes off whatever weird old man show he was watching on the T.V. You and Spencer both turned your attention toward him.

“I didn’t ask you yet,” you point out.

“You were going to,” Rossi says dryly. “So my answer is yes.” 

Spencer squeezes tighter on your side and you smile. “Thanks, Uncle Dave.”

“Besides,” Rossi says, finally looking up over the top of his glasses. “Garcia will probably follow through with those passwords if we don’t go.”

Spencer nods, looking down at his phone. 

“Garcia also says there will be mozzarella sticks,” he adds, reading a text.

“Well if she would’ve started with that I would’ve said yes a long time ago,” Rossi says, turning the T.V. off. 

Within the next 45 minutes, you were riding through downtown D.C. with Dave behind the wheel. 

You’d claimed the front seat without really thinking about it. Spencer sat behind you, his legs stretched out as far as the backseat would allow. He stares at the window, watching the streetlights. He looks peaceful.

“You know,” Dave says, making conversation. “I don’t think I’ve ever voluntarily gone to a trivia night in my life.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” you say.

“I still don’t understand why trivia has to happen in a bar,” Spencer chimes in from the back seat.

“Because adults like bars,” you suggest.

“Adults also like libraries,” Spencer says, voice completely serious. 

“Nobody is buying beer and mozzarella sticks in a library though,” You say.

“That’s the only reason I’m going,” Rossi says.

“Somehow I don’t believe that,” you smile.

Rossi glances over at you for half a second before looking back at the road. “You think I’m lying?” He asks.

“Well I saw you reading your trivia facts book all week,” you said.

“I was curious,” he defends.

“About a game you supposedly don’t care about?”

“You don’t prepare to lose,” Rossi says. “I’m aiming for a perfect score.”

“The average winning trivia team answered between 60 and 70 percent of the questions correctly.” Spencer recites like a book.

You turn around in your seat. “Have you researched trivia too?” He just stares at you, his ears becoming red. You giggle. “You studied for bar trivia!”

“NO!” He argues. But he kind of did. “I wouldn’t classify it as studying.”

You smile wider. “What would you classify it as then?”

“Curiousity?” Spencer offers.

You laugh. You watched Spencer's reflection in the rearview mirror. He was looking out the window again. Not nervously. Just taking everything in. The corners of his mouth were turned up ever so slightly. You reached back without thinking, letting your fingers brush against his knee. He looked up immediately. You smiled. He smiled back. Then, almost instinctively, he rested his hand over yours for just a second before letting go again.

Neither of you said anything. You didn't need to.

A few moments later Rossi slowed the car and pulled into a parking spot.

"Well," he said, shutting off the engine. "I hope you two actually know something useful."

You opened your door. "I know every winner of American Idol."

Spencer climbed out behind you. "I know the chemical composition of concrete."

Rossi looked between the two of you. "...Somehow I think we'll be alright."

_____

The bar was already loud before you even opened the front door. The sound of laughter spills out onto the sidewalk. Once Spencer pulled the door open, the sound of wine glasses was unmistakable. You step inside first, followed by Rossi, then Spencer last, pulling the door shut behind him.

The place was bigger than it looked. Strings of warm lights stretch across the ceiling, illuminating every table that was occupied by groups of people huddled together over answer sheets and pitchers of beer.

“There they are!” Penelope announces, barreling across the room like she’d been specifically waiting for your arrival. Which knowing her, she probably was.

“There’s my favorite profiler!” she cheered, throwing her arms around Spencer before he could protest. She pulls away, then immediately turns to hug you. “And my favorite profiler’s girlfriend!”

My favorite profiler’s girlfriend.

Garcia’s favorite profiler = Spencer.

Spencer’s girlfriend = You.

It wasn’t that nobody had ever called you Spencer’s girlfriend before. Spencer had. You had. Uncle Dave implied it. Spencer likely said it when he told the team. But this was different. She said it so naturally.

“I’m so happy you came!” She said, breaking away from the hug.

“You threatened to cry if I didn’t,” you laughed. 

“And I would’ve.”

“I believe you.”

“I already got us a table,” she says, starting to walk in the direction.

“You mean you’ve already decided where everyone is sitting,” Rossi corrected.

She marched the three of you across the bar to meet up with the rest of the team.

“Took you long enough,” Morgan says.

“We’re five minutes early,” Spencer says.

“You’re usually the first one here, Reid.” Emily says.

“We had to wait on Rossi,” Spencer shifts the blame. He wasn’t lying. You did have to wait for your uncle to find a shirt that he felt deserved to experience his first trivia night.

JJ smiled when she saw you. Hotch gave the three of you a small nod from the end of the table. No words, just acknowledgement, which felt good nonetheless.

“Okay,” Penelope said excitedly, clapping her hands together and looking around the table. “Team selection time!”

“I want Reid,” Morgan says immediately.

“Not fair,” Emily says. 

“I drove him here,” Rossi says, “I think I should get him.”

“No,” Penelope says, waving both hands dramatically. “I invited everyone here. Spencer is on my team.”

JJ folds her arms. “This is ridiculous.”

“No,” Morgan argues, “What’s ridiculous is pretending Reid isn’t worth at least 50% of the answers.”

“Fifty?” Emily scoffs, “Try like seventy.”

Spencer blinks. “I don’t think I’m worth–” 

“You’re not allowed to have input,” Penelope interrupts. “You’re the prize.”

Spencer looks confused by that statement. You can’t help but laugh, both at the situation and at his face.

“They’re literally drafting you,” you say, leaning in close to him.

“I’ve noticed,” he whispers, putting an arm around you and pulling you closer to his side.

“We could flip a coin for him,” JJ suggests.

“No!” Penelope gasps. “You don’t flip a coin for Spencer Reid.”

“Why not?” Rossi asks.

“Because then Morgan might win,” Emily jokes.

“Sounds fair to me,” Derek says.

The table continues arguing. Spencer eventually clears his throat. Nobody hears him. He waits a few moments before trying again. Still nothing.

“I think everyone should compete against me,” he finally says. His voice was louder than you think you’ve ever heard him be.

The table goes completely silent and eight eyes turn toward him. 

“I think that would be the fairest solution,” he says, adjusting the sleeve of his sweater awkwardly. Everyone is looking at him waiting for him to explain further. “Since there are ten of us, and it’s teams of eight, a-and who–, whichever team has me is m-more likely to win, i-it would be most fair f-for eight of you to be on a t-team and me and one other person compete on our own.”

“Who’s the other teammate?” Morgan asks.

“Y/N,” Spencer says without any hesitation, or confirmation from you.

JJ looks between the two of you. “Really?”

“Yes?” Spencer looks confused by the question. 

“So this whole plan was just ‘me and my girlfriend versus everybody else’?” Morgan asks, leaning back in his chair.

“It seems like the most fair option to me,” Spencer says.

“Not for her,” Morgan argues.

“How?” Spencer asks.

“Because she’d be stuck with one teammate while the rest of us have eight people,” he explains.

“Trivia is usually about covering as many categories as possible,” Kevin says.

“I don’t want her to get demolished on her first trivia night,” Morgan says.

"I don't think she'll get demolished,” Spencer says, completely honest.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"She's very smart,” Spencer smiles.

"We're not saying she isn't," Emily says. "We're saying she'd be at a disadvantage."

Spencer opens his mouth to argue. Then stops. Because objectively eight people is more than two.

"Alright,” Morgan says, folding his arms. He looks at Spencer. "If you're trying to prove you're smarter than eight people, that's your business." Then he turns to you. "But Y/N..." His voice softens a little. "You really okay with losing so your boyfriend can try to prove he's smarter than eight people?"

You look up at Spencer. He's already looking down at you. Not cocky, not arrogant, just quietly confident. Like he'd already done the math and genuinely believed the two of you could win.

“Yeah,” you shrug.

"...Seriously?" Morgan asks, looking around the table.

“I’m not saying they’re going to win,” Emily shrugs. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they did,” JJ says.

“I believe in my nerds,” Penelope smiles.

“I don’t,” Kevin says playfully.

“Me neither,” Will agrees, his thick accent surprising you.

“Neither do I,” Rossi says quietly. You hear him anyways.

“Wow,” you say, only a little offended.

“I’m trying reverse psychology,” he defends.

“That’s not how reverse psychology works,” you say.

“We’ll find out,” he says mysteriously. 

“Alright,” Morgan says, turning his attention toward you. “Are you sure you want to test your luck this much on your first trivia night?”

You nod once, looking at Morgan, then at Spencer. "I trust him."

Spencer's ears turn pink. 

"...Thank you," he says quietly, squeezing you a little tighter. You bump your shoulder against his.

Morgan reaches across the table. "A hundred bucks says you don't win."

"I don't really want to gamble,” Spencer says wearily

Morgan groans dramatically. "It doesn't have to be money."

Penelope claps excitedly. "Ooh! Loser buys mozzarella sticks!"

"I was going to buy mozzarella sticks anyway," Spencer points out.

Hotch, who has been quietly watching the entire exchange, finally speaks. "I think Reid's right."

Every head at the table turns toward him. Hotch takes a sip of his drink.

"If Spencer and Y/N split the categories naturally, they'll probably outperform the rest of us."

You glance up at Spencer. He catches your eye almost immediately.

"So..." you smile. “Do you think we’ll win?"

A small smile spreads across his face. "I think we'll do well."

You smiled. That wasn't what he'd wanted to say. "We'll do well" was Spencer Reid's version of outrageous confidence. If he'd thought there was even a five percent chance of losing, he would've said, We'll try our best. Instead, he'd said We'll do well. Which, translated from Spencer, meant: We're absolutely going to win..

The host tapped the microphone, immediately quieting the room.

“Alright everyone, first question,” the announcer says. ‘What is the chemical symbol for tungsten?”

“W,” Spencer whispers before you can even equate ‘chemical symbols’ with ‘the periodic table.’

You write ‘W’ down.

“Who painted The Persistence of Memory?”

You begin writing. ‘S a l v’

“Savador Dali,” Spencer whispers. “Oh, you already got it. Good job.”

“In the most recent Golden Globes, what television drama won the Best Television Series Award?”

Spencer looks lost. You smile, scribbling the answer down.

‘Mad Men’

“You knew that?” Spencer asks.

“It beat Grey’s Anatomy and House,” You smile.

You hear Morgan arguing with Penelope at the table beside you.

“Write Heroes!” Morgan demands.

“Heroes wasn’t even nominated!” Penelope says.

You see everyone slouch when the answer is revealed. Everyone except you and Spencer.

“Which composer wrote The Four Seasons?”

Spencer looks at you. You immediately start writing, so he knows he doesn’t even have to tell you the answer.

‘Vivaldi’

“Who designed the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain?”

“Frank Gehry,” you say, looking to Spencer for a fact check.

“I love you,” Spencer said. 

You suppose that means you’re correct.

“What is the value of Planck’s constant?”

You immediately slide the answer sheet to Spencer. He scribbles the equation down before anyone else even starts writing.

“I love that you know when something is my problem,” he smiles, handing the pencil and answer sheet back to you.

“I love that it’s never my problem,” you smile, taking the things back.

“Which singer released the album Back to Black?”

Spencer looks at you as you write down ‘Amy Winehouse.’

“I would’ve gotten that eventually,” he says.

“No you wouldn’t have.”

“You’re right.”

“What is the square root of 2, rounded to four decimal places?”

“1.4142,” Spencer says confidently over your shoulder. You just write it down, because even if he was wrong, that was closer than your guess would’ve been. 

But you knew he wasn’t wrong.

“What is the powerhouse of the cell?”

You quickly scribbled the answer down and looked over to Morgan, who was practically jumping for joy about the fact that he got a science question correct. You giggle.

“Before our final question,” the host says, unfolding the score sheet agonizingly slow to let anticipation build. “Let’s take a look at where everybody stands.

The projector turns on.

“In fifth place,” the host announces, “with 48 points…”

A table near the dartboards cheer as their team name appears.

“Team Quiztopher Columbus!”

A few scattered claps echo through the bar.

“In fourth place, we have the Know-It-Alls with 57 points!”

Another round of applause. 

“And in third place, we have The Bar Flies, with 63 points!”

“Okay we’re not third,” you hear Morgan say.

“But do you think we’re good enough for second?” Emily asks.

“In second place, with 70 points…”

Morgan’s sweating. You didn’t take him for the type to take trivia this serious. But then you realize it’s not the trivia he’s taking seriously, it’s the competition and the idea that he could win something.

“Team BAU!”

“On the podium, baby!” JJ cheers.

“We’re coming back!” Morgan chants, looking at you and Spencer. Even though it hadn’t been announced, everyone knew who was in the lead.

“And with the longest running streak of all time in this bar,” The announcer starts. “With a perfect 90, TEAM TWO!”

Someone from another table whistled. Morgan looked between the scoreboard and the two of you.

“TWENTY POINTS!?” He gripes.

“You guys haven’t missed a single question?” Penelope exclaims. “I’ve literally never heard of that in the history of ever!”

“Now technically our winners have already been decided,” the host smiles at you and Spencer. “But tradition is tradition.” He held up the final card. “Our last question is worth double points, not to decide the winner, but to see if Team Two leaves here with the first perfect 100 in this bar!”

The host looks around the bar. Despite the fact that no one else can win, everyone is still very invested. 

“For ten points… What is Scooby-Doo’s full name?”

You watch Morgan’s face twist. “Excuse me?” He says, annoyed. “That’s the question?”

“What is Scooby-Doo’s full name?” The host repeats.

Spencer slowly turns toward you, seemingly to ask what kind of question that was, but he’s shocked to find you already writing the answer down without consulting him.

“...You know the answer?”

“Yep!” You smile.

He stares at you. “You know Scooby-Doo’s full name?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” you say, handing the answer sheet to the announcer. His eyebrows shot up for the briefest second before his face returned to neutral. You caught it. Spencer caught it. And you catching it.

“That looked promising,” Spencer whispers to you. You grin.

After collecting all the answer sheets, the announcer returns to the microphone. 

“Scooby Doo’s full first name is…” he looks around the room, building tension. “Scoobert Doobert Doo III.”

The room erupted into laughter. No one believed it. 

Except for you. Because you wrote exactly that on your card.

The host raised both hands for silence. “And with a perfect score of 100…”

“THEY GOT THE ANSWER?” Morgan yells.

“Your trivia night champions are TEAM TWO!”

You turn to Spencer. “We got every question!”

Before you could process it, Spencer’s hand came up to cup your cheek. He crashed his lips against yours in a heated, impulsive kiss in the middle of the bar that was so far from anything you could’ve imagined him doing. It wasn’t gentle or shy like any of his other kisses that happened around people, this one was full of pure adrenaline and a glass of scotch that he forced himself to drink in order to look cool. 

He pulls back, his lips wet and shiny. 

“That was so hot,” he whispered so only you can hear. “You’re so smart.”

You smile shyly, both from the compliment and the very intense public kiss. “You answered like 90% of the questions–”

“88% actually.”

“See, I really only knew like 20% of them.”

“And they just happened to be the 20% I didn’t know.”

“You would’ve figured them out eventually.”

He shook his head. “I have never heard the name Scoobert Doobert Doo III in my life.”

You giggle. “You have a gap in your education.”

“Apparently.”

“You work for the FBI and you’ve never watched Scooby Doo?”

“I preferred educational programming as a kid.”

You’re about to make fun of him, but luckily for Spencer, Morgan appears beside the two of you, holding out a $100 bill.

“You actually brought cash?” You say, staring down at the bill.

“You said there wasn’t gonna be any money,” Spencer reminds him.

“I changed my mind,” Morgan extends his hand further.

Spencer looked at the bill for a second longer before gently pushing Morgan’s hand back toward him. “I don’t want your money,” he says.

“Seriously?” Morgan raises an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t about winning,” Spencer says.

Penelope nearly tackled you from behind. “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU GUYS GOT A PERFECT SCORE!”

“We did,” Spencer says calmly.

The bartender walked over carrying a small trophy no bigger than a coffee mug. "For our champions,” he says.

He placed it on the table in front of you and Spencer. It was cheap plastic. Gold and crooked. The tiny plaque read:

TRIVIA NIGHT CHAMPIONS

April 2008

You picked it up carefully, smiling. "We get a trophy?"

"You get your names on the wall too," the bartender said. "First perfect game we've ever had."

You looked over at Spencer. He was staring at the little trophy like it belonged in a museum.

"You know..." he said quietly.

"What?"

"I think this is my first trophy that wasn't academic."

You smiled.

"And even then it kind of was."

_____

To be continued...

_____

Read Part 27 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: sorry this part took so long guys, i've been ovulating (that's my best excuse) the next part is going to be a continuation of this part, so keep that in mind. I'll do my best to get it out as soon as I possibly can. I'm going thrifting tomorrow, however I SHOULD have time to work on it in the evening, so I might be able to knock it out then, depends on how easy it comes to me :)

anyways thank you guys for the support on this monster of a series that was originally supposed to be a one shot :)

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[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 25)

Soft Launch - Spencer's POV

summary: The team finds out about you and Spencer thanks to one very telling Instagram post. Penelope is thrilled, Emily and Derek are amused (and not at all surprised), and Spencer is adorably flustered.

word count: 1.6k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19)

_____

I got to work a little earlier than normal this morning. I was the first one in the bullpen, aside from Hotch and Garcia, but they were up in their offices. I set my satchel down beside my desk and hung my jacket over the back of my chair. I went and made a cup of coffee. 

I had no more than returned to my desk and opened the top case file when the sound of rapid heels clicking down the stairs drew my attention away. 

Penelope is making a beeline for my desk. The wind created by her speed is causing her pink cardigan to flow back behind her like a cape. She slams her hands down on the corner of my desk.

“Good morning?” I say, confused.

“No time for pleasantries, Boy Wonder. You just got soft launched,” she says, eyeing me accusatorily. 

“What is a soft launch?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “I forget you don’t know any cool lingo,” she teases. “Did you go to a bookstore yesterday?”

I furrow my eyebrows. How did she–? “Yes? How did you know that?”

“So it was you!” She exclaims like she had seen me.

“What was me?”

Penelope pulls out her smartphone and taps a few times, then turns the screen towards me, grinning.

Oh.

I felt my ears getting hot. Last night, when she had asked me if she could post the picture, I hadn’t even thought twice about it. She looked so happy holding her phone up at me, and the idea of her wanting to share even a small piece of us made me feel…good. And it never crossed my mind that her and Garcia could be friends or followers or fans or whatever Instagram calls it. And it’s not that I’m trying to hide the fact that she’s my girlfriend. I love that she’s my girlfriend. I love her. 

I just hoped I’d have more of a chance to prepare myself on what to say because I think the fact that I was just staring at Penelope’s phone was really telling.

“I knew it!” Penelope squealed, drawing the attention of Emily who was pretending to read a file at her desk. 

“Knew what?” Emily says, rolling over to us in her chair.

Practically on cue, Derek Morgan strolls into the bullpen. Ten minutes late for work. But everyone was too focused on me to call him out on it. He walks right past his desk and towards the huddle forming around me.

“Alright, what are you guys doing to Pretty Boy this early?” He asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. “His face is redder than Garcia’s lipstick.”

Penelope smiles and holds her phone out for Derek and Emily to see. 

“Exhibit A: Soft launch, Spencer Reid,” Penelope says. I have no idea what that sentence could even mean. 

Derek leans in, squinting at the phone. He let out a low whistle. “Well damn. That’s definitely Reid.” 

“Duh,” Penelope says, “Look at who posted it.”

“That’s Rossi’s girl, ain’t it?” Derek says, taking notice of the username.

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god, it IS her. ”

They both shift their attention to me. I can feel my face getting hot. I rub the back of my neck, smiling sheepishly, unsure of what to say.

“So are you going to admit it’s you?” Penelope asks, showing me the phone again.

“I never said it wasn’t me,” I say, looking down at my hands. 

The hands she admitted to loving. When we were–

I put my hands in my pockets and shift my weight back and forth.

Derek pats me on the shoulder. “So is this like a thing thing?” he asks, raising one eyebrow at me.

“Uh…yeah,” I smile, still looking down.

Everyone is silent, just staring at me. Except for Penelope.

“SINCE WHEN!?” She shouts.

I finally look up to her. “Since 23 days ago.”

I didn’t realize it had only been 23 days since we officially became a couple until this moment. Likely because I’ve finally been able to admit that I’ve been in love with her for 191 days. 

Emily narrows her eyes at me. I can already sense the question that’s about to be asked. She lowers her voice. “Does Rossi know?”

Penelope and Morgan look at me too. All three of their faces look the same. And they’re all assuming wrong.

“He does,” I say, smiling at them. Proud. I’m proud.

“Really?” Morgan asks, almost scoffing. “After screaming at you for 20 minutes in his office about being her friend he’s all of the sudden okay with you guys knocking boots?”

“We talked to him about it. Actually, he figured it out on his own before we were even ready to tell him. But he said that he sees how happy she is and… I don’t know. He told me he trusts me, which I don’t really know what that means but it’s good I guess.” I say.

“This is the best news I’ve heard all year,” Penelope is vibrating with excitement. “I’ve known since day one! You two are so cute. I’m going to frame this photo. I’m going to make it my wallpaper!” She locks her eyes on mine. “I need details, Spencer.”

Emily leans back in her chair, smirking. “I just can’t believe the mystery girl was Rossi’s niece this whole time. I was sure you’d be off of her after he yelled at you.”

“Yeah, we grilled you for weeks after that dinner party, man.” Morgan adds. “You’re talking about ‘we’re just friends’ and ‘we just talk about books,’ meanwhile you’re getting your hair played with in bookstores and she’s walking you like a dog on Instagram.”

“Soft launchhh,” Penelope sings, grinning. 

“It wasn’t a soft launch! It’s just a picture!” I argue. But after using context clues, I’ve picked up that a soft launch in this sense is a revelation that you are dating someone, but not a relevance of who you are dating.

So I guess by definition, that was exactly a soft launch.

JJ walks out of Hotch’s office carrying a coffee and a file. She took one look at the group gathered around me and my desk and started walking toward us.

“What did I miss?” She asked, walking down the stairs.

“JJ!” Penelope squealed. “Come here right now!”

JJ smiles as she walks over, looking amused but wary. “Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you’re concerned about true love,” Penelope says, holding her phone out again. “Look at this, then look at who posted it.”

JJ leans in. “Y/N Rossi,” she reads. She looks up at me, almost looking accusatory. “I thought Rossi banned you from ever speaking to her again?”

“Yeah, but he went back on it…” I rub the back of my neck again and lower my voice. “And I’m glad.”

“So you guys are actually hanging out again?” JJ asks.

Morgan lets out a loud ‘HA’ and elbows me. “They’re doing a bit more than hangin’ out, aren’t you Pretty Boy.”

JJ looks at me, her eyes wide and mouth open, waiting for a confirmation.

“Yeah,” my face burns. “We’re uh… We’re dating.” 

The words felt weird coming out of my mouth. Unnatural. I don’t know if they’re something I will ever get used to.

“I can’t believe you kept this from me!” Penelope says.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” I defend, “I was just…not talking about it.”

Emily laughs. “Well that clearly worked out.

JJ smiles, folding her arms. “So… how’s she doing?”

The question catches me off guard. I wasn’t really expecting a genuine curiosity from any of them, they tend to just like to make fun of me.

“Good,” I answer, smiling. “Really good.”

“And you’re happy?” Emily asks.

I don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. I am.” 

Morgan smiles at me, patting my shoulder for what feels like the hundredth time. 

“I’m really happy for you, kid,” he says. 

Hotch’s office door opens upstairs. The sound alone is enough to make everyone scatter. Emily rolls her chair away, JJ grabs the file she’d brought and returns it to a shelf. Morgan makes his way back to his desk. 

Penelope slowly starts to back away. I try to turn my attention back toward my desk, but she speaks. She’s really good at being a distraction.

“This isn’t over,” She says.

“...What isn’t?” I ask. I don’t really know what she means. 

“The interrogation,” she clarifies. Kind of. I wasn’t aware that I was being interrogated. 

“There was an interrogation?” I ask.

“There will be,” she smiles. 

“Good luck, kid,” Morgan laughs.

Garcia waves dismissively.

“Details,” she says as she turns around to go back up the stairs to her office. 

Within seconds, everyone is back where they’re supposed to be. The case file I’d opened earlier is still sitting exactly where I’d left it.

I stare at it.

Instead of reading it like I should, I find myself replaying the last ten minutes over and over again. Morgan was happy for me. JJ asked me about her. Emily smiled. Garcia looked like she might explode from excitement. Nobody laughed at me. Or questioned if it was a mistake. Or…acted like I wasn’t capable of being in love with someone. Or that someone was capable of being in love with me.

From the moment I found myself falling in love with her I’d been convincing myself that if anyone found out they’d think I’d done something wrong, like I’d crossed some kind of invisible line. But instead they’d congratulated me.

I don’t know why that surprises me.

Maybe because I’m still getting used to the idea that something this good is allowed to happen to me. 

My attention drifts toward the picture frame sitting beside my computer. A photo of my mother.

I reach for my phone. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before I text her.

_____

Read Part 26 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

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a/n: if anyone was curious i went back through all the parts and did the math for this. according to my calculations (that are now canon bc i literally wrote this) this part takes place on 4/21/08, their first kiss was 3/21/08, they became official on 3/29/08, and rossi confronted them about their relationship on 4/05/08. if you were curious there’s that. this is kind of just for myself to remember to look back on if i forget the dates but yeah

anyways you're welcome for the olive garden reference for those who know (also the nearest olive garden to quantico is on gideon drive. no one speak to me.)

also do you guys fw the inline images or no? i'm kind of experimenting with them. i think i like the instagram one, i'm not sure how i feel about the text message one.

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Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 23)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22]

Saturdays

summary: You spend another Saturday with Spencer. And that Saturday leads into Sunday.

word count: 5k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19) smut (18+) dry humping, cumming in pants, no penetration

Today has been the fastest Saturday ever. One minute you’re knocking on the door of your boyfriend’s apartment, the next you’re looking at the clock on the microwave wondering how it was 5:07 PM.

Most of the day was spent how it always was. Books, coffee, conversations that started normal but ended with Spencer explaining how a Roman road system was one of the greatest engineering achievements in human history.

You listened to every word. Mostly because he looked so excited talking about it. In the months you’ve known him, you’ve learned that watching him get excited about something was far more entertaining than whatever he was talking about. And either way, you were paying attention to him, so it was a win for the both of you.

Now you’re standing in his kitchen, wondering how his cabinets are so organized. One has plates and bowls, all stacked by sizes. The next is cups and tupperware, all stacked by sizes. The silverware drawer had three different kinds of spoons, and the smaller spoons were laid into the bigger ones; stacked by sizes. His knives were organized from left to right by size and sharpness. 

“Spencer,” you say, shutting the drawer.

He hums, still looking down at the cutting board where he was carefully slicing vegetables with pretty much surgical precision.

“Why are your cabinets alphabetized?” you ask.

“They aren’t.”

You open the spice cabinet and start listing them off from left to right.

“Adobo, basil, cajun, chilli powder, cinnamon, garlic salt, ging–”

“Okay maybe the spice cabinet is alphabetized. It saves me on average 37 seconds every time I cook.” 

“You timed it?” you can’t help but giggle. “You’re a weirdo.”

“How is it different from color coding your planner?”

“It just is.”

“Objectively it isn’t.”

“Well to me it is!”

He paused for a moment, both in his words and in his chopping.

“...I’ll allow that.” he smiles.

“I win!” you grin triumphantly.

“It wasn’t a competition.”

“It was if I wanted it to be.”

You smile and hop up onto the counter beside him. The granite is cool beneath your legs. You swing your feet lightly against the cabinet doors while watching him cut.

Spencer glances over at you for half a second before looking back at the vegetables.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“Very.”

“Good.”

He smiles to himself and keeps chopping for a moment before noticing just how close the cutting board is to your knees. He slides it a few extra inches away from you without saying anything. You notice immediately.

“You know I’m not going to lose a leg, right,” you joke.

“Kitchen injuries are far more common than most people think,” he says matter of factly, still focused on the vegetables. “I’d rather not test if you’re an outlier.”

“You’re catastrophizing,” you say.

“That’s a really good word, however, I am assessing a risk,” he says, sitting the knife down and walking between your legs. He leans forward and plants a heavy kiss on your mouth before speaking again. “I just don’t particularly want to explain to one of my bosses that I had to take his niece to the emergency room.”

You laugh as he returns to the cutting board.

“You’re not going to cut off my leg.”

“Probably not, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.” 

“I guess Uncle Dave would probably be a little upset.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “A little?”

“Okay,” you say as you hop down off the counter with a grin. “He’d be very upset.”

Spencer gives you a satisfied nod, like the matter has been settled beyond all reasonable doubt.

“Can you boil some water?” he asks, attention focused on the vegetables again.

“I don’t know, my leg might fall off,” you say, grabbing a pot anyways. He just shakes his head.

Spencer finishes chopping the vegetables while you measure pasta into a pot. Spencer’s kitchen was small, not that that was a bad thing, it just meant that every few minutes one of you had to step around the other. The apartment slowly started to fill with the scent of garlic and mixed vegetables.

You leaned against the counter while Spencer stirred everything together.

“You know,” you said, “you’re actually pretty good at cooking.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Seems like my uncle is rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe that’s what inspired me,” he smiles.

_____

The dishes are washed and put away, and the apartment now smells very faintly of garlic and more like dish soap. Spencer is finishing drying the last dish while you claim your usual spot on the couch. His apartment is beginning to feel familiar now. The blanket that’s folded on the arm rest, the stack of books on the end table that grows a few every time you visit, the lamp in the corner that is always on in place of the big light, it all feels normal.

“You can pick what we watch,” Spencer calls from the kitchen. 

“Doctor Who?” you ask, grabbing the remote.

He appears behind the couch. “Good choice.”

“You say good choice no matter what I pick.”

“Because you always pick good things!”

Spencer settles on the couch beside you as the familiar theme song plays. You cozy up next to him and he wraps his arm around your waist. He makes it a little under minutes before he has to say something.

“You know, this episode almost wasn’t made. It was originally supposed to have a completely different ending.”

“Mhm,” you hum, not taking your eyes off the screen.

“The production schedule had to be reorganized because several scenes exceeded the filming budget.” 

“Spencer,” you say, voice sounding slightly more annoyed than you actually are.

“What?”

“You’ve been quiet for almost seven minutes.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.” you smile at him.

He sheepishly smiles. A soft red spreads across his cheeks from being called out. You feel a little bad for him.

“So, what happened?” you ask him, still smiling.

His eyes brighten immediately, excited that you want to hear him talk.

“Well, the BBC had significantly fewer resources than most people assume during the early revival years. Russell T. Davies actually–”

You tune him out, instead paying attention to the way he talks. You try to listen. Really, you do. But your attention is so easily pulled away to something much more entrancing. 

Him.

The way his mouth moves when he talks, forming each word carefully and thoughtfully. The tiny smile that keeps appearing when he probably says something he finds funny. You wouldn’t know. The way he can’t seem to say anything without using his hands.

God.

His hands.

Your eyes lock in on them like there’s nothing else to look at. His fingers are long, and refuse to stay still. They move with every sentence, putting his thoughts into the air. The veins along the backs of his hands shift every time his fingers move, becoming more pronounced whenever he gestures or flexes his grip around the remote. It's such a tiny detail, one most people probably wouldn't even notice. You can't seem to stop noticing it. Your eyes follow the lines, wondering how something so ordinary has somehow become one of your favorite things about him.

You wonder how his hands can be so many things at once. 

The hands that scribble impossibly neat notes in the margins of books. The hands that always pull out your chair before you sit down. The hands that reach for yours without thinking when crossing a busy street. You remember them brushing against yours while making dinner. Holding doors open. Turning pages. Holding your notebook while helping you with homework. Holding your planner like it was fragile. Holding you like you were.

His hands are expressive in a way that the rest of him isn’t. Spencer is careful with words, careful with eye contact, careful with people. But his hands have never been careful. They flutter when he’s excited. They point when he’s making an observation. Twist together when he’s nervous. Run through his hair when he’s thinking. And on rare occasions, they settle quietly in his lap, folded together, making it almost impossible to believe they’re capable of moving so quickly.

“...which is why the production schedule had to be completely reorganized," he finishes, making one final gesture with his hands before looking into your eyes.

You blink, realizing with absolutely no dignity, that you’ve spent the last several minutes watching his hands instead of listening to a single word he said. 

“You didn’t hear a single word I just said, did you?” he asks.

“I heard Russell T. Davis,” you smile innocently.

“It’s Davies. And that was the first sentence I said.

“Oops.”

He studies your face for a moment before a grin spreads across his face.

“You were staring at me again.”

“...maybe”

“Why?”

You glance down at his hands resting on his thighs. Then immediately back up at his face before he catches where you were looking.

“No reason.”

Spencer narrows his eyes at you. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’ve been told.”

Spencer keeps looking at you like he’s trying to solve something. Eventually he shakes his head and smiles to himself.

“I’ll make you tell me eventually,” he says.

“You can try,” you grin.

“I will.”

You smile, leaning back into his shoulder as the episode continues playing in the background. Neither of you pay it much attention anymore. The Doctor is apparently saving the world again. You assume he is successful. He usually is.

The apartment is quiet. Headlights drift across the living room ceiling before disappearing again. Somewhere downstairs a door closes. The heat kicks on. Comfortable sounds fill the room. The kind you stop noticing after a while. 

You pull your legs up onto the couch and your knees to your chest. Spencer shifts at the same time as you, turning slightly so he’s facing you instead of the television. 

It’s strange. A few months ago, silence between the two of you would’ve felt awkward. Now it just feels comfortable.

“This has probably been the least stressful week we’ve had in months,” you say quietly.

Spencer lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah.”

“I still can’t believe Uncle Dave knew,” you say.

“I still can’t believe he didn’t punch me,” Spencer says, only half joking. “I thought he hated me.”

“You thought Uncle Dave hated you?”

“A little,” he smiles awkwardly.

You laugh before lowering your voice. “I kind of thought he did too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I kind of spent the entire month preparing for him to ban me from seeing you again.”

“If it makes you feel better I spent the month preparing to be transferred.”

“What?”

“I figured if he disliked me enough, he’d eventually get Hotch to move me to another team.”

“You actually thought he’d do that?”

“I don’t know. I considered it a possibility though.”

“You overthink everything, I don’t think it would’ve gotten that bad.”

“I know,” he smiles softly. It quickly fades into something more thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted somebody’s approval for something so badly.”

You smile at him, waiting for him to continue on his own. He sounds like he’s going somewhere with this.

“I know he’s your uncle and that he’s important to you, but he’s scary.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Spencer is silent for a moment, not like he was thinking of what to say, more like thinking if he should say it. He looks at you, giving a half smile, before finally speaking.

“I didn’t want him thinking I was taking advantage of you,” he admits.

“He doesn’t think that,” you say, reaching over and lacing your fingers with his. 

“I mean, I know that now.” His thumb brushes slowly across the back of your hand. “But I didn’t know that a week ago.”

He looks like he’s thinking again. You let him gather his thoughts.

“I just…” he starts, looking down at your joined hands. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

“Dated me?” you say, smiling.

“Dating in general,” he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “I know most people my age have significantly more relationship experience than I do… I-I don’t have none, I just–”

“Spencer,” you interrupt him.

“No, it’s true.”

“I don’t care.”

He finally looks back up at you, a small, disbelieving smile on his face.

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing most of the time.”

“You know what you’re doing,” you squeeze his hand.

“I know what I’m trying to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Not mess this up.”

Your chest hurts a little. “You’re not.”

“Would you tell me if I was?”

“Yes.”

He studies your face like he’s trying to determine if you’re just saying that to make him feel better.

“Okay,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

His mouth fights back a smile. “Can I ask another something?”

“Always.”

He takes a second to look at you before speaking.

“Are you happy?”

You don’t even have to think before saying yes. He exhales quietly.

“Is that what you’ve been trying to ask this whole time?” you question.

“Kind of,” he smiles sheepishly. “There are…several related questions.”

“Of course there are,” you smile.

“Do you feel safe with me?” he asks.

“Yes, Spencer.”

“Are you comfortable with me?”

“Yes.”

“If I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s awkward?”

“Especially if it’s awkward.”

He nods again, committing the answer to memory. “Good.”

“You asked me like four different versions of the same question,” you point out.

“I know.”

“Why?”

He smiles, looking almost apologetic.

“Because they eliminated a different uncertainty. I just wanted reassurance.”

“And did you get it?”

He looks at you for a long moment. “I did.”

“So did I,” you say, leaning a little closer to him, toying with the idea of hoisting yourself into his lap. He seems to pick up on that as well, because he shifts his position on the couch to allow you room to climb on top of him. If you so please.

And you just so happen to please. 

You straddle him, careful to keep yourself propped up on your knees rather than settling on his lap. You hover your mouth over his, his breath is hot against yours. His hands sit shakily on the couch on either side of your legs, like he’s scared to touch you.

You grab his wrists, pulling his arms up to your waist. He looks at you, eyes wide and terrified.

“D-do you want me to t-touch you here?” he stutters, fidgeting with the fabric of your shirt.

You bring your face down to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. You can touch me wherever you want,” you whisper into his mouth before kissing him. He shivers both from the warmth of your voice and the feeling of your body as he grips your waist. 

Despite having been given consent to touch you anywhere, he paid careful attention to keep his hands only on your waist. He was desperately grasping at the fabric between every kiss, finding any way possible to beg for more. 

Your hands found his chest, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt. Even though it was Saturday, he’s still dressed like he’s going to work.

You let your hands run down his chest, using a gentle palm on his diaphragm to hoist yourself up from your slipping position. The unsuspected heightening made his hands fall down to your hips, knocking your knees loose and causing you to be in contact with his lap. You knew what you felt, but chose to ignore it as you didn’t want to embarrass him.

Though you ignoring it was pointless as Spencer immediately pulls back from the kiss and pushes your hips away from him.

“Y/N, I’m sorry…” he says, not daring to look you in the eyes.

“Sorry for what?” you say, bringing your hand up to gently run your fingers through his hair. “You did nothing wrong.”

He smiles, unsure of what to say. He leans back in for another kiss, but is still careful not to let his semi-hard dick come in contact with you. 

You kiss him back, bringing your hands to his chest again. You use your strength to turn him, you laying down horizontally on the couch and pulling him on top of you. Your lips meet again. You let your hand trace down his torso, stopping as you feel the sharpness of his hip bone. He shivers and lets out the smallest, and prettiest, whine you’ve ever heard. You smile into his mouth and quietly giggle.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, planting a kiss on his neck which causes his hips to buck, coming down to rut against you briefly. He whines again, then nods and leans in for more kisses. He’s given up trying to keep his hips’ distance from you, letting himself rest against your thigh as he kisses you. You reach your hands up to tangle into his hair, gently pulling. His dick twitches against you, alluding a sigh from flustered Spencer.  

You tug a little harder on his hair, just enough to tilt his head back so you can kiss along his jawline. His hips jerk again, involuntarily pressing himself more firmly against your thigh, which makes him whimper.

“Sor–” he starts to apologize again.

“Spencer,” you interrupt. “It’s okay. I like feeling you like this.”

He hesitates for a second, dropping his forehead into your shoulder to process your words. “Y-you do?” he stutters.

You hum in response, shifting beneath him by parting your legs a little wider so he can settle more fully between them. The new position lines him up perfectly against you, even through layers of clothing. The sudden pressure makes you inhale, which causes him to freeze. You rock your hips up once, slowly grinding against the length of him.

A broken sound escapes him. His hips instinctively push forward to meet yours, chasing the friction. Heat pools low in your stomach.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice wrecked. He does it again, more purposefully this time, a shallow roll of his hips that turns into a longer, slower grind. The rhythm is a little uncoordinated at first, but every drag of his clothed cock against you feels electric.

You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to press closer. 

“Just like that,” you murmur, guiding one of his hands down to your hip so he can hold you steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Spencer nods against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every ragged breath. “Y-yes, you feel… incredible.” His voice cracks on the last word as he finds a steadier rhythm, rocking into you with more confidence. The friction builds with every roll of his hips

You can feel how much he’s holding back, how carefully he’s trying not to lose control, but his body betrays him. His hips stutter when you moan softly into his ear, and his fingers dig harder into your hip. 

You reward him by grinding up to meet every thrust, matching his pace until the two of you fall into a shared rhythm. The couch creaks quietly beneath you. The TV is still playing in the background, long forgotten. 

Spencer lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark and glassy, cheeks flushed. “Is this…am I doing this right?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, even as his hips continue their slow, rolling grind against you.

You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a deep kiss, tongues sliding together as you rock up harder against him. When you break apart, you smile against his lips. “You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He makes a soft, relieved noise and buries his face in your neck again, surrendering to the feeling. His thrusts grow a little harder, a little faster, each drag. 

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, occasionally tugging just to hear those pretty little sounds he makes, while his hands roam your waist and hips, holding you exactly where he needs you as he ruts against you with growing desperation.

After a particularly deep grind that makes you moan into his mouth, Spencer slows just enough to lift his head. His breath is ragged, eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?” he whispers. “Still comfortable?”

You nod quickly, holding the back of his neck. “Yes, Spencer. You just feel really good.”

He exhales shakily and kisses you again, but a moment later his hand slides under the hem of your shirt. His palm is warm against your bare stomach, hesitant. He pulls back just enough to ask, voice low and earnest, “Is this alright? Touching you under your shirt?”

“More than alright,” you breathe, arching into his touch. “You can touch me.”

Encouraged, his hand drifts higher, smoothing over your ribs, but he still checks in again when his thumb brushes just beneath the edge of your bra. 

“And this? Still good?”

You answer by rolling your hips up harder against him, grinding along the full length of his cock through his pants. Spencer’s forehead drops to your collarbone with a groan, and his hips stutter forward in response.

He shifts his weight, sliding one hand down to the back of your thigh and gently pulling your leg higher around his waist. The movement opens you up more, letting him rut deeper against your center with each slow grind.

“Is this okay?” he asks immediately, voice strained. “The way I’m holding your leg?”

“It feels good,” you assure him, tightening your leg around him. “I like it when you hold me like that.”

He nods against your skin, visibly relieved, and starts moving again. Long, deliberate rolls of his hips that drag the hard ridge of his erection right over your clit with every pass. You can feel how hard he is, how his cock twitches every time you moan or rock up to meet him.

Spencer’s hand stays on the back of your thigh, fingers flexing as he uses the leverage to grind against you more purposefully. After a few moments he checks in again, breath hot against your ear. “Still comfortable? I don’t want to put too much weight on you or–”

You cut him off with a kiss, smiling into it. “Spencer. I’m perfect. Keep going.”

He lets out a soft, overwhelmed sound and obeys, hips rolling in a steady rhythm now. The couch shifts beneath you with every thrust. His free hand slips further under your shirt, palm sliding up your back to pull you closer to his chest. Another soft check-in, murmured between kisses: “This is still okay? Holding you like this?”

“Yes,” you whisper, tugging his hair gently. “I love your hands on me.”

That seems to break something in him. His movements grow a little less controlled and into deeper, needier grinds. You can feel the heat of him through his pants, the way he’s throbbing every time your bodies press together. His breathing is ragged, little whimpers and gasps slipping out whenever you roll your hips just right.

Every few minutes he still pauses just long enough to check on you.

Questions like “Are you still feeling good?” and “Tell me if you want me to slow down” and every time you reassure him, his confidence grows. The checks never fully stop, but they start coming between longer, hungrier kisses and more desperate rolls of his hips.

You’re both starting to lose yourselves in it. The apartment is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, quiet moans, and the faint creak of the couch. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, eyes half-lidded as he grinds steadily between your legs, chasing the building pleasure with you.

You’re both breathing hard, bodies pressed tight together. You slide your hands down his chest, then back up to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he grinds against you. The words slip out before you can overthink them, low and a little breathless against his ear.

“I was staring at your hands earlier,” you confess, voice husky. “God, your hands are so hot. I kept thinking about them on me, holding me down while you moved just like this…”

Spencer’s breath catches sharply. His hips stutter once, twice, three desperate, uncoordinated thrusts that press his cock hard against your core. On the third roll, his whole body goes rigid. A choked, broken moan escapes him as he comes without any warning, even to himself. His hips jerk against you in shallow pulses while he spills into his pants, warm and sudden, the wet heat soaking through the fabric and smearing against your thigh and the hem of your shirt where your bodies are pressed together.

He freezes the second he realizes what just happened.

“Oh. oh god,” he gasps, mortified. His face burns bright red as he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide with panic. “I…I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even– fuck.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile too obviously because the sight of him flushed, disheveled, and completely undone actually does something for you.

“Hey,” you say gently, cupping his burning cheeks. You pull him down for a soft kiss, then another. “It’s okay. Really. I kind of… find it really hot, actually.”

Spencer stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain. “You… you do?”

“Mhm.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, soothing. “You got that worked up just from me? From grinding on me? It’s flattering. And kinda hot.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Go change your pants, okay? Then come back so we can cuddle. No big deal.”

He nods quickly, still looking embarrassed but visibly relieved by your reaction. He carefully climbs off you, avoiding eye contact with the visible wet spot on his pants (and the smaller smear on the bottom of your shirt). “I’ll be… right back. I’m really sorry.”

“Spencer. Stop apologizing,” you call after him softly as he disappears down the hall. “I liked it.”

A couple minutes later he returns in fresh sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, still pink-cheeked. He hovers awkwardly by the couch like he’s not sure where to put himself.

You sit up and reach for his hand, tugging him closer. “Come here.”

He lets you pull him in, but then hesitates again. “Is it… weird if we cuddled in my bed instead?” he asks quietly, voice shy. “The couch is fine but my bed’s bigger and… I don’t know.”

You glance down at the faint smear on your shirt and laugh softly. “Well, considering you kind of just came on my shirt, I don’t think cuddling in your bed is weird at all.”

Spencer lets out a surprised little laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally melting. He takes your hand properly this time and leads you to his bedroom, ears still red but a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips.

Once you’re both standing beside his bed, he glances down at the faint smear on the bottom of your shirt and winces. “I’m really sorry about that,” he says again, voice soft and genuinely apologetic. “Here, wait a second.”

He quickly rummages through his dresser and pulls out a soft FBI Academy hoodie and a pair of his sweatpants. “It’s… kind of frowned upon to be covered in someone else’s cum,” he mumbles, clearly mortified even as he says it. He hands them to you, avoiding eye contact. “You can change in the bathroom if you want. Or here. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You take the clothes with a grin, rising up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. And stop apologizing. I’m not even a little mad.”

While you change into his hoodie, which smells like him, and the sweatpants, Spencer lies down in bed. When you come back out, he’s already under the covers in his own clean clothes, looking a little shy but happy.

You climb in beside him and Spencer immediately opens his arms for you. You settle against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as he wraps one arm around your back and the other around your waist. His legs tangle with yours under the blankets, and he pulls you in close until there’s no space left between you. One of his hands strokes slow, soothing circles on your lower back while the other rests gently on your hip. He’s warm and solid, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

“This is nice,” you murmur, nuzzling closer.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. After a quiet moment he adds, “It’s already past midnight… Do you want to stay the night? You don’t have to drive home this late.”

You blink, suddenly remembering the outside world. “Oh god… Uncle Dave.”

You reach over to the nightstand for your phone and unlock it. Sure enough, there are three unread texts from him.

Uncle Dave (10:47 PM): How’s dinner going?

Uncle Dave (11:22 PM): Getting late. Let me know when you’re heading home.

Uncle Dave (11:58 PM): You should probably just stay over there. I don’t want you driving this late if you don’t have to.

You let out a small laugh and tilt the screen so Spencer can see. His eyes widen slightly as he reads the last message.

“Looks like we have official permission,” you say, setting the phone back down and curling back into him. “I’m staying.”

Spencer’s arm tightens around you, a relieved little sigh escaping him as he presses another kiss into your hair. “Good. I like having you here.”

_____

Read Part 24 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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a/n: i'm actually kind of going insane irl right now so i'm reverting to writing spencer reid porn with plots as an escape again

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@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmh

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 22)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21]

Rossi's Reprise

summary: Watching his niece grow up was always going to be difficult. Watching her fall in love was supposed to be worse. Somehow, it isn't.

word count: 2k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19)

The funny thing is, they think they’re sneaking around.

For the last month or so, I’ve watched two of the smartest people I know develop the world’s most obvious secret relationship and then proceed to act as if I don’t know. It’s a little bit insulting that they think I’m that dense.

I am not that dense. And surprisingly, I also am not so dense as to fail to understand why they are trying to keep me in the dark. After all, I have a poor track record when it comes to finding out about developments in their friendship.

That’s not to say I was angry this time. However, I wasn’t exactly encouraging the situation either. I had some questions. And some concerns. And several moments where I debated locking my front door and pretending Spencer Reid didn’t know where I lived.

But after some reflection, I’m not angry about it. Truly, I am not. Spencer Reid is a good man. A great man, even. He’s way better of a man than I was at twenty-six. And in some ways, he’s still a better man than I am now.

He’s kind, patient, loyal, brilliant, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody more incapable of manipulation and so bad at lying. Which is probably why watching him attempt to hide a relationship from me for a month while seeing me every single day has been so entertaining. 

The age difference still leaves a sour taste in my mouth sometimes and I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Not because of Spencer, but because of myself. Because no matter how old she gets, my brain still sees her as the angry teenager carrying three duffel bags into my house.

But that isn’t Spencer’s fault. And I was wrong to blame him for it at first.

The truth is, I know exactly who Reid is. I know what kind of man he is. But more importantly, I know what kind of man he isn’t. He’s not a creep. He’s not taking advantage of her. He’s not manipulating her. If anything, he’s probably spent more time thinking about the nuances of their friendship than me.

Honestly, I think she scares him a little. Which I find comforting. 

And if my niece was going to date anybody I work with, which is something I never thought I would have to think, I’d want it to be Spencer Reid.

Not necessarily because he’s the smartest, or because I trust him professionally, or because I know he would give anything for the people he cares about. Though all that does help.

But because I’ve seen my niece happier in the last few months than I think I’ve ever seen her. It’s not like she was incapable of being happy before. She’s funny, and smart, and beautiful, and kind, but she’s never been the type to let people in easily.

She has friends, but there’s a difference between having people to go to the mall and to go to the movies with and allowing someone to get close enough to you that you bring them around the house everyday without even asking the man who owns it.

She didn’t even ask if Spencer could come over yesterday. I came downstairs at like 6:30 to get a cup of coffee and boom. There they were, sitting on the couch with textbooks spread everywhere. 

Nobody had asked me anything. I don’t even think they thought twice about it either. I mean, I would’ve said yes. But the fact that she forgot to ask says a lot more than just failing to ask. 

And she manages to do it two days in a row. 

I’m standing in the kitchen, leaning against the stove, while she digs in the refrigerator.

“What do you want for dinner?” 

“I don’t care,” she says, not even looking up.

“You’re helpful,” I sigh.

“I’m always helpful,” she stands up and smiles.’

“Always a liar, you mean.”

She starts to walk away without even taking anything from the fridge. I’m not even really sure why she was in there in the first place. She turns to me before she leaves the kitchen.

“Oh, Spencer will be here in like twenty minutes,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow at her. That’s exactly my point.

“Ask him what he wants for dinner,” I say.

She nods and starts to walk away.

“And ask Spencer if Papa Rossi said it was okay for him to come over.”

She stops in her tracks and turns back. The look on her face is priceless. So priceless I can’t help but laugh.

“I forgot to ask,” she says, looking apologetic.

“No, you did not.”

“I’m so sorry. I can tell him not to come if–”

“No, he’s always welcome here.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Dave.”

“It’s okay, I’m just making fun of you.”

She rolls her eyes and walks to the living room.

_____

I find the two of them occupying the couch while I cook dinner tonight. They’ve somehow managed to spread across half the living room. Her planner is open on the coffee table. Spencer has his balanced on his knees. They’re supposedly organizing their planners together.

They’ve actually spent the last thirty minutes talking. I know because neither of them have written anything down. I hear bits and pieces of their conversation while I cook.

Something about professors. Then train schedules. Then… ancient Rome? Then they start debating over whether or not color coding a planner is useful or a waste of time. I take notice of the way Spencer automatically turns toward her whenever she starts talking. 

I stir the pasta. I feel like I’m always making pasta. Maybe that’s an unfair Italian stereotype. But I make good pasta so I’m okay with it. 

I look back into the living room. They’re actually using their planners now. She’s writing something down, Spencer is watching. He tells her there’s not enough detail. She says that there’s enough for her to remember. He says some memory statistic or some random fact or something that I honestly couldn’t care less about. Then he takes her planner out from in front of her.

I’m expecting her to throw a fit. She’s like a guard dog around that thing. If you even threaten to touch it she’ll bite your hand. But to my surprise, there’s no attack.

She just lets him take it.

He didn’t even ask. I’ve never seen her planner under the eyes of someone else without a fuss. And now it was in the hands of someone else and she was just sitting there. Completely comfortable.

I watch her shift closer to him. She’s looking over his shoulder at the planner. Her head is tiptoeing around the idea of leaning against his shoulder. She’s almost done it before she looks behind her into the kitchen. I know she sees me because she shifts back. Spencer’s eyes flick towards me, then to her. Then he straightens a little to create more space between them. I notice that too.

And I understand exactly what is happening. 

I’m making them uncomfortable.

I spent months worried about Spencer being around my niece because I was thinking about myself. And that translated to me teaching them that being themselves around me was a problem. 

It isn’t Spencer I’m worried about anymore, not that it ever was, he was just something to be used to cover my real worries. It isn’t the age difference, though that is something still on my mind, but that is something that I’ve realized isn’t being used as manipulation. It isn’t whether or not they’re together. I already know they’re together. 

What bothers me is that they’re still seemingly waiting on my permission.

I built this house, sorry, mansion, to be a home for my niece. Not a place where she needs to monitor her social life, especially now that she’s an adult. I built it to be safe for her and the people that she cares about. 

And whether I was prepared for it or not, Spencer Reid had become one of those people.  

I set the spoon down on the counter, two realizations coming into my head:

I’ve been stirring the pasta for nearly five minutes.

I should probably bring it up at dinner.

______

The sound of forks against ceramic plates echoes in the dining room. Nobody has said much, everyone is far too focused on their pasta. For a moment I debate on not saying something. But I know if I don’t say something now, I’ll probably spend another month watching them be weirdos.

I sit my fork down on my plate.

“So, Spencer.”

“Yeah?” he says, looking up with a mouth full of bread.

“Did you get home safe last night?”

Neither of them react. Spencer just nods.

“Good.” I take a sip of water. “It was pretty late.”

Spencer hesitates for a moment. She stops eating and looks up at me with only her eyes.

“It wasn’t that late,” Spencer says carefully.

“That’s true.” I take a bite of pasta. Then chew. Then swallow. “3:00 AM is technically morning, now isn’t it?”

They’re silent. Both of their expressions are exactly the same, eyes wide, forks suspended halfway to their mouths. I can’t help but chuckle looking at them. Because the panic on their faces in unbelievable. 

“Did you hear him leave?” She finally asks.

“I came downstairs for water.”

That makes their faces worse. Much worse. I know why. And they surely know why as well. My niece drops her face into her hands.Spencer looks like he’d rather be detained by the FBI. Which is unfortunate because he works for the FBI.

“I wasn’t exactly surprised.”

They exchange a confused look at each other. 

“...what do you mean?” She asks. 

I think about it. Because what do I mean? I wasn’t surprised to see my niece and my coworker cuddled up on my couch in the middle of the night?

“You guys really think I don’t know?”

“Think you don’t know what?” She asks. 

“A few weeks ago you told me you were going to Georgetown.”

“We did go to Georgetown. Spencer got a planner!”

“You told me on Friday you were going to Georgetown. You called me from Georgetown on Saturday morning…So where were you the night before?”

I watch the realization creep onto her face. And his.

“...Spencer’s apartment,” she quietly answers.

“In our defense it was storming,” Spencer immediately adds.

“That’s fair, I’m glad you were safe.”

Both of them give me a weird look.

“That’s it?” she asks. I knew she expected me to be angry. Or to yell. She still looks suspicious. “I still don’t know what you mean by not being surprised."

I stare at her. Then at Spencer. Then back at her. And I smile.

“I saw you kissing in the driveway.”

“Oh…” she says, her face pale. Spencer swallows hard. I see it all the way down his throat.

I start eating again, ready to end the conversation. They refuse to take another bite, just looking off into space.

“You aren’t…mad?” Spencer finally asks with a shaky voice.

There’s something vulnerable about the question and the way he says it. I look at both of them sitting across from me. I don’t feel worried, or upset, or angry about what’s going on between them. I just feel old. 

Very, very old.

“No. I’m not mad.” I say with a smile.

_____

Read Part 23 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

a/n: i have no idea why but this is like one of my favorite parts i’ve written. i think it’s because i write in rossi’s headvoice rather than a first/second person blend. anyways i wrote this part in like two hours but i really really like it :) also i don’t know when the next part will come out, perhaps next week? it depends because i’m very busy right now. but trust me when i say it will be worth the wait hehehe

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmh

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 21)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

Friday

summary: Spencer comes over to help you study after you do pretty bad on your exam. And he stays a little too long.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19)

Friday

You know you failed before you even hand the exam in to your professor. You can feel it sitting in your stomach while you stare at question seventeen for ten minutes. Twice.

You know the material. Or at least you thought you did. But the second you got into the exam room, every concept somehow rearranged itself into a completely different language. 

By the time you leave the class frustrated. By the time you’re sitting in your car staring at the posted grade on your laptop screen, you’re fighting the urge to cry.

D.

You feel stupid. Dumb. Awful. Embarrassed. Pretty much every negative emotion.

Your phone is in your hand and Spencer’s number has been dialed before you even consciously decide to call him. You don’t really expect him to answer. It’s 4:34 on a Friday, he’s at work. And probably busy.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little confused, but happy to be talking to you. You never call him first when you know he’s at work. Not because he said you can’t, but because you want him to be as focused as possible, because his job is important.

But one time wouldn’t hurt.

“Hi,” you respond, voice shaky as you hold back tears.

“What happened?”

“You were wrong.”

“What? Oh, you got your exam back. What did you get?”

“I got a D…” you say quietly, feeling shameful. 

He’s silent for a moment. Not because he’s judging you, but because he’s calculating. 

“That’s not ideal,” he says.

“Thanks for not calling me stupid,” you scoff.

“You’re not stupid. You still passed.”

“Barely.”

“You’re not stupid, Y/N.”

“I studied. And I actually tried. And I still did terrible, so it’s kind of hard to not feel stupid, Spencer.”

“Do you have a new chapter assigned?”

“Yeah for next week.”

“I’m coming over after work and I’m going to help you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. I want to though.”

“You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”

“Nope, I’ll be there around 6:00. I’ll see you then.”

You sigh.

“See you at 6:00.”

______

Around 6:15 you’re sitting on the couch with your textbook open between you and Spencer. Spencer, who’s turned what should be the most boring chapter of any textbook in existence into something that actually makes sense. Which is irritating, because he can explain in five minutes what your professor failed to explain in three lectures.

“You explain it way better than my professor,” you tell him.

“I don’t know if that is necessarily true,” he smiles. “But you are more likely to retain information from me.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons.”

“Such as?”

“You trust me, and you pay attention to me.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t see how that really affects how I retain information though.”

“Well, you’re actually far more likely to retain information when you hear it from someone you’re attracted to.”

Your mouth falls open. You stare at Spencer, who’s just sitting across from you smiling. Completely serious. Like he didn’t just say one of the most insane things imaginable.

“Okay, ego,” you tease, laughing.

“What?” he says, wrinkling his eyebrows.

“You can’t just tell people they’re attracted to you.”

“You admitted it!”

“I know I did, that’s not the point though!” You have to look away from him to keep yourself from laughing harder.

“It’s relevant to the discussion!” He points to your textbook. “Now, if you’re done bullying me–”

“I’m bullying you?” you interrupt.

“Yes.”

“You literally just told me I’m biologically programmed to listen to you because you’re attractive.”

“That’s not what I said!”

“It’s what you meant!”

“Do your homework,” he says, turning away from you.

You go back to your textbook, but you did have to admit, Spencer had a point. You remember every random thing he’s ever explained to you. Every weird fact he’s ever told you, every book he’s recommended, every conversation.. You remember everything he told you about journalism ethics that one time. And everything he told you about investigative journalism, even though that wasn’t even something you’d gone over in any of your classes yet.

Right. Classes.

The next hour passes fairly quickly. For studying time at least. You find yourself understanding things, not just memorizing them.

Spencer notices immediately when you’re stuck. And every time you’re stuck, he’ll read about the concept the way your textbook puts it, then explain in a different way that he knows you’ll understand. Every time something doesn’t make sense, he finds another example that he knows you’ll understand. And if you don’t get what he’s saying, he’ll start from the beginning. Every time.

He’s patient. He acts like he has all the time in the world to help you, which you know is false. No one should be this smart and this nice. But there he was. Right in front of you.

Somewhere around 8:30, you realize that you haven’t thought about your bad grade in nearly an hour. Which might be the most impressive thing Spencer helped you accomplish all evening. The disappointment is still there, but it doesn’t feel crushing anymore.

That’s because every few minutes Spencer says something that makes the material click. And every time it clicks, you feel a little less stupid. You’re no longer rereading the same paragraph over and over. Or staring blankly at the page for minutes on end. And you’re actually understanding what you’re writing in your notebook.

By the time you reach the end of the chapter, your notebook is covered in new notes, underlights, arrows, and highlights. And Spencer’s occasional corrections written in his perfectly imperfect handwriting in the margins. You smile as you look over them once more before leaning back against the couch.

“I think I’m done,” you say, relieved. 

“You think?” Spencer raises one eyebrow.

“I’m done,” you say, knowing he was waiting for a definitive statement.

“So then if I quiz you you’ll know all the answers, right?” He reaches for your notebook and ignores your groan. “What is the primary purpose of journ–”

“The primary purpose of journalism is to provide citizens with accurate, verifiable information they need to be free, self-governing, and make informed decisions,” you answer before he even finished the question.

“Good job,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

“See, I understand it,” you say, hoping he’ll believe you and let you be done. He continues. You knew he would.

“Okay,” he says, flipping your notes. “What’s the difference between libel and slander?

“Libel is written defamation, slander is spoken.”

“Good. When reporting on a politically charged event, what is the difference between objectivity and neutrality?”

“Objectivity means verified facts and multiple sources from a non-polarized source. Neutrality is more about trying not to appear to take sides.”

“Good job,” he flips to another page. “And good wording too.”

You smile.

“Okay, in context,” he starts again. “Say a public official and a private citizen are suing a newspaper for defamation. Which case is harder to win?”

“The public official,” you answer.

“Why?” He asks, looking up at you.

“Because they have to prove actual malice.”

“Define ‘actual malice’.”

“That the journalist either knew the information was false or showed reckless disregard for whether or not it was true.”

“There!” he says, pointing at you excitedly. “That was exactly right.”

The more questions he asks, and the more you get right, the brighter his face gets. It’s like seeing you succeed brings him joy. Which would make sense, because you feel the same about him.

You answer each of his questions without too much of an issue, until he asks the exact question that you had stared at for twenty minutes during your exam today.

Question seventeen.

“how does hermeneutic underdetermination make news reports inherently uncertain?”

You stare at him for a moment, really thinking. And suddenly, the answer comes to you. In a matter of seconds. Not twenty minutes. You smile.

“Because the same facts can support more than one reasonable interpretation,” you answer confidently. 

Spencer looks at you for a second before closing your notebook. He smiles a proud smile.

“What?” you ask, grinning.

He leans forward and wraps you into a quick hug. You barely even have time to hug him back before he backs away, holding you still by your shoulders. He looks down at you. Before he can really think twice about it, and realize that this, Rossi’s living room, probably isn’t a safe place.

“There’s my smart girl,” he grins at you.

Your body reacts the same way it always does when he calls you that. And now he paired it with an objective statement.

My smart girl.

You were Spencer Reid’s smart girl.

You don’t know how long you sat there staring at him like an idiot. But it was long enough for him to realize that you were probably being too ‘PDA’ when your uncle was right upstairs in his office.

“Do you uh… wanna watch something?” He asks, letting go of you.

You nod in response. Because there was no way a word could leave your mouth right now. You stare at him, not moving for the remote. Or looking at the TV YOu just look at him.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he finally asks you.

“No reason,” you say immediately looking away. 

“There’s definitely a reason for you to stare at me for twenty seven seconds.”

“We’re watching TV now,” you say, grabbing the remote from the coffee table.”

“That’s not an answer to the question.”

“I wasn’t trying to answer the question.”

You turn the TV on, still refusing to look at him. Mostly because if you look at him right now you’re going to think about him saying ‘there’s my smart girl’ again. Which feels dangerous to think about on your uncle’s furniture.

The TV eventually ends up on some random cable movie that neither of you really pay attention to or are really even interested in. 

Spencer’s arm eventually ends up around your shoulders. Every few minutes, one of you will glance toward the staircase.

Just checking of course. Just in case.

Because Rossi still doesn’t know. And while neither of you are technically doing anything inappropriate, explaining why you’re curled up together on his couch at 9:00pm on a Friday night feels like something that needs more planning.

And just like Rossi doesn’t know what’s going on between you and Spencer, you and Spencer don’t know what’s going on in the movie. Both of you are too focused on finding ways to touch the other that would still be easy to pull away from if either of you heard a noise from upstairs.

The first time a floorboard upstairs creaks, both of you quickly separate and look to the stairs. After a few minutes, and no emergence of Rossi, you guys come back together. 

Neither of you say anything. Because admitting that you’re both waiting for Rossi to appear would make this feel…

Wrong.

After separating another time because of a noise that leads to nothing, you rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder instead of just leaning against it. Spencer shifts slightly to make it more comfortable. He tightens his arm around you, both of you choosing to ignore that this position takes more effort to get out of.

The house remains quiet. No footsteps. No Rossi. Just the movie that you probably couldn’t name a single character in if it would save your life. 

An hour or so passes with no interruptions. Spencer starts correctly guessing plot twists in the movie. You don’t really know what’s happening, but he’s still spoiling it.

“You’re ruining the movie,” you say.

“You’re not even paying attention.”

“Yeah but I know what’s going to happen in ten minutes because of you.”

“I’m preparing you,” he laughs, and pulls you closer into his side. 

Another twenty minutes pass. Spencer was right about the plot twist again, but you don’t care anymore. You’re too focused on keeping your eyes open. You keep dozing off into Spencer’s side and jolting back awake. You hope he doesn’t notice. Of course he does.

“Tired?” He says, glancing down at you.

“No,” you lie.

“You’re yawning.”

“I am not!”

He raises an eyebrow. You immediately yawn. 

“That doesn’t count,” you say, annoyed that he can predict your yawns.

“So you faked it?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pointing at the TV. “Movie.”

“Oh so now you’re interested in the movie?”

“I’ve been interested!”

“What’s happening then?”

You stare at the screen. You can feel him smiling down at you.

“...there’s a guy…”

Spencer starts laughing. You shove his arm playfully. 

“You have no idea what’s happening,” he points out. You know he’s right.

“I know enough!”

“You were asleep for ten minutes during the climax, there’s no recovery for that.”

“I was resting my eyes!”

“I’ve never heard of anyone snoring while resting their eyes.”

You jerk your head up to look at him.

“I was not snoring!”

“You were a little.”

You hide your burning face.

“It was cute,” he says, trying to make you less embarrassed.

Eventually you settle back against him. The room is warm. The TV is quiet. His arm is still around your shoulders. The steady rise and fall of his breathing is making it harder and harder to stay awake. 

The movie becomes harder to follow. Not that you were really following it anyway. But now the sounds are blending together and the light from the TV is simultaneously too bright and too dim at the same time.

“Still awake?” Spencer asks you quietly.

“Yep.”

He asks you again five minutes later.

“Awake?”

“Obviously,” you answer, words slightly slurred.

Spencer smiles to himself. You don’t see it though. Because your eyes are closed again.

_____

The first thing you become aware of is warmth. The second is that something is pressing against your cheek. The third is that your neck hurts.

For a few seconds you stay exactly where you are, mind hovering somewhere between asleep and awake. The warmth is nice. You don’t particularly feel like moving. 

But your brain is slowly catching up.

The warmth doesn’t feel like your bed. Your bed doesn’t smell this good. Not that it smells bad, it just doesn’t smell like…

Spencer.

Your eyes open wide. Your stomach drops. You lift your head very slowly. 

Spencer is asleep. Actually asleep. Not reading, or pretending to be watching TV, he’s asleep. His head is tilted toward yours, glasses half off his face like they’ve fallen. His hair is messy. His arm is wrapped securely around your waist. You stare at him for a quick moment before your eyes drift toward the cable box.

3:07 AM

Fuck.

You start to panic. The studying, the movie, the cuddling, the fact that you fell asleep, the fact that he fell asleep, the fact that your uncle is somewhere upstairs hopefully asleep, the fact that it’s three in the morning.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. 

Spencer’s eyes open immediately. Like it flipped a switch. He’s already looking around and scanning the room. His eyes immediately go to the staircase, you follow them. 

Nothing.

“We should probably move,” he says, starting to gently push you away.

You quickly get up. He follows.

“He didn’t see us,” Spencer says as he starts to gather his things.

“You don’t know that!”

“I think I would’ve heard yelling.”

“That’s fair… But what if he came down for water?”

“What if he didn’t?”

“What if he’s standing in the hallway right now?”

Spencer turns his head toward the hallway.

“Don’t look!” you say.

“I’m checking!”

“STOP CHECKING!”

You look towards the hallway too. Nothing.

The next few minutes are complete chaos. Silent chaos though.

“Get your stuff,” you whisper, helping him.

“I’m trying!”

“Try faster!”

You’ve never seen someone put on their shoes so quickly.

A floorboard creaks again upstairs. The two of your turn toward the staircase terrified. 

Nothing.

Spencer motions to the door. The two of you start moving, every step feeling like an elephant is walking. When you finally reach the front door, Spencer reaches for the doorknob very slowly. Painfully slow. The sound of the latch clicking seems to echo through the entire house.

Spencer steps outside carefully, pausing to look back inside at you. He leans forward and kisses you quickly. 

“Goodnight, pretty girl,” he says, before turning away.

You smile and wave back at him, too scared to speak. You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. Then you close the door and lock it. And immediately lean against it, your heart still racing.

_____

Read Part 22 Here!

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: i know i literally just posted about not updating this fic daily anymore but the other thing i’m working on is absolutely gut wrenching and i need something happy to write about because it’s making me physically ill (worth it tho)

also you’re welcome for the free intro to journalism lesson. the next chapter is going to be another rossi’s pov chapter, sorry if you hate that, but i know quite a few people really enjoyed it so shrug emoji

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 20)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19]

A Week

summary: it’s yours and spencer’s first week of officially being boyfriend and girlfriend.

word count: 3.5k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x19)

Monday

Your professor is standing at the front of the lecture hall explaining something about cognitive development theories. You’re trying to pay attention. You’ve written an entire page worth of notes. But this is one of those classes where the room is too warm, and you can hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, and the person behind you keeps clicking their pen every five seconds. 

Your phone buzzes. It’s a little too loud against the desk to ignore. You glance down at it, expecting an email or some social media notification. Instead, you saw text from Spencer.

SPENCER: Good luck on your exam review today.

You stare at the message. It takes you a second to even recall mentioning it to him. You hinted at it a few days ago while the two of you were walking to get coffee. It wasn’t a conversation, or really even on topic. It was just something you’d complained about for maybe thirty seconds. And somehow he remembered.

Of course he remembered, he’s Spencer Reid. But something about it still made you blush. Because he didn’t text you because he had a question, or because he needed something, or to tell you a fun fact. He texted you because he thought about you and thought about something going on in your life.

You smile. Then immediately stop because you realize you’re sitting in the middle of class. Then you look back at the message and smile anyway.

YOU: Thanks : )YOU: I’m surprised you remember that

Spencer responds instantly.

SPENCER: I remember most things.SPENCER: Good luck, smart girl.

Your face immediately burns from reading his recent text. Smart girl. You wonder if he has any idea what that does to you. Honestly, he probably doesn’t. And you’re not sure if that makes him calling you that better or worse.

You lock your phone and put it face down on your desk before anyone can see it. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop you from smiling for the rest of class.

Tuesday

You and Spencer have been getting coffee together in the mornings before he goes to work for months. Long before any of this happened. Long before he looked at you and said he wanted you. So nothing about Tuesday morning was inherently romantic or even new.

You’re standing in line at the same D.C. coffee shop in the same converse you and him always wore. Spencer is beside you. It smells like coffee. Everything is exactly the same.

Except now he’s your boyfriend.

You catch yourself smiling while waiting in line. Then smiling while ordering. Then again when Spencer tells the barista to have a great day. You don’t even know why. You just feel stupidly happy.

Spencer is just sitting across the booth looking out the window when you realize you’re staring at him. Again. And to your embarrassment, he realizes too.

“You’re staring again,” he says without looking away from the window.

“I’m not!”

“You are.”

“I was thinking.”

He finally glances over.

“About?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

You shrug casually. “You.”

The tips of his ears turn pink immediately. Then red. Then somehow redder. You grin, because somehow it still happens every single time. Spencer clears his throat and looks away.

“That’s very distracting,” he says, flustered.

“You literally asked,” you giggle.

“I wasn’t expecting that answer.”

You smile into your coffee. Because for all the things Spencer knows and for how attentive he is, he still has absolutely no idea what to do when you flirt with him. And honestly, you kind of love that.

Wednesday

You’re lounged on your bed with your planner open in front of you while on one of your evening phone calls with Spencer. The conversation has moved from your classes to his work schedule to what the two of you are doing tomorrow. 

Which is apparently spending the evening at his apartment.

“I should be back around 6:00,” Spencer says.

“Okay, I’ll be in the parking lot at 5:50,” you say, opening the cap of your purple highlighter.

“I heard that,” Spencer says.

“Heard what?”

“You’re writing in your planner, aren’t you?”

You’re glad he can’t see you blushing. He laughs anyway though.

“I heard your highlighter cap,” he says.

“No you didn’t.”

“What was that sound then?”

You don’t answer. Which is obviously enough of an answer for him, as he just laughs more.

“You’re the worst,” you say.

“Why?”

“You can’t even see me!”

“I don’t have to, I have ears.”

You look down to the purple highlighter in your hands.

“I hate you,” you say.

“No you don’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Well considering I’m the only person with their own color dedicated to them in your planner I would think the opposite of you hating me.”

“How do you know you’re the only person with their own color?”

“Y/N…”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You say that every time I bring up the highlighter.”

“Because you’re annoying!”

“You’re still going to come over tomorrow though.”

“You know I am,” you smile.

“Make sure you highlight it in purple,” he laughs.

“You know what, for that I’m gonna change it.”

“You’re changing it?” his voice is immediately filled with concern.

“Yep.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t just change it!”

“Oh so now you’re attached to it?”

“I’m not attached! You can’t spend weeks assigning me a color and then just rebrand me!”

You laugh. Because Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI is concerned about losing his color in some girl’s planner.

“I’m hanging up now, Spencer.”

“Wait!”

“Nope.”

“Am I still purple?”

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Y/N–”

You hang up. Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

SPENCER: For the record, purple is an excellent color.SPENCER: Please don’t rebrand me.

You laugh.

YOU: I won’t…this time : )

Thursday

You’ve been in the parking lot of Spencer’s apartment for somewhere between five and ten minutes before he arrives. Which is entirely his fault. Because if he hadn’t spent the entire day texting you things like ‘Don’t forget to bring your book tonight’ and ‘I fully intend on making sure you actually study tonight.’ and an ‘I know where you live.” (which would’ve totally creeped you out had it not come from Spencer) then maybe you wouldn’t have been counting down the hours and then the minutes and then the seconds until you could see him.

SPENCER: Are you here already?

YOU: Maybe… : )

SPENCER: That’s not an answer.

YOU: Maybe I am, maybe I’m not…

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

SPENCER: You’re here.

YOU: Maybe…

SPENCER: I can see your car.

You look up. Sure enough, Spencer is crossing the parking lot carrying his car keys and his satchel. He’s already smiling. It’s not a huge smile, but one that still makes your entire day better. You wait until he’s almost to your car before rolling the window down.

“You’ve been here awhile,” he says once he reaches your car.

“You don’t know that,” you smile.

“You got here before I did.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve been here a while.”

“Are you coming inside with me?” He asks, motioning toward his apartment building.

“Eventually,” you nod.

“Eventually?”

“I’m enjoying making you wait.”

“That’s not very nice.”

You grin at him, not saying anything.

“Can we go inside now?” He asks.

You grab your backpack from the passenger seat and climb out of the car. Spencer takes a look at the ridiculously heavy textbook sticking out of it.

“Do you want me to take that?” He asks before you sling the bag over your shoulder.

“I mean I’m not gonna tell you no,” you say. He takes the backpack from your hands with a grunt. 

“How much reading do you have to do?” He asks.

“Not that much…” you say, looking down at your feet as the two of you start walking toward the building.

“How many pages?”

“Not that many…”

“Y/N…”

“Thirty…” you mumble.

“Only thirty?”

“Yeah, it’s not that much.”

“Then why are you acting like you’re going to spend four hours reading?”

“Because I’d rather be hanging out with you.”

Spencer pauses at the first step. You continue up a few before realizing he’s still down there, standing, looking completely caught off guard.

“What?” you say, turning around to look at him. He smiles and shakes his head and starts walking up the stairs again. By the time you reach his apartment, he’s recovered enough to pretend he wasn’t flustered. But you knew better than that. His ears are still slightly red. Not that you’d ever point that out.

He ignores you and unlocks his apartment door. The familiar scent of coffee, books, and Spencer hits you. Your brain has started to link the three scents as one. As soon as you walk in he hangs his keys by the door and sets his satchel down.

“Okay,” he says, handing you your backpack from off his back. “Study.”

“We’ve been inside for like six seconds!” You say, taking the bag.

“You have an exam tomorrow. Study, then we can hang out.”

“Yes, Dad,” you mock and start walking toward the couch. He glares at you, but follows you. 

After an hour you’re both still on the couch. Spencer is reading some philosophy book while you study your textbook.

Or at least are supposed to be studying your textbook.

Your textbook is open. Your notebook is open. You look very academic. But the problem is Spencer looks very attractive. And that doesn’t mix well with trying to be studious.

He’s still in his work clothes. His hair is slightly messy. His glasses are sliding down his nose, but not far enough to warrant being pushed up. His tie has been loosened a bit, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks so entranced in his book. He looks gorgeous.

You try reading. You really do. You manage to make it though about half a page before having to look at him. Then you’re able to read a few more paragraphs before having to look back at him. Then a few sentences. Then you can’t even get through a few words. Your textbook might as well be written in a whole other language. You close it and drop it on the coffee table. The thud startles Spencer slightly.

“Are you done?” He asks, looking at you.

“No.”

“Then why’d you stop?” 

“You’re distracting,” you say. For some reason you’re not hesitant or embarrassed at all.

“Me?” his eyebrows lift.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m just sitting here reading?”

“Yeah, but you look really good today.”

He doesn’t answer. His ears start turning pink. Then red. And that’s answer enough.

“What?” he manages to say with a cracking voice.

“You’re hot.” you say.

His mouth opens like he’s going to speak. Nothing comes out. You watch his entire face go bright red. You giggle at him.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he says.

“Sorry, you’re just so easy to make nervous.”

“You’ve never said that before!” he argues.

“”Well look at you,” you say, making it obvious you're looking him up and down.

He looks horrified. Not because he dislikes it, but because he has no idea what to do when you compliment him. Or honestly when you look at him like that. He keeps staring at you, his face still red and his ears redder than you’ve ever seen them. But he’s still gorgeous. 

You last approximately four seconds before you can’t take it. You lunge forward on the couch and kiss him with fervor. His hands immediately come up to your waist, one against your skin, and the other sandwiching his book between his hand and your skin.

The newly familiar touch settles inside of you, making everything feel easier. You smile into his mouth. You shift closer, pressing your body into his. 

Spencer makes a quiet sound that you feel throughout your body. You slowly pull back with a smile, revealing his glasses sitting crooked on his face, which only makes you smile wider. His face is red and he looks completely stunned.

“Woah.” he says, eyes wide looking at you.

“What?” you laugh.

“That was…”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, backing away more and a little embarrassed now. “Sorry…”

“I didn’t say stop,” he says, pulling you closer with the hand that’s actually on your waist. 

Oh.

You look down at the book in his other hand, then back up at him. Without breaking eye contact, you take it from him and set it on top of your textbook. He watches the entire thing happen very intently. Very interested.

You use a hand to push at his chest to get him to lie on his back against the couch cushions. He naturally falls and situates you on his lap by your waist. For a moment he just lays there looking up at you. And you don’t tease him this time. Because you just sit there on his lap looking down at him.

Because he looks HOT.

Just like you had said. His glasses are still slightly crooked from where you'd bumped them earlier, him not having dared taken his hands off your waist to fix them. Several strands of his hair have fallen across his forehead, and the rest is just completely out of place from his usual neat swoop.

His tie is no longer straight either. Which does way more to you than it should. Somewhere between him loosening it and you calling him hot, it’s shifted off center from his chest. His chest, which was a little more exposed than you’ve seen before because of the two undone buttons.

His face is completely red. Not a little red. Completely. Ears included. Despite being the smartest person you know, and the smartest person anyone who knows him knows, Spencer still looks hopelessly overwhelmed every time your attention is undivided on him.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist. His eyes move over your face.

“What?” he asks, referring to you staring at him. Which is a little humorous considering he’s doing the same thing.

“Nothing,” you smile down at him.

“That’s never true.”

You giggle. Because he’s right.

“You’re just…really attractive,” you say.

His top lip trembles slightly, not like he’s about to cry, but more like he’s trying to hold a smile back. He brings a hand up to meet your chin, his thumb running along the bottom of your jaw, then coming up to trace around your lips. He pulls the bottom one down as he finishes his circle.

You close the gap between the two of you, pressing your chest firmly into his. You hover your lips just above his. His breath is hot against yours. He exhales shakily as his lips barely graze against yours. Their touch is so light you don’t think it would qualify as a kiss.

You press closer to him while moving your lips more eagerly against his. He returns your eagerness, his movements becoming a little sloppy. His hand that was on your face slides to the back of your neck and his fingers tangle in your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer.

One of your hands roams up to his face. He allows your fingertips to trace the beautiful contours of his jaw and cheekbones. His skin is warm and soft beneath your fingertips, the finest layer of sweat has begun to surface on his face.

Your fingers move to his hair, pulling gently. He lets out the smallest whimper into your mouth, which causes your entire body to react. You pull at it again, and are rewarded with another small hum. 

Interesting.

Your kisses are heavy, the passion between them leaves the both of you coming up for air. You pull back, resting your forehead against his. Your eyes lock with his, a gaze of longing covering the brown in his. You feel his chest rising and falling against yours. His hands rest on your hips, fingers digging a little roughly.

You stay there for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing harder than before. Spencer opens his mouth to speak.

“As much as I’d love to keep doing this…”

“No.” You interrupt, already knowing where this is going.

“...you have an exam tomorrow.”

“Spencer,” you groan.

“I swore I’d make sure you actually study,” he smiles. 

“You’re so boring.”

“I’m so helpful,” he corrects.

You bury your face against his shoulder. He laughs and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that it almost makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at him. Until he reaches around your body at your textbook on the coffee table.

“No.” you protest.

“Y/N.” he grabs your textbook. 

You glare at him. He hands you the book anyways. You know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean you want him to be. You take the book and climb off of him. He sits up and grabs his own book. You settle into his side. Because if you’re going to study, you’re at least going to do it while leaning against your boyfriend.

He immediately wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer into his side. You pretend not to like it as much as you do.

You’re surprisingly able to focus much better now. Spencer sits beside you reading his own book while you work through your notes. Every once in a while he’ll glance over your shoulder to see what page you’re on. Which would’ve been annoying if it were anyone else. But somehow Spencer manages to make the supervision feel comforting.

“That’s going to be on your exam,” Spencer says as he reaches over and taps his finger on a paragraph in your textbook.

“You don’t know that,” you say, looking at him.

“It’s important. It definitely will be.”

“You’re just guessing.”

“Okay, let me know when I’m right tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your notes. It takes you almost half an hour, but you finally place your pencil down for good. Spencer looks over his book at you immediately.

“Are you actually done?” he asks.

“Yep,” you smile.

“Let me see,” he says. You hand over your notebook. He scans each page. “Good.”

“That’s it?” 

“What?”

“That’s all I get?”

“You did a good job,” he smiles and sits his book on the table. He opens his arms. “Come here.”

“You’re not even trying to hide it,” you say, rolling your eyes at him.

“Trying to hide what?”

“You just made me study so you’d feel less guilty about distracting me afterward.”

“I was helping you!” He says, before giving you puppy dog eyes and softening his voice. “Please come here?”

You don’t argue this time. Partially because you’ve spent the last hour and half wanting to do just that, and the other part because he looks so cute begging. You slide across the couch and sit between his legs. He wraps his arms fully around your body and pulls you closer.

Then closer. And somehow closer again.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks.

“No.”

He tightens his arms. “Now?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“No, because your elbow is in my ribs.”

“Oh,” he adjusts. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

For a few moments neither of you say anything. Spencer’s hand drifts absentmindedly up and down your arm. Your legs end up tangled together without a conscious decision to do so.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head back to look at him. He’s already looking down at you.

“For somebody who claims I distract him you sure seem committed to keeping me close.”

“I like having you here,” he says, his ears slightly pink. 

“I like being here.”

He smiles, gently resting his chin on the top of your head. Neither of you acknowledge it. Or move away. Somehow that feels more intimate than anything else.

After a while of sitting in silence with Spencer, you check the time.

10:42 PM

“I should probably go soon…” you say, disappointment present in your voice.

“Yeah, you have an exam in the morning,” he says.

“Yeah, and you have work.”

“That’s normal. I’d let you stay longer if you didn’t have a test.”

You blush. Neither of you move for another five minutes. Then five more pass, and you decide to finally be responsible.

Spencer walks you to the door. You stand in front of him with your backpack slung over one shoulder. He leans against the doorframe.

“Good luck tomorrow, you’ll do great,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Text me when you get home,” he smiles.

“I will,” you smile back. 

He leans down and pecks your lips. 

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you say as you turn to walk out the door.

“Good night, pretty girl,” he says as you leave.

You’re glad you’re facing the other way. Because he definitely would’ve made fun of how red your face is.

_____

Read Part 21 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: the spencer i’m imagining in the makeout scene is the spencer from the photo i use in this series if you guys didn’t pick up on that

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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view my one shots masterlist

Check This Out!: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 19)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18]

The Next Part

summary: Change is weird. As is time. And the amount of change that can happen in a short amount of time never fails to surprise you. Because two weeks ago, you were spending your entire day trying to ignore the fact that you were spending your entire day thinking about someone. And now you’re on that same person’s couch, curled up against him on a Saturday afternoon.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise

Change is weird. As is time. And the amount of change that can happen in a short amount of time never fails to surprise you. Because two weeks ago, you were spending your entire day trying to ignore the fact that you were spending your entire day thinking about someone. And now you’re on that same person’s couch, curled up against him on a Saturday afternoon.

Spencer is tucked into the corner of the couch with one arm wrapped around your waist and a book in his free hand. Your back is pressed into his side and your head leans comfortably against his shoulder. 

Two weeks ago this would feel weird. You would be awkward. He would be awkward. But today, it doesn’t feel like that. You aren’t thinking about where your hands are, or whether you're sitting too close, or if you’re allowed to lean into him. You just are. 

Spencer feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels…like…

Home.

The realization sneaks up on you unexpectedly. You decide not to think about that last part. So naturally you think about it even harder.

The apartment is quiet except for the sounds of pages turning and the occasional sound of the heater kicking on. Spencer’s thumb absentmindedly brushes against your side every few minutes. It’s not enough to cause a distraction, just enough that you notice. Every single time.

You’ve been trying to read your book for nearly twenty minutes. Trying. Because every few minutes your attention drifts towards Spencer. 

You glance over from your book. He’s reading.

You look back down. Two minutes later you look toward him again. Still reading.

You stare a little longer this time. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed. He has a few strands of hair falling into his eyes and his glasses are slipping slightly down his nose. The sleeve of his sweater is pushed up his forearm on the arm that’s around your waist. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen his arms. You smile to yourself, then immediately force your attention back to your book before he catches you.

“You’ve read the same paragraph three times.”

“What?” You say, snapping your head up.

Spencer doesn’t even look away from his book.

“The paragraph,” he says, turning a page. “You’ve read it three times.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you spying on me?”

“No.”

“THen how do you know that?”

“You haven’t turned a page and the position of your head hasn’t changed enough to make me think you’re onto the next page yet.”

You stare at him. He still hasn’t looked away from his book. 

“You don’t know that,” you argue.

“Actually, I do,” he finally looks down at you. “You weren’t reading either.”

“I was too!”

“You were looking at me.”

“I was not!” Your face is warm.

“You were.”

“I wasn’t!”

‘You were.” He squeezes your waist lightly, making you squirm into him.

“I hate that you know things,” you say.

Spencer marks his page in his book with a finger. He sits up slightly so he can have a better view of your face. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. You hate that he knows that you were thinking. And you hate that there’s no way of getting around this conversation because the second you lie he’s going to know.

“It’s not really wrong…” you say, twisting the blanket between your fingers. He continues looking at you waiting for the rest of your sentence. “I still don’t think I’m ready to tell Uncle Dave.”

“That’s okay,” he says, his voice soft and genuine. “I said it was on your time.”

“I know, and thank you for that, really,” you say. “But…”

Spencer waits. Patiently. Like he always does. You continue. 

“I was thinking maybe telling Logan could make telling Dave feel easier.”

“Is that what you want to do?” he asks.

“If it’s okay with you, yes.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“Okay, do you…do you want to do it now?” 

“If you do.”

You look down at your phone sitting on the coffee table. Then you look at Spencer again.

“I’m 90% sure he’s going to make fun of me,” you say.

Spencer smiles. “Probably.”

“Wow, that makes me feel really good about this,” you say.

“Was I supposed to lie?”

“Yes, Spencer, that is a situation where you’re supposed to lie to me.”

“Okay, noted.”

You roll your eyes at him and reach for your phone.

“What if he freaks out?” you say.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“You just have to trust me.”

You look up at Spencer. He’s watching you. His face looks sincere. You do trust him. And you know that Logan will be happy for you. And even if for some asinine reason he isn’t, you know that Spencer won’t go anywhere.

You open your phone and start to find Logan’s contact. Spencer shifts a little closer to you. You can feel his breath down the back of your neck. You hit the little green call button under Logan’s name.

Ring.

You’re nervous now that you’ve actually called him. A little over two weeks ago you were sitting in your room telling your brother that there was no way Spencer Reid liked you. Now you’re about to tell him that he was right all along.

You don’t even notice that your leg is bouncing until Spencer’s hand comes to rest on your thigh. You glance over at him, he just gives you a small smile. The bouncing begins to slow, which surprises you. Because it’s literally just a hand. But somehow, the same Spencer Reid that you swore didn’t like you has now become your most efficient source of emotional regulation.

“I liked this idea a lot more two minutes ago,” you say, looking at Spencer.”

Ring.

“You’ll be okay,” Spencer smiles.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Ring.

“Well, well, well,” your brother’s voice sounds from the other end of the phone.

“Not even a hello?” you ask.

“Nope, what do you want?”

“Am I not allowed to call my own brother?”

“No you can. Are you dying?”

“Yes, I’m seconds away from death and the first thing I do is call you.”

“Fair point, what do you need?”

You glance over at Spencer. The last ounce of courage you have has completely disappeared. He notices immediately. Because of course he does. He removes his hand from your thigh and takes your free hand that isn’t holding your phone. He gives you a nod, silently telling you to get on with it.

“Remember when you said that you thought Spencer liked me?” you say.

“NO WAY!” Logan says excitedly. You hear something fall on his end of the phone.

“What was that?” you ask.

“I stood up too fast.”

“Why are you standing up?”

“WAS I RIGHT?”

You don’t say anything.

“Y/N WAS I RIGHT?”

Spencer smiles to himself. You move the phone in his direction.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, “you were right.”

“OH MY GOD HE’S THERE?” Logan says.

“Hi,” Spencer says innocently. It’s cute.

“Come on, Y/N, say I was right.” Logan cheers.

“Yeah…” you say.

“Yeah what?” Logan prompts.

 “You know what,” you say, refusing to give him what he wants.

“I want to hear you say it,” Logan says. Of course he does. 

You look at Spencer, who’s just smiling.

“Say it,” Logan pushes.

You sigh dramatically. 

“You were right,” you finally say.

“I KNEW IT!” He shouts.

“Okay, yeah, you did,” you say.

“I literally told you so,” Logan brags.

“You’re so immature,” you say.

Eventually, Logan settles down enough to breathe. 

“Have you told Uncle Dave?” Logan asks, voice more serious.

“No…” you answer, exchanging a look with Spencer.

“Y/N…” Logan says in a tone you know all too well. The ‘older brother tone’ that usually means he’s about to give you a life lesson you weren’t really asking for. “If he finds out on his own he might kill you guys…”

You hate that he’s right.

“I’m just saying,” Logan continues after no one answers. His voice is a little less serious now. “If you two are doing all this hand holding and weird stuff–”

“GOODBYE LOGAN!” 

You hang up.

Neither you or Spencer speaks for a moment. You just sit there, curled up against him.

“He seemed…excited,” Spencer finally says.

“That’s one way to describe it,” you laugh.

“I think he almost blew out my eardrum.”

“He’s good at that.”

Spencer smiles and gets comfortable leaning against the couch again. His arm remains wrapped around your waist, his hand barely breaking the barrier of the hem of your shirt and your skin. His thumb traces absent-minded patterns against your bare side. Your phone sits forgotten on the coffee table, but the conversation keeps replaying in your head.

You chew your lip, thinking. Overthinking. Spencer notices. Obviously. There seems to be nothing that he doesn’t notice.

“What?” he says, looking over your shoulder at you.

“What, what?” you look up at him.

“You’re thinking again.”

“Brains tend to do that.”

“You know what I mean.”

You do. You stare at the T.V., then at the coffee table, then at your phone. Anywhere except for him. Because your eyes and mouth know what you’re going to say before your brain.

“What are we?”

Spencer’s fingers still from their drawings. You regret speaking.

“Forget I said that…” you mumble.

“No,” he says.

“Please.” You bring both your hands up and groan into them.

“You don’t get to ask a question and then immediately take it back,” he says, gently pulling one of your hands away from your face. You look at him reluctantly.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you say.

His eyebrows lift. “I don’t?”

“No. Honestly, I’d rather you not.”

“Okay,” he says. You can’t detect any emotion in his voice. You start to panic.

“Wait, that was mean, I’m sorry,” you spit out.

“It was a little mean,” he agrees playfully. 

The playfulness doesn’t last long though. His expression softens to something more caring. And his voice is serious again.

“What do you want us to be?”

His response takes you by surprise because that’s nowhere close to what you expected. You don’t really know what you suspected, but it wasn’t for him to flip the question back on you.

You look down at your hands, then away, like somehow the answer might be written on the wall.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. 

Spencer waits patiently. You hate it. Because it means you actually have to answer.

“I just…” you start, then take a deep breath. “I know I like you…”

Your words make him smile, which makes your face warm.

“...and I know I want to keep doing this…”

His smile grows.

“...and I know I don’t really want anybody else.”

Spencer’s face becomes almost sympathetic looking.

“What about you?” you ask him.

“You.”

“What?”

“You asked what I wanted. I want you.”

You stare at him. His answer was fast and certain.

“Take me out to dinner first,” you say. 

And then immediately regret it.

Spencer laughs. You hide your face against his shoulder.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you say, voiced muffled by his sweater.

He brings a hand up to the back of your head, pulling you closer into him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says.

“Yes you are,” you whine, face still in his chest.

“Look at me,” he says, using his hand to tilt your head up to him, not really giving you an option to look away.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes at him. His expression is soft. Not amused or teasing like you expected.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.

“Then what did you mean?” you ask quietly.

“I mean I want this,” he brushes his thumb across your cheek. You keep looking at him, waiting for him to continue. He does.

“I want you to be the person I call as soon as I’m home from a case. I want to spend every weekend I have off with you.”

His voice stays calm and certain, like what he’s saying is a fact.

“I want to be the person you tell about your classes, and I want to hear about whatever page you accidentally ripped out of your planner again.”

“That was one time,” you smile through tears that are fighting to come out.

“It was three.”

“It was one page that I told you about three times.”

Spencer laughs softly before looking deeply into your glossy eyes.

“I want all of it,” he says.

“You’ve really thought about this,” you say, taking notice of how much more in depth his thoughts were than yours.

“I think about most things,” he smiles.

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

Neither of you speak for a moment. The T.V. plays through the background. Neither of you even know what’s on anymore.

“Okay,” you finally say, after what felt like five minutes of just sitting there staring at him with your head in his hands.

“Okay?” he repeats, confused. Which is funny, considering he’s supposed to be a genius or whatever.

“If that’s what you want,” you say.

“It is.”

“Then I think that answers the question.”

“So you want to do this?” His smile falters slightly. Only slightly.

“I think so?” You say, sort of sarcastically.

“Like… officially?”

“Spencer,” you stare at him. “You literally just said you wanted me.”

“I know?”

“And I said I wanted you.”

“I know.”

“You’re still confused?”

“I’m not confused.”

“You sound confused,” you giggle.

“I’m verifying,” he says, rubbing his thumb on your cheek. “So…are we officially dating?”

He asks the question like it’s just a normal, Spencer Reid style question he’d ask to anyone. It’s so simple. After weeks, maybe even months, of nervous conversations, and kisses, and sharing books, and overthinking, it all comes down to such a simple question.

“Yeah,” you say, looking up at him.

The biggest smile you’ve ever seen spreads across his face.

“Yeah?” he repeats. A faint blush spreads across his face and ears. “You’re my girlfriend now.”

You smile and nod. You don’t trust yourself to respond with words. Spencer shifts his hands slightly against your face, not enough to move you, just to hold you a little closer.

And suddenly you’re very aware of how close he is. And how warm his hands are. And how he’s looking at you like you’re in a 2x2 white box with nothing else inside aside from each other.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Then back up to your eyes. You can feel yourself smiling. He’s smiling too. He leans forward slowly. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. You don’t.

Every nervous thought in your head disappears the moment his lips touch yours. He cradles your face softly in his hand, making small movements with his thumb. So small you almost miss it, but enough that it makes your heart swell. Because it’s Spencer. And he has a way of doing that.

You reach up and grab the front of his sweater, pulling your body closer to him. He makes a quiet sound against your mouth that sends butterflies though your entire body. He smiles into the kiss, making you smile too.

Which ruins any chance of keeping the kiss serious, because the moment you feel your teeth click against his, you both laugh. 

“Yeah,” you smile, pulling back only enough to be able to look at him.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he repeats, smiling wider than you probably have ever seen.

The second he says it you feel embarrassed again. You hide your face in his shoulder once more.

“Nope,” you say, jokingly, hoping he picks up on that. He does.

“You just agreed!” Spencer laughs.

“I know.”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

“Stop saying it.”

“You are my girlfriend.”

“Spencer!”

“My girlfriend.”

You groan into his sweater. You feel him laugh. The tension of worrying about Rossi, or the future, or anybody else has been put aside. You both know you’re eventually going to have to tell him. But now? At this moment? It can just b e yours together. Curled up on his couch, not worried about anything besides each other.

_____

Read Part 20 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

a/n: sorry for being MIA for the last couple days, sixteen year old me is alive again and i have been going to so many concerts i yearn for live entertainment also ngl this was written over like three separate days and multiple different states of sobriety and is not proof read so if it's a mess i apologize

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @cryingoblivioneden @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows

[oodlyenough]

the last image of doctor who indefinitely being billie piper IS extremely funny to me. can't be mad. too funny. sorry everyone who is mad.

[oodlyenough]

#new who began and ended with billie piper 👍

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 18)

Previous Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17]

Planners (Georgetown cont.)

summary: You help Spencer start his planner

word count: 2.2k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise

The walk from the driveway to the front door feels significantly longer than normal. Not because it’s actually longer, but because you’re both overthinking every single movement.

Don’t hold hands. Don’t walk too close. Don’t smile too much. Don’t do anything that would make David Rossi look at either of you and immediately figure it out.

But you guys are so caught up in trying to act normal that you’ve come full circle and have started acting weird. 

You reach the front door first. Barely. Spencer reaches it half a step after you. You both reach for the handle at the same time. Then both stop. Then both apologize. Then both try again. Then stop and apologize again.

“Oh my god,” you say, “we’re already being weird.”

“We’re not,” Spencer says, trying to reassure you. You glare at him. “...okay maybe a little.”

You push the door open and step inside.

“Hey, Uncle Dave,” you say with a voice loud enough to be heard from the whole house.

“Kitchen!” He calls out. 

Of course he’s in the kitchen. You kick off your shoes and head there. Spencer follows behind you. Your uncle is standing at the stove stirring a pot of something. 

“Hey, kids,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “How was Georgetown?”

“Good,” you say a little too quickly.

“Good?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. You hate that.

“It was really fun,” you say. 

“So Spencer,” Rossi says, making your heart immediately drop. “What are you going to do with a planner?”

Phew.

“I um… I really admire the organization of them and I-I’ve never really had one so I thought I’d try it out. And Y/N of course is an expert s-so I thought that she could help me.” Spencer speaks so fast.

Rossi smiles. Which is good. Because smiling Rossi is much better than observant Rossi.

“Ah, so I see she’s corrupting you,” Rossi says.

“I am not! He asked me first,” you argue.

Rossi glances at Spencer.

“I did ask her, but only because she’s already corrupted me,” Spencer says.

“Hey!” you say, offended. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Spencer just grins. Rossi chuckles.

“So what’s your guys’ plan?” he asks.

“I’m giving him some of my old planner supplies and helping him set his up,” you say.

“Makes sense,” your uncle says. “Where?”

You must look confused, because he continues speaking.

“Where are you doing this? I don’t want thousands of little paper scraps all over my furniture again.”

“...can we go to my room?” you ask. Maybe you should’ve talked to Spencer about that before you asked, but you couldn’t really do that without looking extremely suspicious, now could you.

Rossi looks between you and Spencer. Then back to you. Then back to Spencer. Then back to you again. He leans against the kitchen island, facing the two of you on the other side.

“You know, when I was your age–” he starts. You already know he’s about to be weird.

“NO!” you interrupt. He ignores it.

“I definitely never asked to bring FBI agents into my bedroom.”

“Stop talking,” you say.

“I’m making conversation.” 

“You’re being weird!”

Spencer’s ears are starting to turn red. You don’t think it's as cute this time. And unfortunately for Spencer, Rossi notices too.

“Reid,” Rossi says.

“Yes, sir?” he says, straightening to attention.

“Should I be worried?”

Spencer makes a sound similar to a choke and a cough at the same time.

“What?” Spencer chokes out.

“You know,” Rossi says.

“No, I really don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“Interesting answer,” Rossi nods.

You and Spencer look at each other. Neither of you know how to survive this conversation.

“The door stays open,” Rossi says.

“That’s fine,” you say, trying your best to get a move on with this conversation.

“I mean open. I want to be able to hear.”

“Okay,” you say, starting to sound annoyed.

“I don’t trust either of you and I will be listening.”

“WE ARE ORGANIZING A PLANNER!”

“That’s exactly what people who aren’t organizing a planner would say.”

“It’s not…”

“No candles,”

“What?”

“No romantic music,”

“Dave.”

“No locking doors.”

“THERE'S NOT EVEN A LOCK!”

“Good,” Rossi points at Spencer. “And Reid,”

“Sir?” Spencer says, his face completely red at this point.

“If I come upstairs and see you in any horizontal position or with my niece on top of you–

“I WOULD NEVER–”

“Good answer. Now go before I have time to think of more rules.”

You and Spencer flee toward the stairs.

“Oh, and Y/N,” your uncle calls when you’re halfway up the steps.

“What now?” you yell back.

“Pants stay on.” He shouts.

“OH MY GOD!” 

“And at least six inches of daylight through that door!”

“THERE IS NO REASON TO MEASURE THE DOOR!”

“Good,” Rossi calls back. “Because that’s the only thing I'd better go upstairs and see that’s six inches.”

You and Spencer are silent. Both of you are absolutely horrified.

“DAVE,” you finally shout. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“I’m kidding,” he laughs.

“Oh my god,” you say a little quieter, but still loud enough he can hear. 

You grab Spencer’s sleeve and physically drag him up the rest of the stairs before your uncle can embarrass both of you more.

The second you’re into your room, door open of course, Spencer leans toward you.

“For the record,” he says quietly.

“Don’t.” you warn, concerned of what he could even possibly say right now.

“I wasn’t going to say anything inappropriate.”

“Spencer.”

“Okay, sorry. Your uncle is terrifying.”

“Can we please just do the planner and forget this happened?”

Spencer nods his head so quick you’re almost a little worried about whiplash. 

Spencer follows you farther into your room. Your bed is already half-covered in planner supplies before you even sit down. Spencer stares.

“...wow,” he says. “That’s…a lot.”

“This is only like half of my stuff,” you say, sitting on your bed and patting a spot across from you. “Sit.”

The way Spencer climbs onto your bed makes you giggle.

“What?” he asks.

“You look so uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know the rules for sitting on someone else’s bed!”

“You’ve sat on my bed before.”

“Yeah, but now–” he stops himself. Both of you know exactly what he was going to say.

Now things are different.

“Just sit down,” you smile.

He folds himself cross legged across from you. He still looks a little awkward, but honestly that might just be because he has long legs and you’ve never really seen someone as tall as him sit criss-crossed. 

The planner and stationary supplies spread between the two of you like a sort of arts and crafts intervention. You show him the monthly spread, the appointments and travel schedules, and how he could modify it to fit his lifestyle. He listens to you like you’re teaching him something important.

“Can you help me pick colors?” he asks you.

“You want to color code?”

“You have one,” he smiles.

“Okay,” you say, picking up a highlighter. “I’d do blue for work.”

“Why blue?”

“Because that’s what I use.”

“That’s not really a reason.”

“Yes it is.”

Spencer looks unconvinced. 

“Blue,” you say, throwing the highlighter at him.

“Fine.”

“Red is important things, like deadlines or appointments.”

“Why?”

“Are you going to argue with every color?”

“Great,” you say, picking up a purple highlighter.

“What does purple mean?” he asks with a grin.

Because he knows what your purple means. 

Coffee with Spencer. Bookstore with Spencer. Call Spencer.

“Non-work things,” you say, clearing your throat.

“Right, sure.” he says, taking the highlighter.

You continue sorting supplies into categories. Spencer takes the process incredibly seriously. He spends at least five full minutes comparing tabs and page flags. 

“They all do the same thing,” you finally tell him.

“Yeah, but these have arrows,” he holds up one pack. “And these are just squares.” He holds up another pack in his other hand.

You laugh at him. He’s right, but it’s funny coming from him. You help him write in his important dates in the monthly section. Things like BAU meetings, birthdays, visits to his mom, things that he knew would come.

You continue to work in silence side by side. Spencer is filling out more of his planner, while you organize stickers. After twenty or so minutes, Spencer looks up at you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly.

“Yeah?” you say, still looking at your stickers.

“Thank you.”

You glance up at him.

“For what?” you ask.

“This,” he gestures at the planner.

“It’s just a planner,” you smile.

“No,” he says. “I like learning things that matter to you.”

“Oh, well–”

Before you can continue your uncle is shouting from downstairs.

“IS THE PLANNER DONE YET?”

You drop your head into your hands. Spencer starts laughing.

“I’M SERIOUS,” Rossi yells. “HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE?”

“WE’RE WORKING ON IT!” you yell back.

“BETTER BE!”

Spencer laughs a little harder. 

“Don’t encourage him,” you say to Spencer.

“I’m not, it’s just funny.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s okay.”

You try very hard to stay annoyed. You fail completely. Because Spencer is smiling. And Spencer’s smile makes you smile.

“DINNER!” Rossi shouts.

“COMING!” You yell back.

“YOU BETTER MEAN COMING DOWNSTAIRS!”

“Oh my god,” you hide your face.

Spencer just laughs, as you both climb off your bed and go downstairs for dinner. By the time you reach the kitchen, your uncle already has plates on the island.

“About time,” he says as you and Spencer walk into the dining room.

“We were busy,” you say, sitting down in your chair.

“With the planner?” Rossi says, looking at Spencer.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, nodding immediately.

Your uncle studies him for a little too long. “Good,” he finally says.

After that, the questions stop. Which somehow makes you more nervous. Because when Rossi was being weird, at least you know what he's thinking, but when he’s acting normal? Then it’s terrifying.

The conversations at dinner go normal. But it doesn’t quite feel normal. Because every once in a while, you’ll glance at Spencer, and Rossi is already looking at you. The first time you think it’s an accident. The second time? A coincidence. But by the third time it’s obvious he’s watching something.

There's no more weird comments or warnings or threats about keeping doors open, nothing. By the time the plates are empty, you feel like you’re waiting for something. It never comes. And eventually, it’s time for Spencer to leave. And nothing has been said.

“I should probably get going soon,” Spencer says after watching two whole episodes of some Pawn Stars style car show with Rossi.

“Big plans tomorrow?” Rossi asks.

“Actually, yeah,” Spencer glances at you, making your stomach flip. “Finishing the planner.”

“Right,” Rossi says.

“Oh, Y/N, you left a book in my car,” Spencer says, standing.

“I did?” you say, confused. You don’t remember leaving a book in his car. But Spencer notices things, so he’s probably right.

“Yeah, do you want to come grab it?”

“Sure,” you stand up and look to your uncle. “I’ll be right back”

“Take you time,” he says, still entranced by the T.V. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Reid.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s dark outside now as you walk toward Spencer’s car. It’s quiet outside, both in nature and between you and Spencer. 

“What book did I even have in your car?” you ask him as you approach the passenger side of the car.

He turns around to face you and looks guilty.

“You didn’t leave a book in my car.” He admits.

“I knew it!”

“No you didn’t.”

“I did!

“You followed me out here”

“Because I trusted you.”

Spencer smiles and steps a little closer. Not much, but a little. 

“I just wanted to say bye,” he says, still smiling. “Thanks for coming out here.”

“Well I thought you had my book,” you giggle.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares down at you.

“Can I kiss you?” he finally asks.

The question catches you off guard. Not because you don’t want him to kiss you, you do, but because he’s asking. LIke he wants to know it’s still okay and wasn’t just a one time thing.

“Yes, just make sure Uncle Dave isn’t out here.”

Spencer looks around over your shoulders to be sure you’re alone. Once he’s sure, he grabs your waist and pulls your body into his. He presses his lips to yours softer than yesterday. It’s less desperate. More certain that it’s okay.

For a moment the world feels narrowed to porch lights, and cool February air, and Spencer Reid.

He pulls his mouth away, but your bodies stay close and his hands remain on your waist.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his smile wide.

“You better,” you smile back.

He leans down and kisses you one more time before letting you go. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says. 

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

_____

Read Part 19 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

a/n:  i made the mistake of trying to write this while watching live the 1975 concerts for a class and this part took me four days to write bc i kept getting distracted.

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles