current brainrot: jjk ; cate blanchett ; emily prentiss ; wednesday addams ; aaron hotchner ; daemon targaryen ; house md ; the sandman ; the phantom of the opera ; doctor strange ; pjo ; doctor who ; valorant
Summary: You take your good friend/coworker, Spencer, out to the bar to find him a girl to hook up with. Things do not go as planned.
Word Count: 5107
Warnings: Romantic/sexual tension! Mentions of drinking / sex
A/N: Hi! I haven't written posted fanfic in like, 8 years, please be nice xD I would love to know your thoughts - if you have any requests or anything, I'm happy to oblige. ALSO -- I have only seen up to Season 7 of Criminal Minds because I'm a fckn loser. Anywayyyyy enjoy! Not my gif btw, all credit to the owner :)
———————————
It was kind of your fault, now that you were thinking back on it.
Actually, it was definitely your fault, now that you were thinking back on it.
It had been your suggestion to go out. It had been your idea to act as Spencer’s wingwoman, some last-ditch effort to try to get him out of your mind. He was your coworker, for Christ’s sake. And your best friend. And you’d thought about him desperately for eight of the nine months that you’d known him.
Emily, Derek, and Penelope had all agreed to tag along, but as the work day went on, each of your coworkers had found some kind of excuse to opt-out. Derek’s niece wanted to Facetime. Penelope forgot Kevin’s birthday was next week and needed to go shopping for a present. Emily had a headache.
Finding Spencer a romantic prospect on your own was certainly not the plan, but, stupidly, thoughtlessly, you’d decided to go along with it. You could do this. Just one night in a bar, chatting up women for the man you’d slowly been falling for the past eight months. As good of an idea as any, right?
You and Spencer took an Uber to the bar the group frequented. Ski-ball and pool in one corner, a vintage jukebox and small space set aside as a makeshift dance floor in the other. But the best part - half-off drinks for federal agents. You’d never been one to abuse the badge before, but…
Three Jack-and-Diet-Cokes later, your moral code had a bit of a crack in it.
Spencer stood next to you - towered over you, actually, because that man was a fucking beanpole - and you felt his eyes on you as you scanned the crowd. “What about her?” you suggested, jerking your chin to the woman at a high-top table against the wall. She had her nose stuck in her phone and an untouched martini on the table in front of her.
“She’s clearly waiting for someone,” Spencer pointed out, and you realized he was right just as the woman looked up from her phone and towards the door for the third time in the past minute. “I also don’t understand why you’re so dead set on finding someone to hog me up with.”
You snorted into your drink. “Hog you up with?” you repeated, turning in your barstool so you faced him. Your knees brushed his thighs.
“Yeah, is that not…” realization dawned on Spencer and he grimaced. “That’s not the phrase, is it?”
“Hook,” you corrected, but not impatiently. You made a little hook with your index finger, like a pirate. A little giggle escaped you. “And I’m not dead set on it,” you argued. “I just didn’t want to be the only one leaving the bar with someone.”
Your eyes flickered up to Spencer’s to gauge his reaction. He seemed surprised by this implication that you planned to leave with someone - someone who was not him.
“Yeah? Who are you leaving with, matey?” Spencer countered, arching a brow and pointedly looking at your index finger, still in its hooked position. You dropped your hand.
“It doesn’t matter right now,” you blushed furiously, desperately trying to drive the conversation back to his romantic conquests. Your thought process was that if you actually saw Spencer with someone else in any sort of romantic capacity - dancing, flirting, kissing - you’d finally hurt yourself enough with the sight for those stupid feelings for him to dissipate. “We’re looking for you.”
Spencer merely hmm-ed in response, an indecisive non-answer, and you noticed he shook his head. Like he was annoyed, but trying not to show it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and polished off your drink before returning to examining the patrons in the bar. You nudged Spencer’s elbow with your own and your gaze landed on the group of three women giggling around one of the tables. “Any of them? The blonde is cute,” you pointed out.
“Not really into blondes,” Spencer muttered, and you glanced back at him. You could have sworn his eyes were locked on your brunette hair. You opened your mouth to say something, but Spencer cut you off. “But, sure, if watching me strike out will amuse you, Y/N.” Before you could protest, Spencer set his glass down on the bar and started towards the trio of women at the table.
You leaned down to sniff his glass, curious as to what he’d been drinking. Clear liquid. No smell. Was he… totally sober?
You watched with narrowed, studious eyes as Spencer approached the women. You could only see the back of his head, but the three women’s faces were perfectly visible. They smiled, friendly, unassuming, and then something came out of Spencer’s mouth that changed their expressions. The blonde in the middle furrowed her brows, and the two women on either side cocked their heads slightly. Spencer’s hand tapped the table and he earned awkward smiles as a goodbye was bid, and when he turned around to head back towards the bar, he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, like what are you gonna do?
“What happened?” you asked as he returned to you.
“I blew it,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. Too accepting of his defeat. Further supporting your theory that he’d gone over there and purposefully botched it.
“Right,” you flagged down the bartender to order another drink.
“You’re getting another one?” Spencer asked.
You whirled your face to meet his and didn’t see judgment, but rather, concern. “Why does it matter?” you asked, no, dared.
Spencer shook his head, defeatedly. “It doesn’t,” he grumbled.
“What about that girl you were talking to earlier by the jukebox?” you asked, nudging his shin with your foot. “The grabby one. She seemed really into you.”
Spencer visibly gritted his teeth. “I’m not interested.”
“Are you interested in anyone in this bar tonight?” You asked. The words came too quickly for you to stop them. They were too real. Especially as Spencer’s frown hardened just slightly and you watched him look away from you.
You took in a sharp inhale, the realization hitting you, the possibility that Spencer might actually feel the same way about you. And that you’d dragged him out here tonight to try and set him up with someone else. You were selfish and thoughtless and stupid.
You hopped off the barstool, your feet wavering beneath you. “I’d better go home,” you said suddenly, grabbing your bag. You had to leave. You had to go home before you said something stupid, something irreversible.
You stalked out of the bar and onto the brisk, late-autumn sidewalk. You’d forgotten your coat at the office and insisted you’d be fine. The chill smacked you in the face and you tucked your bag beneath your shoulder so you could cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for any semblance of warmth.
Thirty seconds hadn’t even passed before the door creaked and Spencer appeared at your side, throwing his coat wordlessly over your shoulders. “What did I do?” he asked. You looked up at him and saw his eyes - hurt, frustrated, confused.
Your lips parted and there was a small shake of your head. “No,” you breathed. He furrowed his brows and you explained further. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Then why the hell have you been so weird around me lately?” Spencer asked, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. Like a temperamental first-grader.
“Weird how?” You asked, trying to pretend like you had no idea what he was talking about. Like your stomach didn’t flip every morning when you saw him.
“Like you’re… like you’re mad at me. Like you don’t want to be around me,” Spencer looked at the street ahead of the both of you rather than at you. “You always find an excuse to leave the room when it’s just the two of us. You pull Derek or Emily or Penelope into the conversation so you don’t have to interact with just me. You’re out here trying to find me someone to hook up with?” he phrased the last sentence as a question, shaking his head. Your heart lurched. He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s either you’re trying to shrug me off as a friend entirely, or -”
He stopped himself. His eyes were fixed on the streetlamp a few feet in front of you. They widened and you felt your heart pound as he slowly met your gaze. The realization hit him, the second half of his sentence lingering, heavy and palpable between the two of you.
“Or,” you repeated, not phrasing it as a question. Your voice was soft as you said it, your tone anything but a question.
“Or?” Spencer asked, and you could see his chest start to rise and fall more slowly.
“Or,” you confirmed, taking in a sharp breath.
Spencer’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, his gaze piercing and soft, studious and lazy, hungry and satiated all at once. “Oh.”
Oh.
“How long?” he asked, turning his feet towards you.
Your face went red and you lifted your chin, refusing to make yourself feel ashamed of it anymore. There wasn’t any point, not when he knew now. “Since March,” you admitted. Your voice was squeaky.
“March?” Spencer repeated, incredulous. It was early October now.
“Yeah,” you exhaled, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and bunching it up by the middle. You handed it to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said. Your body felt like it was on fire. “You don’t have to-”
“I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.”
You thought maybe you were hallucinating for a second. Your mouth fell open and despite your three drinks, you remembered clearly that Spencer had been drinking water. This was not some drunken confession, not for either of you, because the second he’d asked you why you had been so weird lately, you had instantly sobered up. “Oh,” was all you managed to choke out.
Oh.
“Yeah, oh,” Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smile. That playful, friendly, teasing little smile you’d learned to love on him. He stepped towards you.
You let out this little half-garbled laugh. Spencer reached for your hand, and you let him. Your fingers spread, allowing his in the spaces between. You looked up at Spencer and little fires shot up your hand. How could merely holding hands feel so monumental?
“What do we… what do we do now?” You asked, your mind in a haze, like a computer awaiting command.
Spencer let his jacket fall to the concrete and used his other hand to slowly, almost hesitantly, cup your cheek. He looked down at you and your entire face reddened. “Well,” his voice was soft, crackling, like a fireplace, and he met your gaze with searching eyes. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that would be okay,” he said finally. Your lips turned up into an idiotic smile.
“I think that would be okay,” you whispered.
His hands were so soft, you realized. His grip on your hand loosened and he was now cupping your face on both sides. And every nerve in your cheeks was firing off signals - Spencer is touching my face, Spencer is touching my face. Like it was some forbidden thing. But then, as if in slow motion, he ducked his head down and his lips touched yours. Gently, at first, tentative and wobbly like a foal taking its first steps. Your hands rested on his torso - taut beneath that stupid little sweater vest.
He pulled back after just a moment. It was really only five or six seconds at the most, but you were red-faced and breathless by the time your eyes fluttered open, into his. Spencer’s smile was now a full-blown grin, and your expression mirrored his. “Yeah?” He asked, the word carrying more meaning. You’re into this, right?
“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer dropped his hands from your face, but your hands remained on his torso, not wanting to step away just yet. The syllable meant more coming from you, too. I’m really, very much, super into this. Please, for the love of god, kiss me again.
Spencer arched a brow ever so slightly, and you nodded your head.
Just like a dance, Spencer’s hands moved to your waist, and at the same time, you slid yours around his neck. He backed you up, completely disregarding his jacket on the sidewalk, until you were flush against the brick wall belonging to the bar. The brisk October breeze ruffled through his hair and yours, yet, suddenly, neither of you were terribly concerned about the weather.
He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t as timid. Slowly, at first, his lips pressed against yours, and then his tongue darted out. It teased your lips in silent invitation, and you opened them to grant him access. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your hair, your face. You had moved your own down to his torso again. He coaxed the tiniest little mewl out of your throat, a completely uncontrollable and inevitable noise.
Spencer’s low, gravelly groan reverberated through your mouth. Your hands gripped the bottom half of his shirt, balling it up in tight, white-knuckled fists. An unmistakable hardness brushed against your thigh. You were perfectly content to stay right there, pinned against the exterior wall of a D.C. bar, but the sound of a car honking its horn peeled Spencer off of you.
His face was flushed and you released his shirt from your grasp. He let out a small grunt, stepping away from you to grab his jacket off the ground, wrinkling it haphazardly in his hand, holding it strategically over his middle.
Oh, he liked you a lot.
“You okay, Spence?” You asked all-knowingly, cocking your head to the side, leaning against the wall, lifting a foot to plant against it.
Spencer shot a set of narrowed eyes at you, as if noting your smirk and storing it for later. “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, obviously struggling a little bit. His eyes quickly left yours and looked everywhere but at you.
You didn’t want to embarrass him too much. So you just crossed your arms over your chest and looked at the sidewalk. But the smirk on your face wasn’t going away quite so easily. You considered briefly trying to talk to him about baseball or something to try and help him out, but you decided pointing it out would just humiliate him. Plus, it was a nice little ego boost, knowing you could get him like that with just a simple touch.
He took a second, but he finally cleared his throat and met your gaze. You sucked your front teeth with your tongue and then bit your lip. “Want me to call an Uber?” You asked.
Spencer just nodded, and you pushed yourself off the wall, stepping over to join him, digging your phone out of your pocket to order the car. “You okay?” You asked him again after submitting the request on your phone. Spencer’s face was still flushed, but he just nodded and reached for your hand. “Careful,” you warned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Don’t want you having an-“
“Shut up,” Spencer cut you off, and you snickered.
——————————————————
You had never been in Spencer’s apartment before. It was unmistakably his, with stacks upon stacks of books in lieu of furniture.
There was a sofa in his living room, along with a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a television on a stand. The remaining space, besides a few spots here and there and a clear path with which to maneuver the room, was filled with books.
You had never seen so many books in someone’s possession before. And sure, you were an avid reader yourself. But nothing like this. Your heart fluttered at the sight, not only because books simply just made you happy, but because it was an incredibly endearing detail about Spencer. Your Spencer.
He shut and locked the door after you stepped inside, looking around with a childlike, awestruck grin. The TV had a thin layer of dust over the screen - he clearly didn’t use it often. And as you trailed a finger along the top of the nearest stack of books, you felt a pair of eyes watching your every move.
You and Spencer had both been quiet in the Uber ride here. He had simply held your hand, swiping his thumb across the back of your palm every few seconds. You would occasionally meet his gaze, but then quickly, bashfully, look away, like the two of you were teenagers.
It was so strange to think of what he had said to you - I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met. How had you not figured it out before now?
You supposed you had been hiding your true feelings as well, so he was allowed to, too.
There wasn’t any point in wishing to change the past, you reminded yourself. All you should be focusing on is right now.
And right now, the street lamps peeked in through Spencer’s living room window, glinting off of his endless brown eyes and making them look like he had the moon in his irises.
“So,” you said softly, not nearly as wicked as you had been when you were teasing him on the street by the bar. “This is where you live.”
“Uh-huh,” Spencer bobbed his head, that awkward, straight-line smile crossing his face.
“Lot of books,” you pointed out.
“Yep.”
You arched a brow, a teasing smile crossing your face once again. “What’s with the monosyllabic conversation?”
Spencer clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It’s just… really difficult to just stand here and not touch you,” he admitted, a sheepish smile crossing his face.
You grinned. “You can touch me,” your voice dropped an octave, without you even really thinking about it.
Spencer licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. God, that tongue. You remembered how he’d teased you less than an hour ago outside of the bar. “Maybe I will,” he shrugged, and you rolled your eyes.
“You can’t really play it cool, right now, Spencer. Not when I just gave you a-“
“Please stop talking,” Spencer laughed, crossing the room and cupping your cheeks in his hands all in the same movement. You snickered and he kissed you and anything you might have been wanting to make fun of him for was forgotten about.
You pressed your hands against his chest - holy pectorals, Batman - and craned your neck up so you could reach him. Spencer slid his own hands down your arms and to your hips, and you looped your arms around his neck. One palm flattened against the back of his head, holding him in place, fingers curling around pieces of his soft hair.
Your heart was hammering away, and there was this aching, hot feeling that was pooling in your core and you all of a sudden felt hungry. Starving for Spencer, for every piece of him, for fully and finally crossing that line from friend to lover. An insatiable hunger for nearly every moment since you’d known him.
Finally you broke away from him, simply because oxygen was a necessity, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed and your fingers ground into his scalp. “Look at me,” he requested, his voice low.
Your eyes opened obediently and one of Spencer Reid’s hands curled under your chin. His face moved away from yours but his gaze was locked on yours, a pinpoint, a Northern Star.
And when Spencer spoke again, your knees buckled.
“I want you.”
Your mouth fell open, ever so slightly, and you nodded. “I want you, too,” you whispered.
“Are you still…?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You’d had three drinks earlier that evening, after all, but you’d polished the last one off nearly an hour ago. Maybe not fully sober, but sober enough to know what you wanted.
“I’m fine,” you assured him.
Spencer inclined his head to the side. “You’re sure? Can you pass a sobriety test?”
You narrowed your eyes at him before you realized he was being sarcastic. You stepped back from him, shrugging off his hands, and extended your arms, touching your nose with your left hand, then your right. Spencer just laughed, and reached out for you, tugging you back to him. “Okay,” he chuckled, planting a kiss on your neck. You let him. “You’re fine, then?”
“I’m fine,” you agreed, shrugging him out of his sweater vest, and then reaching for the buttons on his shirt underneath.
Spencer kissed your neck as you fumbled with the buttons - how were buttons suddenly impossible to undo? Your head craned back just slightly on instinct, wanting - needing - to allow Spencer more access. Your dexterity had become abysmal at this point, and Spencer’s lips were kissing your neck, down your throat, teasing at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you managed to groan out, a wave of annoyance present in your tone.
“What?” he asked, pulling back, concern filling his face.
You realized you had actually worried him. “Oh, no, no,” you waved it away, and he visibly relaxed. “I’m just really frustrated, because… because your shirt,” you stammered, and Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smirk.
“My shirt,” he stated.
“That one, right here,” You laughed softly, curling your fingers around the buttons. You managed to wiggle one free, then another. Spencer leaned forward to continue kissing your neck, but you held a hand up to stop him. “Hang on,” you murmured, working through another button, and one more. “I’m concentrating.”
“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Spencer snickered. Your eyes met his and your cheeks flushed.
“I’m concentrating!” Your voice rose slightly in self-defense. Spencer’s hands went to your hips.
“It’s adorable,” he told you. “You make the same face at work. When you’re in the middle of filling out a form or trying to open a new bottle of coffee creamer without spilling it,” Spencer rubbed circles in your hips and your fingers stopped working again.
“You noticed that kind of stuff?” You asked softly, looking up at him with doe eyes.
Spencer just nodded. “All the time.”
I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.
You inhaled sharply, finally undoing the last button.The skin beneath the shirt was pale, smooth, and perfect. And when he slid his arms through the sleeves and the shirt fell to the ground, you bit your lip, unable to help it.
“Y/N?”
You met Spencer’s gaze and let out this awkward little laugh. Embarrassing, really, if you hadn’t been in the company of your best friend. “You okay?” he asked, and you felt a little giddy as you nodded, moving your hands to his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him again.
You didn’t know which direction the bedroom was in, so you just took a guess, pushing him back towards one of the doors. He kept his hands on your hips and his lips pressed against yours as he guided you, walking backwards, to the right door. You entered the bedroom and could not possibly be bothered to look around right now, not when Spencer was guiding you in a circle by merely touching your hips, not when the back of your knees hit what was unmistakably a mattress, not when you fell back against it.
Your eyes were shut, unwilling to take in your surroundings as Spencer guided you onto your back. You toed off your shoes before lifting your legs, and Spencer hovered over you. Your lips were locked with his the entire time. And when you finally opened your eyes and you saw only Spencer, you grinned like a fool.
Spencer’s fingers were like taking a shower. They were all over you - your hips, first, then your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to giggle because they tickled as he teased the bottom hem of your shirt up. You sat up slightly to get the blouse over your head and you watched him discard it onto the floor. And then his hands were over your chest, thumbs teasing under the wire of your bra, outlining the shapes of your breasts.
Your breathing had gone heavy and staccato by this point, your body sinking into the mattress, shipwrecked as Spencer touched you. His eyes wandered over your and that little smile on his face was enough for you to know that he was immensely enjoying himself.
“Can I…?” Spencer’s hands wandered down and gripped your pants as he looked into your eyes, a brow arched.
You swallowed a lump in your throat and your blush appeared over your cheeks at the same time as his. “Yeah,” you whispered, and Spencer helped you wiggle out of your pants - black slacks, since you had gone straight from work to the bar. They were soon tossed to the floor, and you were only in your underwear and your bra. And Spencer’s brown eyes did not make you feel objectified or embarrassed, but safe.
“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he told you, seriously, and your breath hitched in your throat.
“You-”
“I’m not done,” Spencer cut you off, lifting a hand to run his thumb down your chin. “You’re so beautiful. And you’re so kind, and smart, and funny. And I’d really like to show you how much I care about you,” he looked into your eyes as a sort of request.
“I’m not on birth control,” You breathed out in response, feeling your cheeks redden for even bringing it up. Way to damper the mood. Still, you wanted to be responsible. “Do you have a c-”
Spencer’s soft smile turned into a wicked grin and he shook his head. “We’re not going to need one,” he promised, and after looking into his eyes for a moment, you understood.
________________________________________
Spencer had thoroughly worshiped you, until you quaked and cried out with absolutely no thought to how thin his apartment walls might be. Usually, you didn’t allow yourself to be the center of attention for too long, but Spencer had insisted, and, well, you couldn’t very well deny him what he wanted, right?
Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your hair matted to the back of your neck, Spencer finally lay down beside you. Your breathing was just starting to come back to you as you turned on your side to face him. Spencer’s body mirrored yours, the tips of his fingers - those fingers - trailing up the side of your arm. “That was…” his voice was soft, gravelly, and he looked at you like you had anything to do with it. It was literally all him. “Incredible.”
“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, unable to really focus on anything besides the curve of Spencer’s lips, the way the apples of his cheeks appeared when he smiled like this. Spencer kissed your lips, unlike any way he had before. All the other kisses tonight had been hungry and excited, exploratory and new. This one was lazy and slow and you let his tongue dance across yours, and when he finally pulled away, your nose scrunched up in delight.
Your eyes traveled from his lips, down his neck, his collarbone, then back up, taking him in. The glow of his skin, the tired yet exhilarated look in his eyes. So different now than at the beginning of the night, when he’d looked at you with that slightly annoyed expression as you had tried to set him up with other women. You recalled how he had gone off to that group of three women right before you’d abandoned the bar, how he had struck out on purpose just to satiate your nagging. “What’d you say to those women tonight?” You asked him curiously, furrowing your brows at him.
Spencer, in turn, arched his brows at you. “Why?”
“Because I’m curious,” you said as his fingers continued to trail, feather-light, up and down your arm. You traced your thumb along his jawline, stopping at his chin. “You were obviously blowing it on purpose.”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “I actually do have some game, despite what Morgan might say,” he said, his tone defensive.
You snickered. “Sure you do, Spence. Took you, what, eight months, to get me in your bed?”
Spencer shot a playful glare at you and pinched the skin on your arm. You squeaked in response and he just laughed. “I just asked them how they were doing tonight,” he said finally, and you knew just from the look on his face that he was lying.
“You did not,” you pushed back. “Come on, Reid, spill it.”
“Ok, fine,” Spencer heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard. You sat up, too, looking at him with concern. Why was he so embarrassed? “I told them… Jesus.” Spencer rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb and his forefinger. “I told them I was here with a coworker that I had a massive crush on, and that you were trying to set me up with someone else,” he began.
You started to smile.
Spencer continued. “I told them that I had absolutely no interest in going home with anyone tonight, and that I had been purposefully striking out all night long because I couldn’t stand the thought of even trying to look at someone the way I look at you.”
Your smile grew and you moved to sit on your knees, inching closer to Spencer and throwing one leg over him, effectively straddling him against the mattress. “So I asked them,” Spencer continued, his lips turning slowly from an exasperated frown to a small smile. “I asked them if they could just look at me like I had said something stupid, and then I would leave them alone.”
“Did they say anything to that?” You asked as Spencer’s hands found your hips, contouring to match the curves into the small of your back.
Spencer’s voice got slightly lower, more serious, when he said, “The girl in the middle did. She said ‘that girl definitely has feelings for you, too’. And then they did what I asked, and I walked back over to you.”
“She did not say that,” you rolled your eyes, just as Spencer kissed your lips.
“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N,” he reminded you in a low whisper, as his lips lingered against yours. “Would I lie to you about that?”
summary: you and spencer have to go undercover to catch an unsub - as a couple in love.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader.
tags: afab reader, r wears a dress, heels & has long hair, mentions of murder & other themes present in criminal minds, just some silly flirty hehe, fake dating trope but hidden
word count: 2.4k
notes: based off of a request by my lovely sawyer <3 @reidswrld
As a BAU agent, going undercover was not normal. Majority of the time, you were stuck at a desk, scribbling down on legal pads and filling out profiles to send on over to police departments around the world. But this unsub, hunting in the bustling city of Queens, was good. No physical evidence, no witnesses, nothing concrete to stick on him other than a profile that fits and the team’s gut intuition. Therefore, the only way to take him down was going undercover and catching him in the act.
The unsub had been brought in and questioned by the police department twice now. No arrests, as nothing had stuck, but two questionings without an arrest usually led to a sense of cockiness. Especially with a narcissist, he’d felt like he had been given a new lease on life and had delivered two bodies in the middle of the city as a thank you. As the only two agents he hadn’t seen during his questionings, there was no question that you and Spencer would draw the short straws and have to take a night out on the town.
It was a simple modus operandi, not a complicated case at all. The BAU had been called in solely to assist with finding the unsub without the help of physical evidence or witnesses. They had had four bodies in two weeks before they had called the team in, heterosexual couples found shot in the streets with no evidence of robbery. The working theory was that the man was tazed and incapacitated while the unsub took his time with the woman before killing both of them.
Lucky for you, there was a popular restaurant nearby known for romantic dates, such as anniversaries and proposals. The three couples that had been turned into victims had all had dates there in the week before they were killed, turning something that was sweet and romantic into a hunting ground. You and Spencer just had to play the mushy part of a couple in love for a quick dinner, step out of the restaurant and hope neither one of you ended up with a taser to the side.
Donned in a shorter, long-sleeved black dress that you had purchased earlier that day and heels that squeezed your toes too tight, you wore Spencer like an accessory. Your fingers were curled around his bicep, keeping him close to your side as you kept a close watch on your surroundings. The ear piece in your ear, concealed mostly by your thick, styled hair, was uncomfortable, crackling with static more frequently the farther you got from the van. Each step that brought you closer to the restaurant and then closer to your table reminded you why you had chosen the BAU instead of anything that forced you to be undercover.
While Spencer was dressed handsomely in a well-fitted dark suit, you could feel the anxiety radiating off of him. His hands were tucked tightly into his front pockets, shoulders squared and jaw tense. While you had gone the full mile of styling your hair and putting on make-up and shaving every square inch of your body, he looked essentially the same as every other day. Long, unruly curls, a slight shadow of stubble decorating his jaw, a polka-dotted tie instead of something simple. Effortlessly beautiful, if you allowed yourself to admit it.
Due to your reservation, the two of you were quickly seated at a booth in the corner by the hostess. Spencer slid into the side that put his eyes directly on the door, clearing his throat as he scooted in. Just as you were about to sit across from him, the earpiece crackled with Derek’s voice. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re in love. Sit on the same side as him.” The lilt in his voice proved he was having too much fun with this situation, giving away the smile in his voice.
Bringing your wrist up to your mouth with a cover-up of wiping lipstick off the corner of your lips, you mutter beneath your breath into the microphone hidden there. “You’re a pain in my ass.” With an apologetic look and a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slide right next to Spencer, bare thigh pressing up against the warmth of his clothed one.
Your lips press together tightly as he props an arm on the back of the booth behind your head, reeling in the proximity. You wish you could say it was subconscious when you pushed your knee more into his thigh, or when the toe of your heel ended up pushing his foot a bit forward to slot your leg behind his own. You wish that your reasoning was because you had to seem like a couple that was in love with each other, that had done the first dates and the meeting the parents and discussing the future.
But it had been a while since you had been this close to someone. A while since you had even considered being tucked into a man’s side, since you had had a chance to. Dating has never come easy to you, both as someone with an avoidant attachment style and a demanding job. It didn’t help that your chance had come in the form of Spencer, who was gentle and kind and soft-spoken, who saw the good in everyone unless he was having a bad day. The same Spencer who left a steaming cup of tea on your desk when the two of you had a late night in the office or walked you home from the team outings even though he lived far down the road and refused to use public transportation due to the germs.
“Are you okay?” He mumbles from beside you, breaking you out of your trance. Glancing over at him, you catch those doe eyes staring down at you, long eyelashes fluttering at his glances over your face. “I know it’s… weird.”
Smiling, you nod almost too eagerly. A nervous laugh follows, glancing around the restaurant at all of the happy couples. People with their hands on their partner’s arms, laughing so hard their eyes crinkle. First dates who lean towards each other despite being scared to touch. Married couples who hold each other’s hands even as they eat, their feet slotted between each other underneath the table. “I don’t know if we’re doing enough to convince him,” you admit, voice low. An excuse to get closer, or an actual observation for your goal, who could tell?
You scoot closer until your shoulder overlaps his chest, leaning into him. He stiffens behind you for a blink of a second before relaxing, the arm originally perched at the back of the booth falling over your shoulder. Fingertips press into your upper arm as he gives you a soft squeeze before letting the side of his hand balance on your collarbone.
As soon as the waitress walks up to the table, you order your meals and drinks at the same time, trying to get over this as fast as possible. Despite the two of you obviously being there together, her eyes hover on Spencer the entire time, attempting soft, flirty giggles at everything he said. Your eyes narrow at the disrespect of it all, leaning forward to block her view of him and placing a possessive hand right above his knee as you smile tightly and order briskly.
Spencer’s chest rumbles beneath your shoulder as you stare her down the entire way to the kitchen, breath brushing against your neck as he leans down to murmur. “Is there a problem?” Amusement laces his tone, cocky and playful and embarrassing.
Whipping around to explain yourself, you’re interrupted by static in your ear, although it’s luckily Emily’s voice instead of Derek’s this time. “Unsub’s here. Make it believable. Put on a show, lovebirds.” She giggles before the transmission fully cuts out, leaving you to hold back a roll of your eyes.
As shy and bashful as you wanted to be in this situation, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel shameful. This was a moment you could take advantage of. Do everything you’ve thought about doing under the guise of being a great undercover agent. Game on.
To test the waters, you raise your hand, tucking a curl behind his ear and letting your fingertips brush against the hinge of his jaw. There’s a miniscule widening of his eyes before he’s grinning, lines around his mouth deepening. His thumb raises to brush along the corner of your mouth, dark eyes watching as your lips fall open in response. There’s another rumble of a laugh from him before his hand falls onto your thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.
By the time the food arrives, you’re comfortably settled into Spencer’s side, his fingers pressing into the skin of your inner thigh and thumb brushing against the outside. To keep yourselves occupied on happier subjects and not on the fact that a spree killer was actively hunting you (as confirmed by your comrades outside), you make a game out of profiling the people in the restaurant.
“They’re on a first date,” you murmur near his ear as he leans down to take a bite, eyes locked on two girls in the corner. “The brunette asked, the blonde agreed, but is now regretting it.”
Spencer lets out a hum in response, taking a sip of water to wash his food down. “I would put money on the fact that blondie didn’t even bring her wallet.”
That pulls a laugh out of you, turning to look at him. “Oh, that’s just every woman. Who do you think is paying for this?” You grin. To prove your point, you grab your bag from beside you, opening it and showing him the absence of a wallet. “I have everything I need.” Lip gloss for a re-up, your FBI badge and a handgun that took up most of the space. The necessities.
His nose wrinkles before his fingers pinch your thigh, causing you to yelp and shove at his shoulder. “Hopefully I get reimbursed for this,” he grumbles playfully.
Despite his grumblings, he grabs the check as soon as it's set on the table, sliding his card into the pocket. You take the time between the waitress taking the card and Spencer writing down his tip (25%, you note with a blush) to get back into the zone, remembering that you were here to catch a spree killer, not to laugh it up and fuel your crush on your coworker.
At Spencer’s nudge to your hip, you slide out of the booth, draping your bag over your shoulder and keeping it closer to your front. His hand slides along the small of your back until his fingers rest on your opposite hip, pulling you into his side as your steps match up on the way out of the restaurant.
You babble to Spencer about nothing important, like how good the food was and how it reminded you of your grandmother (who has been dead for a long time), the feeling of eyes on you unnerving. Emily and Derek spoke in your earpieces, guiding your steps and keeping you updated.
“He’s crossing the street to get behind you now. Can you lean down and pretend to fix the strap of your heel? Morgan and I are on the way.” Emily murmurs before the departing static moves through your ear again.
Pulling away from Spencer, you give him a soft smile before crouching, making sure your bag is in front of you as your fingers curl into the straps of your high heels. Fiddling with the loop, undoing it and redoing it, you watch the shadow on the corner of your eye grow closer. You slowly stand, hand slipping into your bag and fingers curling around the cold metal of your gun.
It happens quickly. The crackle of a taser, the yells of Derek and Emily announcing themselves, your own voice calling out the same thing you had repeated many times. “FBI!” Your gun raises to point at the man behind you, who’s eyes widen as his taser clacks onto the ground. Derek gets him to his knees before arresting him, pulling him away before anything could be said.
A sigh leaves your lips as you put the safety back on your weapon, sheathing it away in your handbag. You turn to Spencer with a soft smile, running a hand through your hair. “Glad you didn’t get tased?” You tease, pulling the strap back over your shoulder.
“Very grateful,” he agrees, nodding. He steps forward, fingers brushing along your hip. He’d been touching you all night, your face and your neck and your legs, but this one is different. It settles into your skin like a brand, feeling like something more, something shaky.
Spencer studies you for a moment, his head tilting to the side as he takes in every bit of emotion or thought on your face, before he speaks again. “Would you like to do this again sometime?” He asks, shuffling on his feet. His cheek caves in as he bites at the skin inside of his mouth, gaze still traveling along your features.
“Go undercover?” You ask, and not because you’re an idiot. You know what he’s asking. Do this, as in dinner and dressing up and soft touches. Not to get paid, not because the both of you took a vow when you joined the FBI, but because you enjoyed each other’s presence. But there’s a part of you that vies for the confirmation, for the admittance.
He smiles, seeing right through your facade. “No,” he responds slowly. Gentle fingers reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “This. Dinner. Just us, without Emily and Derek there, without a spree killer watching us.” His lips spread into a grin, hands tucking into his pockets. “You do not have to bring your wallet.”
A laugh escapes you before you can even try to push it down, head shaking. Your arm pushes through the gap between his arm and torso, fingers holding onto his bicep the same way they had when the both of you had walked to the restaurant. Your feet start to walk at the same pace, left foot than right foot, as you make your way back to the surveillance van. “That sounds perfect to me.”
Heyyy, I'd love a latte with hazelnut/coconut drizzle (one or both, whatever you decide) and whipped cream!
Maybe one where reader is Garcia's childhood best friend and they end up traveling near her on a case? And Spencer notices how pretty she is and yadda yadda kissy kissy
Also I did see your most recent post, take your sweet time I'm in absolutely no rush, I'll probably forget about this the second I send it anyway <3
𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 (𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔)
a/n: wowwww the way this absolutely wrote itself. I LOVED THIS REQUEST!!! seriously this was the fastest i’ve ever written a fic before. ty for the req i hope you love!! receipt is at the bottom!!
summary: spencer meets garcia’s childhood best friend and promptly forgets how to act like a normal human being. between phone calls and sneaking around, what starts as a crush turns into something a lot harder to keep hidden.
content warnings: spencer reid x fem!reader, lots and lots of smooching, slightly suggestive moments if u squint real real hard, otherwise just disgustingly tooth-rotting fluff
The case wrapped up clean.
The unsub had been apprehended with no further casualties, hostages rescued. The team had made it back to the precinct, packing up their things as they prepared to leave.
“Okay, now that we’ve got the bad guy and all of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things are over, I have one tiny request.” Garcia announced to the team.
Hotch glanced over his shoulder as he zipped up his go-bag. “What’s that?”
“Could we please stay for dinner?” She asked, eyebrows raised hopefully. “My best friend growing up lives right down the road from here, and I haven’t seen her in ages. I’d love for her to meet all of you.”
Hotch looked around, assessing the reactions of the team. The accomplishment of a job well done seemed to outweigh their tiredness as everyone shrugged and nodded.
Before long, Spencer was trailing behind the group as they strolled up to the restaurant. The air was starting cool as the sky dimmed, and the aroma wafting out the doors was making his mouth water.
“Oh, hi!” He heard Garcia exclaim suddenly. He couldn’t really see through the crowd of people, with the team and the patrons coming and going from the restaurant, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited his turn to be introduced.
“It’s so good to see you!” Garcia chattered. “These are the people I’m always telling you about. This is Hotch, and Emily, and Rossi, Derek, JJ, and—“ she paused, peering over everyone’s heads. “Reid! There’s Reid, in the back.”
He turned his head as everyone shuffled aside, creating an opening, and he pulled his hand out of his pocket to wave and then—
Oh. Oh, wow.
“Hi.” You smiled, and it almost knocked him off his feet.
He blinked, hand awkwardly half-raised before he reminded himself to look slightly less like a deer in headlights.
He straightened, clearing his throat. “Hi.”
You were…
For once, his brain actually ran out of words.
Beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. Radiant. Breathtaking. Captivating. Alluring. None of them seemed to truly encapsulate you.
The group was soon ushered inside the restaurant and sat at a table. Conversation began to flow as you and Garcia caught up and you got to know the team.
“Oh, you actually said that?” Your jaw dropped as you looked at Emily.
“Not only did she say it, she said it in front of the entire Sacramento Police Department!” JJ interjected, causing the table to burst into laughter.
Spencer couldn’t help but watch you as you threw your head back, shoulders shaking with laughter. Your laugh was infectious, he thought. He wanted to be the reason you laughed like that.
Wine and chatter flowed around the table as you dicussed JJ’s children, Rossi’s career as an author, Derek’s most recent date.
He was mid-bite when you turned to him. “So, Reid, what about you? I hear you’re the resident genius.”
He nearly dropped his fork, chewing quickly. “Um, well, I guess you could—“ he coughed, trying to swallow before continuing. “I mean, it depends how you classify ‘genius.’ My IQ is statistically above average, I have an eidetic memory, and I read at an average speed of…”
He trailed off, noticing the rest of the table had gone silent. He cleared his throat. “Um, yes.”
You nodded approvingly, eyebrows raised with a slight smile as the group chuckled.
The meal began wrapping up, plates slowly clearing and wine glasses emptying. Spencer watched you still as Garcia turned the conversation back to you, actively reminding himself not to stare.
“So, tell me.” Garcia said, leaning in to you. “Are you dating anyone?”
Spencer felt like a puppy who had just heard the word “treat.” He stared hard at the tablecloth, trying not to seem invested in the answer.
“No, not since that guy from the bank.” You replied, smoothing your shirt.
“Thank God. He was so… average.” Garcia answered. “You could do so much better.”
Someone accidentally nudged his shin under the table. He shifted, heart fluttering at the knowledge you weren’t involved with anyone. Not that he would ever do anything about it, but it was nice for the moment to not have to imagine you with anyone else.
Checks rolled out, everyone paid, and the group made their way to the door.
A chorus of goodbyes echoed across the group outside the restaurant. Garcia pulled you into a tight hug. “Keep in touch.”
“Of course.” You replied as you pulled back, looking to the rest of the group. “It was so great meeting you guys.”
The sentiment was returned and you waved, flashing that brilliant smile one more time. “Have a good flight!”
You turned on your heel, and Spencer felt a pang in his chest at the thought of not seeing you again. Oh, well.
A hand grabbed his arm with a vengeance, and he turned to face the culprit.
“Ow! Garcia, what are you doing?” He pulled his arm from her grip, rubbing at the irritated skin.
“For a genius, you really are acting like an idiot!” She whispered. “Go get her number!”
His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “What?”
“Did you not feel me kick you under the table when she said she was single?” She asked, exasperated. “I’m setting you up! Go ask her for her number! Now!”
She punctuated her demand with a little shove in your direction, and before he knew it, he was calling out.
“Hey!”
You turned around, already about fifteen feet away. “Hey?”
He glanced back over his shoulder briefly before half-jogging over to you.
He swallowed. “Um, I wanted to, uh—“ He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look up at you. “I wanted to ask if I could maybe… get your number.”
A smile twitched at the corner of your lips. “Really?”
His heart dropped. “I mean, only if you want to. I just— I think you are really nice, and pretty, and—“
“You think I’m pretty?” You interrupted softly.
He paused, meeting your shining eyes.
“Yeah.” He breathed. “I do.”
You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, rustling through your bag. Spencer thought, briefly, that there’d never been a time he so badly wanted to watch someone bite their lip like that in slow motion on repeat. He wanted to tattoo the image on the inside of his eyelids.
Chill out. He reprimanded himself as you handed him a napkin with your number scribbled on it.
“You can call me.” That smile turned his brain to static once more as you waved sheepishly, a rose tint coloring your cheeks in the dim light. “Bye, Reid.”
The whole interaction had him heckled mercilessly on the flight home, but he didn’t mind too much. The teasing was all worth it the second his gaze landed on that ink-stained piece of tissue.
He waited about three days to call you. He almost hung up on the fifth ring, convinced you wouldn’t answer, when your voice crackled through the speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hi, hi. Um, it’s Spencer. Reid. Garcia’s friend?” He sat up straighter, as though you could see him.
“Oh, hey!” He could hear your grin in your voice, and it made him smile reflexively. “How are you? Read any good books lately?”
“Yeah! You know, I just re-read The Count of Monte Cristo in the original French. It’s fascinating.” He replied animatedly, settling back into his couch.
That first phone call lasted nearly forty-five minutes.
The second was nearly an hour.
Before long, he got in a routine of calling you ever other day, and then every day. Eventually, Spencer Reid, ever the technophobe, found himself texting you every chance he could. He even bought a used laptop so he could video chat with you on WhatsApp.
It wasn’t just your physical appearance. Spencer was attracted to so much more than that. Your kindness. Your humor. Your patience. Your laugh. Your intelligence.
You told him about your life, your family, your job. He eventually opened up to you about his mom, some of his trauma. And you listened to every word with heartfelt kindness.
After a few months of this, the man who relied so heavily on statistics felt that it was just dumb luck you actually gave him your number.
“So, I’ve been thinking…” You said one night on a video call.
He raised his eyebrows at the screen. “Yeah?”
“What if I flew out and stayed with Pen for a weekend?” You asked. “You and I could actually… you know, spend some time together. In person.”
Spencer hesitated, turning the idea over in his mind.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you. God, did he want to see you. Three months of only having you over a screen was slowly becoming torture. His dreams were becoming increasingly plagued with the idea of holding you, kissing you…
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” you said jokingly, but he could hear the dejectedness in your tone.
“It’s not a no, it’s just…” He paused. “How are you going to keep it from Garcia if you’re staying with her? Won’t she wonder where you’re going?”
Privacy was very important to Spencer. He loved his teammates like family, but truthfully, he valued keeping your relationship between the two of you, at least for now. He wanted to navigate the idea of you without any outside influence or opinion.
He’d had that conversation with you early on, given your relationship with Garcia, and you had been fine with it.
“I can make something up, give her a fake reason I’m in town.” You shrugged. “I just really want to see you, Spencer.”
He felt a strange swell of pride in his chest at the thought. “I really want to see you, too.” He replied softly.
A mischievous grin crossed your face. “Besides, it might be kinda fun. Sneaking around.”
He fought a smile at the idea. “Yeah? When would you fly out?”
And so the plan was set in motion.
You texted Garcia not long after, saying you needed a place to stay for a weekend for your great-grandmother’s funeral. She agreed, albeit her excitement dying a little at the addition of your need to spend time with family members in town, but you assured her you would reserve some time for her, too.
Sure, you felt a little bad about the lie, but it would have to do for now.
Two weeks later, Spencer was checking his phone every five minutes for a text signifying you’d landed.
Buzz.
He scrambled for it so quickly it was almost comical.
“in your city :)”
He bit back a smile at the message before quickly typing his reply:
“See you soon.”
When four p.m. rolled around, Spencer found himself walking up to the park.
There you were.
Sitting on a wooden bench, people-watching. The afternoon sun was beating down on the world, but around you, it looked like a halo.
You. Real. Not on a screen for the first time in months. And this time, not as a stranger.
Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and you broke into another one of those steal-his-heart smiles.
“Hi.” You said, looking up.
“Hi,” he echoed, a little breathless.
He stepped closer as you stood, and then you were both right there.
You hesitated. He paused. Should he hug you? Was that too much too soon? He hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with you before, outside of your fingers brushing his when you gave him your number.
A small, nervous laugh from you. “I didn’t know if we were, um—“ you gestured.
“Yeah, me neither.” He huffed out a laugh. He took you in for another moment before asking, quietly, “Can I hug you?”
“Yes. Please.” Your answer was immediate.
His arms enveloped you, and then you melted into him.
He exhaled slowly against the top of your head, nerves and tension melting away as he held you. Real and warm and solid against him, not just a memory and a voice through a speaker.
You pulled back just a bit, hand staying on his arm.
“I missed you,” you breathed.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth before he could stop himself. “Yeah, I— me too.”
You gazed up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You can.”
“I can what?” He asked.
“Kiss me.”
“Oh.” He mentally chastised himself for being so obvious.
Then immediately mentally high-fived himself the second his lips touched yours.
The kiss was soft, and new. His hands came up to cradle your face, a little clumsily.
But somewhere, distantly, in the static that was currently filling his brain, he thought this must be nirvana. A state of perfect peace, liberation, and completion. This must be the glorious thing and the pinnacle that everyone dreams of acheiving.
He doesn’t know how long he stood by that bench, kissing you, but he knew that he would spend every waking second waiting for the next one.
The rest of the weekend felt… unreal.
He took you to his favorite local coffee place. You perused the shelves of his frequented bookstore, fingers laced together. He showed you his apartment, which all too quickly felt like your little corner of home in an unfamiliar city.
And every once in a while, another kiss.
Maybe it was more often than that.
He absolutely committed himself to relishing every single moment you were there. You spent nearly all day Saturday at his apartment before you finally convinced him you had to spend some time with Garcia, or she would get suspicious.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow before I have to leave.” You said, toeing your shoes on by the door.
He swallowed, the notion weighing heavy on him. “Sounds good.”
You stopped. “Oh, hey. I still have your sweater on.”
He shrugged, looking down at you. “It looks good on you. Keep it.”
You flushed, eyes dropping shyly to the floor. “Thank you.”
He kissed you one more time, really breathing you in, before he opened the door for you and watched you walk away with a wave.
Sunday had arrived all too quickly.
You were outside his door, bags in hand. You handed his folded sweater back to him gently.
“I did wear it all night.” You smiled half-heartedly. “But you can have it for now. I need a reason to come back and steal it again.”
Spencer pursed his lips, fighting back the emotions threatening to rise up in him.
“It was… really good to see you.” You said softly, gazing up at him.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “It was.”
There was a pause.
“You’ll text me when you land?” He asked.
“Obviously.”
Another pause. You looked at each other for a moment.
He was very appreciative for his eidetic memory in this moment, because he couldn’t forget you standing here in his apartment.
“We should do this again sometime.” Your voice was watery through your joking tone. “I really liked sneaking around with you.”
Spencer didn’t answer you. He just leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss. Warm and sweet and over all too soon.
A thin laugh from you as you parted, eyes brimming with tears.
“I’ll see you.” He said softly.
You nodded, brows crinkling. “Bye, Spence.”
And you were gone.
On Monday, Spencer wore the sweater to work. You really must’ve worn it all night, because it smelled just like your perfume, bringing him a small amount of comfort knowing this weekend hadn’t been a fever dream.
He tried to work, his focus drifting between thoughts of you and the occasional buzz in his pocket.
“How was your weekend?” He overheard Emily ask Garcia as she walked in.
“Oh, it was great. I really love getting to see her, but she was super in and out the whole time. Lots of visiting to do, she said.” Garcia replied.
Her footsteps faltered by his desk.
“Reid?”
“Yeah?”
“Where did you get that sweater?”
He froze, risking a glance up. Garcia’s face was twisted in confusion.
“This? It’s mine.” He replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. Casual.
“No.”
“What do you mean? It’s mine.”
“No, I saw…” she trailed off. Spencer swore he could see her eyes light up, growing wide as it clicked.
Uh oh.
She gasped. “Oh my gosh!”
“Wait—“ Spencer started.
“Oh my gosh!” She repeated, louder this time. “You! You dirty dog!”
“It wasn’t—“ He leaned in, trying to do damage control. “It wasn’t like that. We’ve been… long distance.”
“I knew it!” she shouted, spinning in a circle. “I knew something was weird when she wouldn’t tell me where she kept disappearing to!”
Spencer winced. “We didn’t want to—”
“You lied to me,” she gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh my gosh, you’re in love with her.”
His cheeks were on fire. “I— what? No, I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to,” she said, grinning. “You’re wearing the sweater.”
He blinked. “It’s my sweater.”
“Exactly.”
And later, when his phone buzzed again in his pocket, he didn’t even try to hide it.
“miss you already :(”
“Miss you more.”
“Call you tonight?”
Across the room, Garcia watched him with a knowing grin.
And for once, Spencer didn’t mind being figured out.
Summary: It’s taken you a while to realise. But Sherlock Holmes is a very touch starved man.
Word Count: 800
Warnings: none, just fluff and soft Sherlock
a/n: It’s been a while since I’ve written for Sherlock and I think it’s about time I go back to my roots :)
You hadn’t noticed it before now.
You hadn’t noticed when his fingers would drag across your palm when you released his hand, almost as if he were hesitant to let you go. You hadn’t noticed when his hold on you tightened and your shirt bunched in his fists each time he had his arms around you. You hadn’t noticed when his eyes softened and slid shut when your hand fondly made its way through his hair.
But now, as you lay together in the quaint living room of 221B it was clear as day. You suddenly couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed it before. Sherlock Holmes was touch starved.
okay, because you broke my heart with everything is blue, I want a barty x potter!reader where it's the mauraders seeing how barty and the reader love/take care of each other. I need to be healed, I might die
They'll Be Alright
Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Fem!Reader
AN: I've taken out all the stops to mend your heart
WC: ~5k
Summary: James Potter learns to like tolerate his sisters taste in men.
Warnings: Grumpy James, Snogging, cursing, tooth rotting fluff, self indulgent, this is literally the cheesiest things I could come up with
“I can't do this much longer, I'm going mad.” James hissed as he sat on the grass, watching from across the courtyard as you stood outside the Quidditch pitch with a bit of a pacing form. You were sitting with your big brother and his friends just moments ago, but RavenClaw was out for practice and you just couldn't wait for your precious boy to leave the stands.
“I think it's cute.” Lily sang sweetly. “She's as obsessed with him as he is with her. Only a Potter could match a Crouch’s insanity.”
James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Sirius burst out laughing, collapsing onto the grass beside him. “It’s not cute, Lily,” James hissed, throwing a wild gesture toward you. “It’s deranged. She’s my little sister, for Merlin’s sake! And she’s practically glued to the sidelines for him. Him! Of all people.”
“She’s not glued, mate. Look- she’s pacing,” Sirius pointed out helpfully, grinning as he threw a snitch up into the air and caught it lazily. “And, to be fair, Barty’s just as bad. Didn’t he travel all the way from Hogwarts to the Potter Manor once just to say, what was it? Right!” He sat up sharply and threw in some jazz hands. “Hi, to her over winter break?”
James groaned louder, flopping onto his back in the grass. “Don’t remind me. He’s the one who’s mad, and now she’s gone mad too. My family’s turning into a bloody soap opera.”
“It’s not madness,” Lily argued, her voice soft with a knowing smile as she plucked a daisy from the grass. “It’s love, James. Messy, consuming love. And if you can’t see it, then you’ve forgotten what it was like when you were chasing after me.”
“Oh, don’t start,” James grumbled, sitting up to glare at her, though his face was tinged with a hint of pink. “That’s completely different.”
“Is it?” Lily asked, raising a brow as she tucked the daisy behind her ear. “Because I distinctly remember you doing some insane things for me- like charming the entire Gryffindor common room to play my favorite song every time I walked in.”
Sirius let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his snitch when he forgot to catch it. “Oh, that was brilliant! What was it again? Some Muggle tune about sunshine?”
“‘Here Comes the Sun,’” Lily said smugly, her smile widening as James grumbled under his breath. “And I’ll remind you, Potter, that it worked.”
“That’s different!” James protested again, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I wasn’t a bloody Crouch!”
Remus, who had been quietly reading nearby, finally looked up from his book with a raised brow. “And what, exactly, is wrong with being a Crouch?” He asked calmly, though his tone carried a faint edge of amusement.
James floundered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You know what I mean! He’s- he’s- he’s bloody Barty! He’s reckless, obsessive, and- and-”
“And utterly devoted to her,” Lily interrupted firmly, her eyes softening as she looked toward you across the courtyard. “He’d send us back to the stone age if she complained it was too busy, James. And she’d do the same for him. That’s not something you get to stand in the way of.”
James sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “I just want her to be happy.” He muttered. “And safe.”
“She is happy,” Lily said gently, resting a hand on his arm. “And as for safe- well, that’s why she’s got you, isn’t it? To make sure nothing gets in the way of her happiness. I'm also quite sure if anyone is to defend her like you have all these years.. it would be him.”
James let out a long, slow breath, watching as you finally stopped pacing, your face lighting up as Barty appeared at the top of the Quidditch stands. Even from across the courtyard, the way your shoulders relaxed and your smile softened was undeniable.
“She looks so bloody happy,” James mumbled, almost to himself.
“She is,” Lily said softly. “Just like you were when you finally got me.”
James turned to her, his face scrunching up as though he’d tasted something sour. “Don’t make me feel good about this, Evans.”
Lily just laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. It’s my job.”
Remus chuckled. “Just watch mate.”
~~~
“My dazzling girl!” Barty called down from the steps as he hurried down. You couldn't help but feel a humiliating bubbling of excitement in your chest. Normally, you wouldn't be so shameless and public with your affections, but since dating the brazen Bartemius, you had forgotten what it meant to hold private affections.
“My brilliant boy.” You cooed back and he hurried across the yard to meet you. “How was it?”
“Dreadful. Humiliating. Humbling.” He rambled and stepped closer to you, taking your hand and kissing it, before slowly leading the kiss up your arm to your neck. You laughed and attempted to free yourself, only for him to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you in, flush against him. “You simply must make me feel better.”
“It was only practice!” You laughed and cupped his cheeks in your hands, stilling his unconventional attack before it could reach your face. He gave you that signature woman eating smile with dimples that pressed so far into his cheeks you could about die. “It couldn't have been that bad.”
“It was, you see.” He started and gave you a playfully firm dip before he spun you around to scoop you back up to a proper stand. “There was this dazzling girl-”
“You've used dazzling for today, Barty.” You teased and he gave you a wolfish grin.
“Barty!” You laughed and he leaned in with a flurry of kisses to your cheek, effectively freeing himself from your hands.
“Irresistible, bewitching, stunning-”
“Barty-”
“Absolutely exquisite witch who promised to watch my every game, and yet, not this one.” He moped and you shook your head.
“That was practice, my love.” You muttered and he gasped.
“And thus it does not deserve your full undivided attention?”
You couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped your lips, your hands playfully swatting at his chest as you shook your head. “You’re insufferable, Bartemius Crouch.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” Barty countered, his grin widening into something wickedly charming as he tugged you closer. “Which makes you either as mad as me or utterly bewitched. Shall we flip a coin to decide?”
“Bewitched, obviously,” You teased, raising an eyebrow as you leaned in closer. “But don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Crouch.”
“Too late.” He replied with a laugh, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your cheek. “My head’s been full of you for years, my star. You’ve left no room for anything else. I think it's only fair I consume your every thought from now on.”
“Sweet words don’t excuse your theatrics.” You teased, your hands gently slipping to his shoulders as you pretended to push him away, though neither of you truly let go. “You’re going to give James a heart attack if you keep this up.”
Barty’s grin turned mischievous, and he tilted his head to glance toward the courtyard where your brother and his friends were undoubtedly watching. “Good,” He said with mock seriousness, his tone laced with humor. “If I can survive Quidditch practice, he can survive the sight of me adoring his sister.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the smile off your face as you sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re perfect,” He murmured, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. “So I think that makes us even.”
“Even?” You repeated with a laugh, shaking your head as you leaned your forehead against his. “I think it makes you a menace.”
“I’ll take it,” Barty replied, his voice softer now, his green eyes locked onto yours with a sincerity that made your heart skip. “As long as it means I get to keep you.”
For a moment, the playful banter between you faded, replaced by the weight of his words and the warmth of his presence. You knew the world saw Barty as reckless, obsessive, even dangerous. But in moments like this, when he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him, it was hard not to feel the same pull that had always drawn you to him.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You said softly, your hands brushing down his arms before entwining your fingers with his. “Just… promise me you’ll try not to antagonize James too much. He’s already halfway to pulling his hair out.”
Barty smirked, his dimple deepening in that way that always made your heart flutter. “No promises,” He teased, though the glint in his eye told you he’d try- for you, if nothing else.
“Bartemius Crouch,” You huffed, feigning sternness as you tugged his hand. “I mean it.”
“And I mean it when I say you’re irresistible,” He countered, spinning you again for good measure before pulling you back into his arms. “Now, my alluring, charming, pretty girl- are you ready to make James’s day a little more unbearable?”
You let out a laugh, the sound bright and lighthearted, as he laced your fingers together and led you back toward the courtyard. You could already see the exasperation on James’s face from across the field, but Merlin did you hear it. Him and Lily.
“I wasn't THAT bad!”
“Oh yes you were!”
~~~
It was a quiet afternoon in the Gryffindor common room when James finally let out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t take it anymore!” He exclaimed, startling Lily, who had been peacefully reading beside him.
“What now?” She asked, though the amused quirk of her lips showed she already knew the answer.
“It’s them,” James hissed, pointing toward the window where you and Barty were clearly visible in the courtyard below. You were both sitting on the edge of the fountain, laughing at something Barty had said as he carefully wrapped a scarf around your neck, adjusting it as though it were a delicate treasure. “They’re insufferable.”
“They’re adorable,” Lily corrected, leaning over to peek out the window. She sighed softly, her expression turning fond as she watched Barty tuck your hair behind your ear and press a quick kiss to your temple. “Look at him. He absolutely dotes on her.”
“Exactly!” James groaned again. “Dotes! It’s unnatural. He’s supposed to be a Crouch-brooding and conniving, not… not whatever that is.”
“Love,” Remus supplied calmly, not even looking up from his book.
“Obsessive devotion,” Sirius added with a smirk, throwing a piece of popcorn into his mouth as he sprawled on the armchair.
“Same thing,” Lily said with a shrug. “And besides, James, weren’t you the same way with me? You practically worshipped the ground I walked on.”
“Still do,” Sirius muttered, earning a glare from James and a stifled laugh from Lily.
“That’s different,” James argued, his voice petulant. “I wasn’t… that. Look at him! He’s practically wrapped around her finger.”
“And she’s wrapped around his,” Lily pointed out, motioning toward the window again. Sure enough, Barty had pulled you to your feet and was holding your hand as he led you toward the castle steps, pausing every few moments to make you laugh with his animated gestures.
“He carries her books half the time,” Sirius added. “And she carries his cloak when he forgets it.”
“She fixes his collar when it's crooked,” Remus chimed in. “And he charms her quills when they snap.”
James groaned louder, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re not helping.”
“Prongs,” Sirius said with a chuckle, sitting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got to admit, they’re good together. Annoyingly good, yes, but still.”
“Annoying is an understatement,” James grumbled, but his protests faltered as the portrait hole swung open and you entered the room, Barty trailing behind you with an armful of books and an easy grin on his face.
You turned to him with an exasperated laugh. “You didn’t have to carry all of them, you know. I can manage.”
“Nonsense,” Barty replied smoothly, setting the books down on a nearby table before tugging at his crooked collar. “If I can’t carry a few books for my treasure, what kind of wizard am I?”
“A dramatic one,” You teased, stepping closer to him to fix his collar with practiced ease. “There. All better.”
“And this is why I adore you,” He said, grinning as he caught your hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss.
James let out a strangled noise from the couch, causing you to turn with a startled look. “Everything alright, Jamie?” you asked, tilting your head.
“Perfectly fine,” he said through gritted teeth, glaring at Barty, who had the audacity to wink at him.
Lily leaned over to whisper in James’s ear, her voice low but teasing. “Admit it, James. You’re just mad he treats her as well as you treat me.”
James’s face turned scarlet, and Sirius howled with laughter, nearly toppling out of his chair. “Got you there, mate!”
~~~
The clatter of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as you stopped in your tracks, turning just in time to see Barty sprinting toward you with an energy that bordered on reckless. His tie was slightly askew, his school robes flaring behind him as he called out, his voice full of dramatic flair, “Treasure! You simply must hear this- you’ll have no choice but to reward me with a kiss once you hear of my heroics.”
You furrowed your brow but couldn’t suppress the amused smile tugging at your lips. He always had a way of making everything sound like the most exciting tale in the world. As he skidded to a halt in front of you, panting slightly but grinning ear to ear, you took a moment to properly look at him.
For once, Barty had made an effort with his appearance. His robes, usually a little wrinkled or hanging off his shoulders in that endearingly careless way, were perfectly straightened. His tie was knotted neatly (if a little loose), and his hair was slicked back in a way that made your stomach twist, the gleaming coil of one rebellious strand falling charmingly over his forehead. He was maddening, and he knew it.
“Oh?” You replied, your voice playful as you arched a brow.
Barty straightened, smoothing the lapels of his robe with an exaggerated air of importance. “Correct me if I’m wrong- I hardly ever am- but you look like you might just kiss me unprompted.”
Your cheeks flamed at his words, the boldness of his statement making your heart skip. “Crouch!” You hissed, swatting lightly at his chest in mock indignation.
He caught your hand easily, holding it against his chest with a dramatic sigh. “See? Even your instincts betray you. Your heart is telling you to reward me already.”
“And what exactly did you do to earn this so-called reward?” You asked, your tone laced with amusement.
He tilted his head, his dimpled grin widening as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I managed to survive an entire Transfiguration class without turning our professor’s patience into dust. Surely that deserves a small token of appreciation.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head at his antics. “That’s your big heroic tale? Restraint in a single class?”
“Not just any class,” He countered, pulling you closer with the hand still held captive against his chest. “A full fifty minutes of maintaining decorum. You, of all people, should know what a trial that is for me.”
“Decorum, huh?” You teased, your lips twitching as you fixed his slightly frazzled lapel. “Then why are you so out of breath, running down the halls like a maniac?”
“Because the faster I reached you, the sooner I’d get my reward.” He grinned, tilting his head closer to yours. “Now, treasure, let’s not delay-”
“Barty!” You cut him off with a laugh, stepping back to put some space between you. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, utterly smitten,” He said cheekily, but there was a softness in his eyes that made your chest ache. He reached out, brushing an errant strand of hair from your face, and you felt your heart skip again.
Before you could respond, a voice broke through the moment, sharp and incredulous. “You two are going to make me lose my mind.”
You both turned to see James standing a few feet away, arms crossed and a look of pure exasperation on his face. Sirius was behind him, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Remus stood a little further back, his book tucked under one arm, an amused glint in his eye.
“Honestly, mate,” James continued, throwing his hands up. “Must you be this dramatic? She’s my sister, not the bloody queen.”
“And yet,” Barty said smoothly, not missing a beat as he turned to James with a smirk, “she deserves nothing less than a royal treatment.”
James groaned, dragging his hands down his face as Sirius burst out laughing, clapping him on the back. “He’s got a point, Prongs.”
You shook your head, trying to suppress your own laughter, but Barty caught your chin with gentle fingers, turning your gaze back to him. “Pay no mind to the peanut gallery,” He said softly, his tone dropping to something more intimate. “I’m only interested in you, treasure.”
Your heart swelled, and for a moment, you forgot all about James’s groaning, Sirius’s laughter, and the knowing look Remus was undoubtedly giving. All you could see was Barty- your boy, maddeningly confident yet infinitely tender, his green eyes locked onto yours as if you were the only person in the world.
And as maddening as it was, he certainly did deserve that kiss.
~~~
The firelight flickered warmly in the Potter living room as the group gathered for the holidays. Snow had blanketed the grounds outside, creating a cozy atmosphere inside the bustling house. You were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hands. James sat nearby, watching with a sharp eye as Barty leaned down to adjust the blanket around your legs, making sure you were tucked in properly.
The sight grated on James- he was used to being the one to look after you, his little sister, not this Crouch boy who had somehow wormed his way into your life. But then Barty turned, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside you, and James found himself watching the interaction more closely than he’d care to admit.
“You didn’t have to go out into the cold to fetch the marshmallows, you know,” You said softly, your voice filled with affection as you sipped your drink.
“Of course I did,” Barty replied, grinning up at you. “Your hot chocolate isn’t complete without them. It’s a crime to deprive you of anything less than perfection.”
James rolled his eyes, but Lily elbowed him gently, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Watch,” She whispered.
As if on cue, you reached for the plate of marshmallows to pop one into your drink, but Barty’s hand shot out to stop you. “Ah, ah, allow me,” He said with a dramatic flair, picking out the largest marshmallow with precision. He placed it delicately into your mug before handing it back with a flourish. “Perfectly placed, as all marshmallows should be.”
You laughed, a bright sound that made James pause. He couldn’t deny that it was genuine, the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard from you in a long time. And the way Barty looked at you in response- like your happiness was the only thing that mattered- made James’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
As the night went on, James watched the two of you more closely. It wasn’t just the over-the-top gestures or the playful banter; it was the way Barty noticed the smallest things about you. How he shifted your mug away when he noticed you leaning too far forward, how he reached for the book you’d left on the side table before you even asked for it, how he listened intently to every word you said, his focus unwavering.
Merlin even their parents loved him.
Later, when the others had dispersed to different parts of the house, James found himself in the kitchen with Barty. The younger boy was rinsing out a mug, his usual bravado toned down in the quiet moment.
“You really care about her, don’t you?” James asked suddenly, his voice steady but curious.
Barty looked up, surprised by the question. But then his expression softened, and he nodded. “More than anything,” He said simply, his tone devoid of his usual dramatics. “She’s everything to me, Potter.”
James leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he studied Barty carefully. “You know, if you hurt her, I’ll-”
“Spend every waking moment trying to kill me?” Barty interrupted with a small, knowing smile. “I know. But you won’t have to. Because I’d rather tear myself apart than see her hurt.”
James blinked, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in Barty’s voice. For the first time, he saw past the theatrics and charm, and what he found there surprised him. There was a genuine devotion, a steadfastness that even James couldn’t deny.
“You’re good to her,” James said finally, his voice quieter. “Better than I thought you’d be.”
Barty smirked, but there was no arrogance in it this time- only a quiet confidence. “She deserves nothing less.”
James nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. For the first time, he found himself believing that maybe- just maybe- Barty Crouch wasn’t the worst person his sister could have chosen. In fact, as he watched Barty quietly return the mug to the cupboard, James couldn’t help but think that she might have chosen someone who truly knew how to love her the way she deserved.
~~~
The tension between you and Barty had been simmering all day, ever since that small disagreement in the courtyard earlier. It wasn’t anything monumental- just one of his reckless decisions clashing with your cautious nature- but it had left you feeling irritated and, perhaps, a little hurt.
Now, as you sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, picking at your dinner, the weight of the silence between you lingered in the back of your mind. Barty hadn’t come to sit with you, choosing instead to stay at the Ravenclaw table. Every so often, you caught him sneaking a glance your way, but neither of you made a move to close the distance.
“You’re brooding,” Lily said gently, nudging your arm with her elbow.
“I’m not brooding,” You replied, though your tone lacked conviction.
“She’s brooding,” Sirius confirmed from across the table, earning a glare from you. “You’ve got that ‘he’s an idiot, but I still love him’ look all over your face. I'm very familiar."
You rolled your eyes, but before you could retort, Remus leaned in, his voice calm and measured. “You know, he’s been sulking at the Ravenclaw table since lunch. Practically hasn’t touched his food.”
“I don’t care,” You muttered, stabbing at your mashed potatoes.
“Sure, you don’t,” James said, his tone laced with sarcasm as he leaned back in his seat. “That’s why you’ve been glancing at him every five minutes.”
“I have not,” You snapped, though your cheeks flushed in betrayal.
James smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Look, I’ll admit it- he’s an absolute pain sometimes. But he’s your pain, and frankly, I’ve put a lot of effort into liking this one. Don’t break his heart.”
The entire table froze. Lily’s fork clattered against her plate, and Sirius let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, slapping a hand over his mouth like he’d just heard the most scandalous news of the year.
“Did… did you just admit you like him?” Remus asked, his tone full of disbelief.
James shifted uncomfortably under the weight of everyone’s stares. “I didn’t say I like him,” He grumbled, though the tips of his ears burned red. “I just said I’ve put in the time.”
“That’s the same thing, mate,” Sirius said with a grin. “And we’re never letting you live this down.”
Lily laughed, nudging James playfully. “I think it’s sweet. It only took him months of watching them make heart eyes at each other to admit it.”
“Shut it, Evans,” James muttered, though his scowl softened as his gaze flicked to you. “Seriously, though. He’s mad about you. Don’t let this stupid fight ruin something good.”
You blinked at your brother, caught somewhere between gratitude and shock. “You really think that?”
James sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah. I do. Just… go talk to him, alright? Put me out of my misery.”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you as you stood, smoothing out your robes. “Fine. But if he’s still being a prat, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair,” James said, though he shot you a rare, encouraging smile.
As you crossed the Great Hall, you could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, the murmurs from the Gryffindor table blending with the soft hum of conversation around the room. When you reached the Ravenclaw table, Barty looked up, his green eyes widening in surprise as you stopped beside him.
“Treasure,” He started, his voice tentative, but you held up a hand to stop him.
“We need to talk,” You said firmly, though the corner of your lips twitched upward.
Barty stood immediately, his end of the bench scraping against the stone floor. “Anything. Anywhere.”
You nodded toward the doors, and he followed without hesitation, leaving behind his untouched dinner and a flurry of whispers in his wake.
Back at the Gryffindor table, James let out a heavy sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. “Finally.”
“I can’t believe it,” Sirius said, shaking his head in mock astonishment. “Prongs has feelings. Actual, human feelings.”
“Don’t push it, Padfoot,” James muttered, though the faint smile on his face betrayed him.
Lily rested her chin on her hand, watching as you and Barty disappeared through the doors. “I think it’s sweet. He finally gets it.”
“Better late than never,” Remus added with a small smile. “Though I’m sure he’ll deny it by morning.”
Sirius, smirked devilishly and Lily’s smile twitched just a bit.
“It's almost like we didn't catch them snogging a few days ago.” He sang and James's face turned pale and his eyes widened.
James shot up from his seat so quickly that his table toppled backward, the loud clatter echoing through the Great Hall. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”
Sirius threw his head back in laughter, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice, while Lily covered her mouth with her hand, clearly enjoying the chaos.
“I said,” Sirius repeated slowly, his grin widening, “it’s almost like we didn’t catch them snogging a few days ago. Almost.”
“You- you WHAT?” James sputtered, looking between Sirius and Lily with a mixture of horror and betrayal. “And you didn’t tell me? Evans! You’re supposed to be on my side!”
“I am on your side,” Lily said, struggling to keep her composure as she shrugged innocently. “I just didn’t think it was a big deal. They’re dating, James. What did you expect?”
“What did I- what did I- NOT THAT!” James shouted, flailing his arms toward the doors where you and Barty had disappeared. “I didn’t expect him to be sticking his tongue down her throat in public!”
“It wasn’t public,” Sirius said with a mockingly thoughtful expression. “It was a little alcove near the library, actually. Quite private. You’d be proud of them, Prongs- very stealthy, very romantic. A solid 9 out of 10.”
James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Remus finally chimed in, his tone calm but amused. “James, they’re in a relationship. This isn’t exactly shocking.”
“It is to me!” James snapped, glaring at Remus as if he’d just committed treason. “And you lot just sat on this information like it was nothing?”
“Mate, you’ve been watching them practically live in each other’s pockets for months now,” Sirius said, still grinning. “I figured you’d have put it together by now.”
Lily patted James’s arm consolingly, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. “I think you’re just mad because you’re starting to like Barty, and this makes it harder for you to yell at him.”
James opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He closed his mouth, glaring at the table as his face turned an impressive shade of red.
“Admit it, Prongs,” Sirius said, leaning forward with a gleeful grin. “You like him. He’s grown on you.”
“I don’t like him,” James muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I tolerate him. For her.”
“You tolerate him enough to tell her not to break his heart,” Remus pointed out, his lips twitching.
James groaned again, collapsing back into his seat with the air of a man defeated. “Fine. I don’t hate him. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” Sirius said with a wink. “Though I’d be happier if you didn’t look like you were about to throw a fit every time you saw them hold hands.”
Lily leaned in closer, her voice soft but teasing. “He loves her, James. And she loves him. That’s not something you need to fight.”
James sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, well… if he hurts her, it’s still open season.”
“Fair enough,” Sirius said with a laugh. “But you’ll have to get in line behind her. She’s got a mean right hook.”
The table erupted into laughter, and even James couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Somewhere beyond the Great Hall doors, you and Barty were likely making amends, and for the first time, James felt a reluctant sort of peace about it.
He still didn’t like Barty- he probably never would- but he could admit, quietly and only to himself, that the boy made you happy. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Plot | After a tumultuous year, Sebastian’s life was finally okay – passable, up-to-scratch, satisfactory. And he had just almost reached peace – when his brilliant, painfully observant, carelessly crude genius of a friend, Garreth Weasley, started pointing out unnecessary facts that could rip all that harmony to shreds.
or, Garreth asks why Sebastian isn’t dating you. Sebastian spirals.
Tags | fluff, sebastian is a thought daughter, low self esteem, seb is a playboy BUT NOT REALLY, horny thots but we keep it pg, insecurity so deep you try to fight cupid, cupid fights back
An Ashwinder’s wand to his neck and Sebastian could honestly and truly say that he was … alright.
Life wasn’t perfect, by any means. His uncle was murdered dead, an estranged twin sister in Paris who refuses to answer his letters, a mistrustful Ominis that breathes on his neck, and a tattered companionship that was barely hanging on by a thread.
But he was okay.
Thankfully, Solomon was still dead, Anne was still alive, and still cranky Ominis is now open to reconciliation. Plus, if all else had fallen, he at least managed to save your cherished friendship thanks to your forgiving nature.
Thus, as thanks to the people who had not yet given up on him, he had sworn to live the rest of his academic life as a meek, unassuming, law-abiding student of Hogwarts.
And he did such a good job at it.
The professors are now impressed at his steadily increasing grades (so much so that the Ravenclaws are now finally seeing him as a threat again) and he even managed to make Imelda’s team as her beater to keep him occupied.
The latter, however, had a grating consequence – he had become popular.
It was thrilling, at first, he went on dates to make up for the years he had lost, kissed the pretty girls because it felt like he should (as one of the few bastards lucky enough to live every raging teenager’s dream), and accepted the slaps on the face politely when they inevitably broke up.
But now he’s just gotten tired and bored of it all.
Ominis says it’s a genius’ folly, to always find a fault in something and then drop it when it doesn’t quite meet his standard of perfect. Leander says he’s just a bastard.
He cups his face with his hand, wincing. Her fucking ring caught on his skin and he can’t be arsed to suffer through the bitterness of a Wiggenweld Potion for a mere scratch.
Garreth doesn’t bother to swallow his bread before saying, “Really, mate? I thought you liked this one?”
“Liked her rack, more likely,” Andrew quipped from his seat on the stone steps of the boathouse.
Sebastian threw his scarf on his face, satisfied at his squawk.
“No talking about my ex-girlfriends,” he warned. It was one of his few rules when it came to his male friends. He may be a bastard but as someone with a sister and a couple of good female friendships, he makes it a point to never become one of those losers who talk badly about women they have a history with. Just so he can have a moral high ground when he beats up anyone who might do it to his friends.
“All right, all right,” Andrew raised his hands in playful surrender, throwing Sebastian’s scarf back to him. “But as your friend, I think it’s about time you stop swapping out girls every time you get bored of them.”
“I don’t swap them out,” he rolls his eyes. “Breakups are normal.”
“Breakups are normal,” Garreth points out. “Six breakups in 2 years is an issue.”
“Maybe I’m just meant for the bachelor life,” he mumbles, ignoring the pointed accusation from Garreth. Fucking perceptive prick. “Not everyone gets to meet their soulmate in Hogwarts, asshole.”
Garreth grins, “Natty’s great, isn’t she?”
Sebastian and Andrew both throw their scarves at him, the three of them bursting out in laughter and boos.
“To the Three Broomsticks, then?” Andrew stood up, patting his pants.
As 7th years it was nearly impossible to take a breather with the looming threat of exams that will dictate the rest of your life and the inescapable trap of adulthood that awaits them in a couple of months. So, his friends had made it a point to at least go out once every week whenever they could, really take advantage of their last year as students where they had no other responsibility but to survive the week.
In a year’s time, seeing each other as often as they do will be nothing short of a miracle.
“Leander and Everett are already there, saved up a table since it’s a Friday, it’s gonna be packed full,” Andrew explains.
Sebastian looks around, eyes scanning the castle in the setting sun. “You go on ahead I’m waiting for –”
“Sebastian!”
A flash of movement appeared rushing down the stairs towards the boathouse, your face beaming as you waved to the three of them. When you were a foot away from him you jumped into his arms, shrieking energetically when he grabbed your waist and lifted you above his head.
“Sorry, I’m late,” you pant, smiling at your friends once you’re back on the ground. “Professor Hecate asked me to stay back for a minute, something about revisions on my research.”
“I can’t believe you got permission to research in The Restricted Section after the crazy nonsense you pulled in 5th year,” Garreth shook his head. Sebastian wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side, beaming in pride. Nobody knows but the two of you that the very thing you were researching were the technicalities of how you broke Anne’s curse so it could be taught to the nurses in St. Mungos and hopefully spread to the rest of wizardkind.
“It’s exactly because I had the nerve to break the rules that I was given the honorable opportunity,” you dramatically curtsied. “And they said Gryffindors were the brave ones.”
That made Sebastian laugh. Garreth blinks, eyes squinting at him for a second but he doesn’t look offended, more … focused on Sebastian.
“Alright, no more of that House Rivalry. Quidditch Season is over,” Andrew quips.
“Wiped your asses there too, Larson,” he quipped, Andrew’s jaw drops, looking at Garreth for help and receiving none. He was still staring at Sebastian, eyes shifting between him and you.
Andrew groans. “Slytherins are assholes.”
Slytherins are, apparently, also light-weights.
Well, at least one of them is.
He adjusts his hold on your body as the other hand wraps his coat around your body properly. After your last ‘improved’ butterbeer you had slumped into his lap, rudely snoozing off on the crook of his neck and refusing to wake up even when it was time for your group to leave – not that he would’ve allowed that to happen, with your demanding research it was a miracle to get you to sleep let alone let loose.
The rest of the group had gone in first to scope the scenery and bribe the patrolling Head students with leftover chips while he and Garreth were stuck carrying you and an unconscious Amit that they had managed to catch last-minute in Hogsmeade. Poor bastard.
“I was thinking –”
“Please don’t,” he groans.
“Why have you two never dated?”
Sebastian stops his fussing, barely able to use his head to ensure he keeps walking, and continue to Act Normal, now using both of his hands to hold you tighter.
“You’re drunk,” he deflects. The puffs of your breath warm his entire body.
“Because! When I think about it …”
Please, for the love of the great Merlin stop thinking.
“You’ve been inseparable from the start! I can’t believe it’s escaped my notice you’ve never dated. You say your past relationships got boring and got annoying but you’ve never been bored and annoyed with her and you’ve been friends for years!”
Bored with you? He’s had more near-fatal heart attacks because of you than breakups. Sebastian barely had the time to be bored. And sometimes you do get at each other’s throats but it was always fixed after a proper conversation. If his killing his uncle couldn’t turn you away then he doubts anything you do could ever turn him away.
“Plus, with all the respect and love to my beautiful darling Natty, she’s a fucking catch, mate!”
If Garreth wasn’t carrying a sinless half-dead Amit, Sebastian would’ve punched him in his mouth just to stop him from talking.
“I’m just saying,” Garreth walks ahead of him, clearly aware of the fuse he had just lit. Sebastian was tempted to kick the back of his knees just for the satisfaction of seeing him fall. “Maybe you can join the club and find your soulmate in Hogwarts.”
Garreth winks.
“We’re still accepting members.”
He’s decided.
He needs to kill Garreth.
He has not been able to sleep properly for the past week and it’s all because of that ginger prick and his needless remarks.
“Why have you two never dated?”
Sebastian’s pencil cracks in his hand.
“Is he alright?” he hears an underclassman whisper on the other table. He glances at them and they flinch. Quickly, he softens his expression ("You really need to stop scowling at people, Sebastian."), unaware he had glared at them and sent a wary smile in apology. It would just be unfair to aim his ire at innocent people when he could just use it to rip out every strand of Weasley’s hair.
“He’s been staring at that page for an hour. Maybe we should call –”
He stands up, escaping.
Sebastian never realized just how much he spent his time with you until people were looking at him funny when he was walking or sitting alone in public places. At first, he thought there had been crumbs on his face or one of his asshole friends stuck a note on his back like a kid. Plus, he hadn’t been feeling his best since that night but he thought it had been the lack of sleep.
It wasn’t until he had met Imelda on the grounds that he found his answer:
“Where’s the rest of you?”
He blinked at his captain, “I’m sorry?”
She shook her head. “Man, it feels weird seeing you alone. Did you guys have a fight? You’re usually shadowing her like a puppy after class.”
Then everything clicks, the strange looks, the feeling of missing something (like a forgotten important homework after he had reached the top of the Astronomy Tower) – it’s been a side effect of avoiding you.
Okay, it’s not that he’s avoiding you per se. He just needs space. He needs to think and he finds that can’t do that once he feels your eyes on him. With his luck, you’re going to see right through him and that would just be unideal if not a fucking catastrophe.
That’s why he’s taken it upon himself to stay off your way until he puts his thoughts in a row and finally screws his head on straight again. Or he could just kill Garreth, get sent straight to Azakaban, and avoid confronting these complicated thoughts altogether.
“I can’t believe it’s escaped my notice you’ve never dated!”
He sits on a bench, hands on his head as he let out a prolonged groan, “The fucking bastard.”
Why did he have to point it out? Why did Garreth have to bring what he, upon reflection, had buried on the back of his head, just waiting for that one little flick of acknowledgment before it blew his brains out.
Because Sebastian is a lot of things but he’s not a fucking moron.
It’s not that the thought of being together is unpleasant. If he lets himself consider it his chest feels like it would escape his ribcage both in excitement and utter terror.
But Garreth was right: he’d never thought about it before – hadn’t thought the idea was conceivable in this reality.
He has a feeling it was his way of preserving whatever pure relationship he had left. He’s not exactly rich with true companionship and he’s not idiotic enough to risk it all over a bloody crush.
And not just any crush – his best friend, the person who saved his life and then helped him rebuild it when he was finished smashing it to pieces. The one who never turned her back even when his blood had given up. The girl who has a line of eligible bachelors following her on their knees for a single chance, ones who could offer her more than he ever could – ones who could offer her the world.
So, yeah – forgive him, but he’s never really allowed himself to entertain the idea of them dating. Sebastian has tested his luck enough.
Unless the roles switch and he gets to save the wizarding world this time then maybe … yeah, maybe -- maybe in another fucking life.
The thought makes him stand up, walking straight out of the campus to hopefully drown the sorrows of the depressing state of his love life with the best fire whiskey Hogshead could offer. How does he even move on from this? How does he make peace with the fact that he has sealed his fate of living the rest of his life alone?
It’s impossible, he’s decided. Even if he graduates at the top of the classes he is taking and gets accepted into the Auror Programme that Sharp had recommended him for, their social standing is still heavens apart. He’s an orphan, with a husk of an extended family and no money to his name.
It wouldn’t matter to you, never really cared for pure bloodlines or lineages and he knows anyone who brings that up when they’re courting you will receive the most disgusted look on your face.
But he cares – you are the most special person in his life. He wants the best for you. And the best is not something he can provide.
His depressing thoughts halt as his steps falter, a familiar scent tickling his nose. A familiar scent that leads straight into the Forbidden Forest. When he looks up to the sky, he realizes the sun has almost finished setting.
She can’t be that reckless, right?
He was barely surprised when he chanted the incantation that triggered the charm they had both put in their necklaces, the sparkling thread leads straight into the forest. And if he knows you half as well as he thinks he does then he knows exactly where it’s gonna lead to.
There goes his late-night plan.
It isn’t exactly his first jaunt in the forbidden space but it still gives him the creeps especially so close to the night. Why you’re so fond of the place is something he’ll never understand.
But that’s just the way you were, just another part of your quirks that makes you so endearing.
How you throw your head back when you laugh, that you get so cranky when you’re studying that no one dares to approach you but him, even the way you messily eat your favorite chocolate pastry of the week yet never fail to share a piece with him.
With this new revelation, he bitterly accepts the reason for his philandering ways. That he simply is another prick who is coping with not being able to attain the love of his life at the expense of those poor girls.
His self-condemnation however was cut short when he heard the waterfall, not being able to help the smirk on his face when he turned the corner and found you just as he had expected: in the middle of the clear, dark, water, floating carelessly on your back.
Gods, you are a beauty. He’s always thought so, the entire male population in Hogwarts thought so too. If they somehow get to break through your walls and manage to get to know you, he might just have to beat them away with an actual stick.
“Sebastian,” you smile, his heart stops. “I knew you’d find me.”
You swim to him gracefully, barely disturbing the water with only your eyes above the water but there was no hiding the grin in your face. Like a pitiful sailor seduced by a siren, his feet dragged him to the edge, a short ledge above from where you were looking up at him.
“You left your scent on purpose,” he states, kneeling to get a closer look at you. What a beauty – mischievous, cunning, irresistible. He’s never loved anyone more. “Naughty, naughty, darling.”
She pulls herself up the ledge, their faces inches away from each other. He nails his eyes to yours so they wouldn’t be tempted to look down at your soaking figure cloaked only by a thin chemise “I had to get you somehow, knew you couldn’t resist a damsel in distress.”
“Funny,” he softly glares, chuckling when she preens, clearly satisfied that her plan worked perfectly. “With all the water in the Black Lake, you had to pick the Forbidden Forest to swim in.”
You dip yourself back down in the water, swimming away but still facing him. “Come, Sebastian. I’ve been bored all week since you’ve been avoiding me.”
Guilt runs through his spine at the sudden coldness in your offhanded comment. Clearly, his absence hasn’t escaped your notice as he had hoped.
Like a scolded pup, he follows your command to a T. Eyes never leaving your floating figure as he removed his coat, folding it neatly along with the rest of his clothes until he was left in his underclothes.
He winces at the touch of the freezing water. A heating charm would do wonders but the way your unsympathetic eyes never left his figure gave him a feeling that this was a punishment he was meant to endure.
He steels himself, diving into the water and only resurfacing when he is right in front of you. “You called?”
“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” you splash the cold water at him, shrieking when he reaches out for your arms and barely managing to slip away.
He dives again, grinning at your confused flounder, until you realize your mistake, looking down just as he catches your waist, your surprised shriek, and his unrestrained laughter breaks through the quiet of the forest.
“You done running now, pet?” he locks his hands on your back, pushing you close until he is carrying both your weight in the water, chin resting on your chest as your hands run through his soaking hair.
Your darkened hair frames your face, like a sheer curtain it drops, teasing his cheeks, and hiding your conversation from the rest of the forest – in the dimness, your eyes have never been more radiant, even if it was clearly pissed at him.
Skinship wasn’t foreign between the two of you. When you’ve saved each other’s lives from certain death more times than you care to count, cuddling is the least of your worries.
But there is something about the forest's silence, the sparse moonlight that peaks through the dense trees, the sound of the droplets falling from your hair to the water, and the distant echoes of the animals that make everything intimate. -- more intimate than usual.
“Are you?” you throw his question back at him mercilessly, your hands on the back of his neck, locking his face to look up at you – finally at you. The weeklong separation had been torture and now that the distance had cut his regular contact with his favorite witch, he finally realized how fast his heart was beating when he was around her.
He smiles.
He was satisfied, he swore he was.
Sebastian’s life was finally okay – passable, up-to-scratch, satisfactory. He shouldn’t strive for more, couldn’t allow himself that luxury – the luxury of love, the luxury of you.
But as he stares at your eyes, as he feels the ice in your skin, as he imagines a future where it wasn't him that gets to bite the plump of your lips – that dirty, greedy part of him crawls out of the hole he had shoved it in.
He feels it win.
“Are you done running now?” you whisper, a droplet falls from the tip of your nose to the space just below his eyes, his breath hitches, like your magnetic presence had sucked out all the air of the forest.
“I wasn’t running,” she raises a brow, and Sebastian presses his lips to your ears. “I was thinking.”
“And?”
Leander was right: he really is a bastard.
But he’s a bastard who will no longer wait for another life to love you. He's a bastard who will get what he wants.
“I think,” he whispers, at peace. “I think I’m gonna marry you someday.”
content warnings: conversations about kidnapping (usual CM talks)
⋆˚ ꕤ࿔ 🍵 ༘⋆ ݁˖
Fighting the bad guys had always been second nature to Spencer Reid. He arrived at work each morning with a quiet, steady determination, armed with enough fun facts to exhaust his team before their first cup of coffee. For years, his heroism had been like clockwork, instinctive and effortless. He was the lanky, six-foot-one genius who would stand in the line of fire without a second thought.
Then came his wife. Suddenly, the routine stuttered. A flicker of fear began to shadow his face whenever a case involved a woman in danger. He couldn’t stop the thoughts; he saw her face in every victim, her laugh in every cold file. He started to care about his own survival, too, haunted by the image of her receiving a folded flag and a hollow apology from the Bureau.
Then came his daughter. When he first held Olivia, Spencer didn’t just cry; he broke. He sobbed loudly, unashamedly, cradling the tiny, fragile miracle that now held a permanent piece of his heart. Olivia changed his life in ways even he thought were impossible. Now, cases involving children didn't just make him sad or angry; they made him vibrate with a terrifying, protective anxiety.
Then came this case. The briefing room felt smaller today. Lily Evans, a three-year-old, had been snatched from her daycare in broad daylight. The abductor, Arthur Vance, was a disgruntled former janitor with a history of delusions. When Spencer walked into the local station, he froze. He saw Lily’s mother, a sobbing wreck of a woman, and her father, who looked like a shell of a man whose soul had resigned from his body. Spencer thought of his family almost immediately, his throat tightening. The bullpen at the local precinct was a chaotic hum of ringing phones and frantic officers, but the BAU stood in a tight, silent circle around a map of the Manassas farm country. "We have a confirmed sighting," JJ said, her voice tight as she pinned a photo of Arthur Vance to the board. "An old farmhouse at the end of a dead-end ridge. It’s isolated, heavily wooded, and the structure is unstable."
"Vance is spiraling," Hotch added, his eyes scanning the blueprints of the house. "He’s paranoid and armed. If he feels cornered, he’ll see the girl as his only leverage, or his final exit. We need a precision entry. One person to breach and distract, the rest of us for cover and containment." Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the layout. "The front porch is a deathtrap, rotting wood, it’ll creak the second you step on it. We need someone light on their feet, someone who can get close enough to talk him down or take the shot before he panics."
"I'll go," Spencer said. The team went silent. It wasn't the request itself; Spencer was a capable agent, but it was the tone. It wasn't the hesitant, calculated voice of the team’s resident genius; it was low, cold, and utterly immovable. "Reid," Rossi said gently, tilting his head. "This guy is a hair-trigger. Usually, you’re the one quoting the statistics on why the secondary breach is safer." Spencer didn't look up from the photo of three-year-old Lily. "He’s holding a child in a high chair in the center of the kitchen. There’s a window with a direct line of sight from the tall grass on the east side. I can move through that bush without a sound, and my grouping on the range has been perfect for six months." He finally looked up, and the intensity in his hazel eyes made even Morgan blink.
"I’m not letting her spend another minute in that house," Spencer said. "I'm going in first."
Hotch studied him for a long beat. He saw the way Spencer’s hand hovered near his holster, not with nerves, but with a grim readiness. He recognized the look. It wasn't just an agent looking for a suspect; it was a father coming to claim a child. "Alright," Hotch decided, his voice gravelly. "Reid takes point. Morgan, you’re on the back exit. JJ, Rossi, you’re with me on the perimeter. We move the second Reid gives the signal."
When they arrived, the farmhouse looked like a skeletal ghost against the gray sky. Spencer checked his sidearm, the cold metal feeling like an extension of his own hand. "Reid," Morgan whispered into the comms as they crouched in the high weeds. "You okay, kid?"
Spencer didn't answer immediately. He didn't even breathe heavily. He just watched the back door, his mind's eye seeing Olivia's face, hearing her laugh, and feeling the sheer, unadulterated rage that anyone would dare hurt a child. "I'm in," Spencer whispered.
He moved like a wraith through the tall grass, his lanky frame disappearing into the shadows of the porch. When the small, jagged cry of the girl broke through the silence, Spencer didn't flinch. He didn't wait. He signaled Hotch with a sharp hand motion and stepped into the darkness. Inside, the floorboards didn't even groan under his boots. He was a man possessed by a single purpose. As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, Vance spun around, his face a mask of sweat and madness, leveling his gun. "Don't move!" Vance screamed. "You're in my way," Spencer said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Before Vance could even process the lack of fear in the agent's eyes, Spencer’s weapon was up. One shot. The bullet found its mark in Vance’s shoulder with surgical precision. The threat was neutralized before the rest of the team even crossed the threshold. Spencer didn't even look at the fallen man. He dropped his own weapon as the team swarmed in to secure Vance. He ran to the wooden high chair in the corner where Lily was tied. The child looked deathly frail, whimpering because she was too tired to cry. "I’ve got you," he whispered, his voice cracking as he fumbled with the rough hemp ropes. "Oh, darling, I’ve got you."
He gathered the toddler into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. He refused to let anyone else carry her. He rode in the back of the ambulance, his long fingers gently rubbing the red, angry rope burns on her small wrists, trying to soothe away the memory of the pain.
At the hospital, the doors swung open. When Lily’s parents saw her, the sound that left them was something primal, a mix of agony and pure, radiant joy. They collapsed into a huddle on the floor, pulling their daughter into the safety of their arms. "Thank you," the father choked out, looking up at Spencer. The man looked lighter, as if the blood was finally flowing back into his heart. Spencer didn't need a long speech or a fun fact about the history of medicine. He simply nodded, a silent understanding passing between two fathers. He patted the man’s shoulder and walked away into the cool night air.
Now all he wanted to do was go home. To the people he truly fights for.
The drive home had been a blur of streetlights and silence. Spencer’s hands, usually steady enough to perform magic tricks or aim a service weapon with surgical precision, had gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles remained white long after he’d parked in the driveway.
As soon as the front door clicked shut, the heavy, suffocating tension of the case began to peel away. The house smelled of lavender laundry detergent and something savory simmering on the stove, the scent of a life he had fought so hard to protect today. Before he could even set his messenger bag down, he heard the rhythmic, familiar cadence of footsteps.
"Honey, is that you?" She appeared from the hallway, wearing an apron over her clothes, her hair pulled up in a messy, practical knot. She didn’t even have to see his face; she felt the vibration of his exhaustion from across the room. Spencer didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He simply stepped forward and crashed into her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He wrapped his long arms around her, pulling her in so tightly it was as if he were trying to merge their heartbeats.
"Oh, Spence... my love," she whispered, her voice a soft anchor in his storm. She held him back just as fiercely, her hands rubbing steady, soothing circles into the small of his back. She didn’t ask; she didn't have to. She just knew that in this moment, the man she loved needed to be silent, and the hero needed to be held. They stood in the foyer for a long time, a quiet island in the middle of the world, but then, the soft thump-thump-thump of tiny, barefoot steps echoed from the living room.
"Dada?"
Spencer let out a long, shaky sigh. He pulled away from the hug, a sanctuary he knew he’d return to later tonight, to face the little girl who made his heart both terrifyingly fragile and impossibly fierce. "Hi, Vi," he croaked, his voice thick with unshed tears. He reached down and scooped the toddler into his arms. Olivia was a solid, warm weight against his chest, smelling of baby shampoo and crayon wax. He carried her into the living room, sinking onto the sofa as if his legs had finally given out. His wife followed, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek and another to the top of his head before retreating toward the kitchen.
"I'll finish up dinner," she said softly, giving his hand one last squeeze. "Take your time, Spence." Spencer watched her go, feeling a wave of sheer, humbled luck wash over him. He had spent his life studying the worst of humanity, but somehow, he had been allowed to come home to the very best of it. He looked down at Olivia. She was clutching a plush squirrel dressed in a tiny, hand-sewn FBI tactical vest, a gift his wife had made to help the scary parts of his job feel approachable. They called it Squirrel Reid, the brave guardian who watched over the house whenever Daddy was away on a case.
"Why are you sad, Dada?" Olivia asked. Her brow furrowed with a seriousness that mirrored his own, her small, sticky hands reaching up to pat his cheeks. Spencer felt a sharp ache in his chest. He knew she was too young to understand the complexities of the world, but the honesty felt necessary. "The bad man I had to find today... he took a little girl away from her home," Spencer whispered, his eyes searching his daughter’s face. "And I got scared, Vi. I got so scared because I started thinking... what if someone tried to take you away from me?" Olivia didn't blink. She looked at the brave squirrel in her lap and then back at her father with a look of pure defiance, one he recognized as his own but on a face so angelic.
"They won't take me, Dada," she said firmly. "If a bad man tries, I’ll step on his shoes! Really hard!" A startled laugh broke through Spencer’s throat. He pulled her closer, the tears finally threatening to spill over. "Oh, wait!" Olivia scrambled off his lap, her little feet padding quickly out of the room. She returned a moment later, breathless, her fist clenched tight. "Open your hands."
Spencer obeyed, holding out his trembling palms. She dropped a single, strawberry-flavored lollipop into his hand. "When I get sad, Mama gives me this," she explained solemnly, her eyes wide and bright. "She says it takes the bad feelings away and hides them in the sugar."
That was it. The last of Spencer’s professional armor shattered. The tears finally fell, hot and fast, as he pulled Olivia into a crushing embrace. "Thank you, baby," he choked out, his voice muffled by her hair. "Thank you so much."
Olivia giggled, squirming happily in his grip. "Tight hug, Dada! Too tight!" From the doorway of the kitchen, she leaned against the frame, a wooden spoon forgotten in her hand. She watched her husband, the man who saw the darkest corners of the human mind every day, find his light again in the arms of a three-year-old with a lollipop.
Tonight, the world was safer, and their family was whole.
Word Count: ~1,500
Tags:
Sebastian Sallow x f!MC, fluff, pining, just confess already, No Y/N, Unspoken Feelings.
The Slytherin common room carried its own kind of silence, deep and echoing—thick with the damp stillness of the lake pressed just beyond the glass. In the daylight, it was dim. Now, it was nearly soundless.
They’d started studying that afternoon, just after lunch, the three of them: Sebastian, Ominis, and her. Charms exam tomorrow. Final theory paper. No mercy from Professor Ronen this time.
Ominis was the first to cave. He dropped his illuminated wand, rubbed at his temples, and sighed.
“If I spend any more time staring at these runes, I’ll be even more blind than I already am.”
Sebastian smirked, propping his chin on one hand. “Well, you’re not exactly winning any awards for eyesight anyway.”
“Watch it, Sallow.”
Sebastian merely lifted a brow in reply, and Ominis gave a quiet huff before collecting his notes. “I’d better get out of here before I lose what little vision I have left.”
He left with a small nod.
The young wizard turned his attention to the witch beside him. She didn’t even glance up, her quill moving steadily as if they hadn’t spoken at all.
Sebastian stayed.
He didn’t really need to. If anyone in their year could pass a Charms exam with their eyes closed and hands tied, it was him. He could’ve returned to his dorm, or gone out for a walk, or pretended to rest like everyone else. But instead, he stayed.
Not because he was particularly interested in reviewing wand movements or breaking down theoretical applications of advanced levitation charms. No. He stayed not because she asked, but because she didn’t.
She hadn’t said a word — just kept working, brow furrowed in soft focus, occasionally chewing at the corner of her quill or scratching out a line of notes with irritated precision. Every so often, she’d whisper a spell under her breath and test a movement, her motions fluid, earnest, tired.
He had pretended to read for a while — kept an open book on his lap, one elbow propped on the table. But most of his attention had drifted.
To her.
To the quiet curve of her back as she leaned into her work, the small sighs she let out when she got something wrong, the occasional muttered, “Blast it,” under her breath.
Even her frustrations had a rhythm to them now, one he recognized. There was something maddeningly compelling about how she moved through the world—chaos stitched into grace, exhaustion softened by sheer force of will.
And then, sometime later, she stopped moving.
He glanced over—quill still in hand, head pillowed on her arms, hair falling messily over the parchment.
Asleep.
Just like that. Mid-word. As if her body had made the decision for her.
Sebastian didn’t move for a long while. Just watched her breathe.
In that moment, he thought about everything. Everything she carried.
Only yesterday, she’d been running errands between classes—lists clutched in her hand, dashing from one corridor to the next, hunted down by classmates needing ingredients or help with rogue creatures. He’d heard the rumours—how she’d helped a villager’s son escape a poacher camp, how she’d fought off a young dragon near the coast with little more than nerve and a charm.
She never talked about it, not really. Just shrugged, said it had to be done, and returned to class like nothing had happened.
Yet here she was, after all that, expected to sit through three hours of History of Magic and somehow still summon the energy to memorize wand theory before morning.
How did she do it?
Sebastian reached out—gently brushed back a loose strand of hair that had fallen over her brow. She didn’t stir. Her breath was slow, steady. Her fingers still curled around her quill.
His heart twisted with something he didn’t dare name.
A door burst open, the sound echoing through the stone room like a firecracker.
Two younger students clattered into the common room, mid-argument and louder than necessary. One had a half-torn Astronomy chart waving like a flag. The other was trying to wrestle it back.
Sebastian’s spine straightened in an instant. He pressed his hand lightly against the small of her back—just enough to soothe, to keep her from stirring—and shot them a death glare as a silencing gesture.
They froze mid-step.
The two hurriedly mumbled apologies and shuffled quickly inside their dorm, this time with the door clicking quietly shut behind them.
He exhaled. His hand lingered at her back for a second longer.
It was funny. There was nothing grand in this — no spells, no battles, no world-shifting decisions. Just him. Just her. Quiet, ordinary stillness in a world that demanded everything.
He let it stretch. Let the moment grow and bloom like some soft, impossible thing he didn’t dare touch.
If, in the midst of all that is unrelenting, remains a flicker of peace, a normalcy — then let it be his to give.
She stirred.
A soft exhale. A shift of her arm. Her head lifted slowly, bleary-eyed, disoriented. Quill still in hand.
She blinked. Eyes widen, then frowned at the windowless dark around her.
Sebastian closed his book, voice light, teasing. “Good morning.”
Her eyes widened while she pushed herself upright. “What time is it? —did I actually fall asleep?”
“You did,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, I’m impressed. Mid-sentence. Very committed.”
She groaned, rubbing her face with one hand. “That’s mortifying.”
“I found it endearing.”
That made her pause. Endearing
“How long was I—?”
“Long enough for Ominis to abandon ship, a horde of third-years to nearly invade, and me to read the same sentence about Wingardium Leviosa seventeen times.”
“You should’ve left.”
He tilted his head. “And miss the chance to watch you snore into your Charms notes?”
“I do not snore.”
“You make tiny huffing noises. Very dignified.”
She swatted his arm with a scowl, though it lacked real heat. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“You’ve had worse places for naps,” he said dryly. “Remember the Transfiguration courtyard? You nearly froze.”
“That was strategic,” she said, straightening her notes. “Sunlight. Warmth. A perfectly planned study break.”
Sebastian hummed. “And now you’re branching into the soothing acoustics of the Black Lake. Very refined.”
She squinted at the pile of parchment in front of her, then paused.
Her ink bottle was upright. Her papers were neatly stacked.
She turned to him, eyebrows lifting. “You stayed and organised my notes?”
He blinked, all innocence. “I think you’ll find they organised themselves. Enchanted parchment is very progressive these days.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just traced a line with her finger, eyes softening.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, the word catching her off guard; an almost-smile on her face.
Sebastian arched a brow. “That’s not something you say often.”
She shrugged, cheeks colouring. “Maybe I should say it more.”
He smirked. “Don’t make it a habit. You’re supposed to be a pain in the neck.”
“Someone has to keep you entertained,” she shot back, a teasing spark in her eyes.
“Right, my daily theatrics,” he said, folding his arms. “Though I suspect you’re just tired.”
She sighed, not bothering to deny it. “You noticed.”
“Wouldn’t have stayed otherwise,” he replied softly, watching her with an unreadable expression.
She looked up, caught in his gaze, and tried to mask the sudden flutter in her chest with a smirk. “Well, don’t expect me to admit defeat.”
“Never do,” he said. “It’s part of your charm.”
There was a beat of quiet. She looked at him then, properly, as though seeing him differently now in this stillness.
He held her gaze. Said nothing.
Finally, she stood and began gathering her things. He helped.
As they reached the base of the girls’ dorm staircases, she hesitated.
“Good night,” she murmured. “And… thank you.”
Sebastian leaned against the banister, arms crossed. “Try not to dream about levitation theory," he said cheekily.
She rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. “I only dream about dragons and sarcasm, you know that.”
“I must feature often.”
Her smile lingered. “Good night, Sebastian.”
Her notes pressed against her chest as she drifted down the quiet corridor. Stone walls breathed back the lanternlight, long shadows bending where tapestries stirred. Footsteps echoed faintly from some distant staircase, but here—here it was still.
She flipped her notes open again.
Tiny arrows. Detailed annotations that weren’t hers. New scribbles in a handwriting she vividly recognised.
Her cheeks warmed.
And her thoughts circled back, stubborn as ever, to him: some careless turn of phrase, the flicker of a look he hadn’t meant, the weight of a smile that lingered long after it should have gone. Perhaps he had slipped into her dreams already, and she hadn’t noticed.
Ridiculous. Foolish. Entirely unlike her.
Yet her arms curled tighter round the parchment, as if ink and paper might steady her — might hold her nearer to him when she could not.
And maybe she had lost it.
But if quiet hours meant this—meant him—then maybe it was worth being a little lost.
A/N:
Finally had the time to finish this one. It all began with a conversation about love languages — and somehow that spiraled into this fic. (Headcanon: Sebastian’s love language is 100% acts-of-service.)
Lately I’ve been rewatching Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet (1968) — and digging through their old press interviews — and I can’t stop thinking about young Olivia Hussey. The cheek, the charm, the softness. That’s how I ended up faceclaiming my MC as her. lol
Anyway, that’s enough rambling. Hope you enjoy the quiet.
Let me know what you think!
—Nina
i read "when did you get so hot?" and i think about them two some time later, soo can i ask you for request? maybe they’re in a relationship. spencer being the responsible guy, do the dishes, assemble a chair from IKEA *wink wink*. anyway, love your work!!
tears run down (on my thighs) - s. reid
criminal minds masterlist || part 1 - when did you get hot?
Summary: spencer reid would not use sex to convince you to come back to the fbi... or would he?
Pairing: laterseasons!spencer reid x fem!reader
Word Count: 2.9k
Warnings: flirty reid, like it’s probaby incorrect characterisation but i honestly do not care, also gossip sesh with the girlies, penelope and jj having absolute time of their lives watching the reader suffer, of course talk about sex (obvi), manipulation, sex as a manipulation tactic
Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.
“I need to talk to you,” you announce, walking into the room uninvited—and frankly not caring about the lack of decorum on your part. Not that Penelope would mind, of course, she has done the same to you multiple times over the past however many years of your friendship, after all.
“I need to talk to you,” you announce, walking into the room uninvited—and frankly not caring about the lack of decorum on your part. Not that Penelope would mind, of course, she has done the same to you multiple times over the past however many years of your friendship, after all.
Penelope turns to you on her swivel chair, her eyebrows rising with surprise, “Hello to you... too?”
You blow out a breath, hands on your hips. “Sorry. Hi. Hello. Greetings. I’m great. How are you?”
Penelope narrows her eyes at you like she’s running a full psychological evaluation, and then, much to your dismay, a wicked smile widens on her face. “You’re flustered.”
“I am fine.”
“You’re lying.” That one is accusatory, not that she’s wrong, but also not something you expect.
You groan. “Penelope, I need to talk to you.”
“Oh, okay,” she chirps, rolling her chair closer like she’s about to conduct a deposition. “Is this about the thing? Or like… the thing?”
“Penelope,” you warn.
She gasps dramatically. “It’s the thing.”
Before you can respond, another voice cuts in from the doorway. “Who’s talking about a thing?” JJ walks in holding two files, looking far too perceptive for your liking.
“Oh perfect,” Penelope beams. “You’re just in time, we’re having a crisis.”
“We are not having a crisis,” you snap. “No crisis. Zero crisis. Negative crisis.”
JJ raises a brow. “Right. That’s why you look like you’re going to burst into flames if I say Spen-”
Hands still on your hips, your eyes narrow as you look at the two blonds in front of you. “Listen, do you guys want to hear how Spencer Reid is using sex to convince me to come back to the FBI, or not?”
There is a beat of utter silence, then:
Penelope slams both hands onto her desk. “YES.”
JJ nearly drops her files. “I—okay, hang on—what?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Don’t make me say it twice.” You’re not above begging, and thankfully, it seems you won’t have to.
Penelope leans forward, elbows on her desk, and chin in her hands. “Oh, you’re absolutely saying it twice.”
JJ sets her files aside and crosses her arms. “Start from the beginning. And don’t leave out details,” she mentions you to sit, “have a seat, girlfriend.”
The BAU has been understaffed for months. They’re drowning in cases. Emily asked you—gently, in that soft voice she uses when she knows she’s asking for a huge favor, though also respectfully, consider coming back. You’d said you’d think about it. That was three weeks ago. And after three weeks of sexual manipulation delivered in absolute precision of your boyfriend, you don’t know whether to curse or thank Emily Prentiss for the best sex of your life.
It had started so innocent, or that’s what you thought. After spending the first couple of months of your relationship in your own bubble, it was easy to forget the world outside of it—Quantico, cases, the constant weight of being needed. You’d left the BAU for a reason, whether it was because of burnout or grief. Or perhaps a quiet, desperate need to be something other than useful.
And Spencer knew that, of course, he did.
That’s why he never talked about why you left.
And ever so foolishly, you thought you had an understanding between the two of you: he keeps the horrors of the office at the office, and you keep your peaceful, civilian life at home. But Spencer Reid doesn’t play by the rules when he’s determined, and apparently, he’s determined to have you back in a tactical vest beside him—and he is not afraid to play dirty to get what he wants.
“He’s using psychological conditioning!” you hiss, pacing the small, tech-cluttered space. “It’s subtle. It’s genius. It’s… it’s exhausting.”
Penelope’s eyes are practically vibrating with excitement. “Explain. Give me the data points. I need a spreadsheet.”
“Two nights ago,” you begin, counting off on your fingers. “I was telling him about my new job—the one with the reasonable hours and the zero chance of being kidnapped by a serial killer. He didn't say a word. He just started kissing my neck, right behind my ear, and whispered that my brain was clearly suffering from a lack of ‘environmental stimulation’.”
JJ lets out a suppressed snort, trying to hide her reaction behind a well-timed cough. “He did not.”
“He did! And then he told me, while his hands were doing things that should be illegal in at least twelve states—that the adrenaline spike of a high-stakes case is the only thing that truly satisfies a mind like mine.” You stop, breathless and red-faced. “I almost agreed to sign my reinstatement papers right there on the headboard.”
“Oh sugarplum,” Penelope sighs, “that would’ve made our poor Unit Chief Prentiss a very happy lady.”
“Emily would probably give him a medal for recruitment,” you groan, finally collapsing into the ergonomic chair Penelope practically shoved under you. “It’s not just the talking, it’s the methodology. Last night, I told him I was looking at weekend getaways, and he started tracing the line of my jaw with his thumb. He looked me dead in the eye and said that while relaxation is a biological necessity, my specific cognitive profile thrives on the 'bonding through shared trauma' that only the team provides.”
JJ leans against her chair, an impressed smirk playing on her lips. “He’s rewarding the thought of the BAU with dopamine, kind of like Pavlov’s dogs.”
“He’s rewarding it with a lot more than dopamine, JJ!” you cry out, gesturing wildly at your own flushed face. “I went to his place to stand my ground. I had a whole speech prepared about work-life balance and the beauty of corporate consulting. I didn't even get past the foyer before he started talking about the 'unmatched neurological intimacy' of working a joint profile.”
“And?” Penelope prompts, leaning so far forward she’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. “What happened to the speech?”
“The speech is in the trash. Along with my resolve. And probably my dignity,” you mutter. “He backed me against the door and whispered— literally whispered into my skin that if I came back, we wouldn’t have to waste twenty minutes every evening catching each other up on our days because we’d have lived them together. Then he showed me exactly what he meant by 'efficiency'.”
There’s a beat of silence in the room. Penelope looks like she’s just witnessed a miracle, and JJ is shaking her head in disbelief. “I always knew he was a genius,” JJ says softly, “but I didn't realize he was a diabolical genius.”
“I honestly don’t know whether to be happy about all the ‘fulfillment’ I’ve experienced, or file a formal grievance with the Bureau for unethical recruitment tactics,” you finish, burying your face in your hands.
Penelope lets out a sound that is half-gasp, half-giggle. “I wouldn’t file that grievance, honey. Keep that gift horse, and its extremely high IQ, exactly where it is.”
“It’s not a gift!” you protest, though the way your heart flutters says otherwise. “It’s a trap! A beautiful, six-foot-one, sweater-vested trap. He’s making me associate my career with my… my physiological satisfaction.”
“I think you mean your very specific needs,” JJ clarifies with a wink, her eyes dancing with an unholy amusement. “I’m sorry we’re enjoying your suffering,” JJ finishes, clearly not sorry at all, “but this is objectively fascinating.”
“Fascinating?” You repeat weakly through your fingers. “He’s weaponizing emotional intimacy.”
Penelope tilts her head thoughtfully. “Counterpoint: he’s using his natural gifts in the service of love and workplace retention.”
“That is not better!” you groan.
JJ pushes off the desk and begins pacing slowly, slipping into the same thoughtful cadence she uses when they’re building a profile. “Okay, let’s look at the facts. Spencer is patient, highly strategic, and—”
“Dangerously persuasive,” you interrupt.
“—and deeply attached to you,” JJ finishes calmly. “So, from his perspective, getting you back at the BAU solves multiple problems at once.”
“Name one,” you challenge.
Penelope raises a finger. “One: he misses working with you.”
Another finger. “Two: the team misses you.”
JJ adds a third. “Three: you’re extremely good at the job.”
“And four,” Penelope says brightly, “he gets to see you more often and apparently continue his… conditioning experiments.”
You stare at her. “You’re both the worst.”
Before either of them can respond, a familiar voice drifts in from the hallway.
“Well, technically it isn’t conditioning.” And suddenly, all three of you freeze—because the voice doesn’t belong to either one of you.
Spencer stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a stack of case files tucked under one arm and a deceptively mild expression on his face. He looks every bit the boyish professor in his layered knits and slightly oversized messenger bag, but the way his eyes lock onto yours—dark, focused, and humming with a terrifyingly sharp intellect—suggests he’s heard much more of this conversation than you’d like.
"Technically," he repeats, stepping into the room with that rhythmic, long-legged stride that usually makes your heart skip for all the right reasons, "it’s a form of positive reinforcement designed to strengthen a specific behavioral response. Conditioning implies a lack of agency, whereas I’m simply highlighting the natural, symbiotic relationship between your professional fulfillment and your... personal well-being."
Penelope lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a squeak, her hands flying to her mouth. JJ just leans back against a server rack, crossing her arms with an "I told you so" smirk that you would love to slap off her face.
You point at him slowly, horror creeping up your spine, as you accuse him. “You were eavesdropping.”
Spencer blinks once, an innocent smile creeping on his face. “I was walking to Garcia’s office.”
“You stopped.” You narrow your eyes at him.
Spencer shrugs, “Yes.”
Penelope lowers her hands from her mouth. “For how long, exactly?”
Spencer thinks about it. Actually, thinks about it. “Long enough to hear the part about the headboard.”
You make a strangled noise. JJ presses her lips together again, her shoulders shaking. And you can practically hear Penelope’s internal scream. “Fantastic,” you mutter, dropping back into the chair. “Great. Wonderful. I’m thrilled.”
Spencer doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. Instead, he sets the stack of files down on Penelope’s desk with a deliberate thud, his fingers lingering on the manila folders as he turns his full attention back to you. The fluorescent lights of the technical suite catch the amber in his eyes, making them look warmer—and far more calculating than usual.
“The headboard comment was an interesting data point,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Though, if we’re being academically rigorous, I believe your exact words were ‘signing reinstatement papers’ on said headboard. Which, from a legal standpoint, would likely be contested due to the... distracting nature of the environment.”
“Spencer!” you hiss, looking at JJ and Penelope, who are both vibrating with the kind of glee usually reserved for closing a serial killer's case file.
“I'm just saying,” he continues, stepping closer until he’s effectively boxed you into the ergonomic chair. He leans down, bracing one hand on the armrest and the other on the desk behind you. The scent of old books and his specific, clean soap hits you like a physical weight. “If the environment is the variable that's working, why fight the science?”
JJ clears her throat, picking up her files and nudging a dazed Penelope. “Okay, I think we've reached the ‘too much information’ threshold for a Wednesday evening. Penelope, don't you have those encryption keys to rotate?”
“Rotating! Yes! Rotating so fast!” Penelope squeaks, grabbing her coffee mug and power-walking out of her own office behind JJ.
The door doesn't even fully click shut before Spencer’s gaze intensifies. He doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches out, his long fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is light, but it sends a familiar, treacherous spark straight to your core. “You told them I'm weaponizing intimacy,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear.
“Aren't you?” you challenge, though your voice lacks the bite it had five minutes ago. “You're trying to Pavlov me back into a bulletproof vest.”
“I’m reminding you of who you are,” he corrects softly. He shifts, his knee brushing against yours, and the proximity is suddenly overwhelming. “You’re a profiler. You see patterns where others see chaos. You crave the resolution of a complex puzzle. I'm just ensuring that your physiological rewards are aligned with your intellectual strengths.” He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Think about efficiency, like I said. No more debriefing over dinner. We can use that time for... other things.”
You try to find your voice, your ‘civilian life’ resolve crumbling like wet paper. “This is unethical. You’re a doctor. You should know better.”
“Actually,” he whispers, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours, “as a doctor, I’m highly concerned with your lack of adrenaline-induced endorphins. It’s a health intervention.” You think he’s going to give in this time, and actually kiss you. But instead, he continues talking, his lips so close yet so far away, “And I’m not that kind of a doctor, darling.”
The problem with Spencer Reid, one of many, really—is that he can say something deeply inappropriate in the same flat, academic tone he uses when discussing statistical anomalies. It makes arguing with him nearly impossible; half your brain is busy being offended, while the other half is trying to process whether you’re being seduced or peer-reviewed.
Right now, it’s a deeply unfair combination of both.
“You are unbelievable,” you manage, leaning back just enough to put a few inches of desperately needed oxygen between your faces.
Spencer doesn't move. He just studies you with a quiet, clinical curiosity, like he’s observing the heat signature of a particularly volatile chemical reaction. “You came to Quantico,” he points out mildly.
“That’s not—” You exhale a deep breath, frustrated, “That’s not the point.”
“You came to Garcia’s office,” he continues, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, unstoppable cadence of a lecture. “Which is located in the BAU wing. This suggests that, subconsciously, you still associate this environment—and by extension, the people in it—with safety and familiarity.”
You know, deep down, that what’s he’s telling is true, of course. Because when has Spencer Reid ever been wrong? But if he thinks you’re going to give him the satisfaction of being right, he’s wrong. So, in a bored voice, you contend, “I came here specifically to complain about you, Spencer.”
“Still counts as exposure therapy.”
Your jaw drops. You search his eyes for a flicker of a joke, but they’re wide and earnest. “Did you just turn my frustration into a clinical case study?”
He tilts his head, a stray lock of hair falling over his brow. “Statistically? It was the most logical way to frame the interaction.”
“Ideally,” you start, “I’d like my boyfriend to stop profiling me.” He tries to argue, but you stop him with a mere raise of your eyebrows. “you know exactly which buttons to push to get the results you want. That’s profiling, Spencer. You’re profiling me.”
He doesn't deny it. Instead, he tilts his head, his nose grazing yours in a torturously slow movement. “I’m not profiling you," he murmurs, his voice vibrating with a low, steady confidence. “I’m appreciating you. There’s a significant difference in the neurobiological intent.”
He lets his hand slide from the back of your chair to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The pressure is just enough to keep you grounded, just enough to make you forget why you ever liked the idea of a quiet office job.
“If I were profiling you," he continues, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as he speaks, “I’d mention that your pupils are currently dilated, your heart rate is likely exceeding 110 beats per minute, and you’ve stopped mentioning the 'beauty of corporate consulting' entirely.”
“I hate you,” you whisper, though you’re already leaning into him, your hands finding their place on the soft wool of his sweater. You also find you hate the fact that he can reduce you to this— a breathless, flustered, and entirely incapable of remembering why you were supposed to be angry in the first place.
“The thin line between love and hate is often just a misinterpretation of high-arousal stimuli,” Spencer retorts, finally closing the gap.
The kiss isn't the soft, gentle thing he usually offers in public. It’s possessive and intelligent, a physical manifestation of his refusal to let you settle for a life that doesn't challenge you, and completely unlike the Spencer Reid you know. It tastes like coffee and victory. When he pulls back, just an inch, his eyes are dark with a playful sort of triumph.
“Emily's office is down the corridor, up the stairs,” he reminds you, his thumb smoothing over your lower lip. “She’s leaving for a meeting in ten minutes. If you sign the paperwork now, I’ll take you to that Italian place with the dimly lit booths. We can discuss your... orientation.”
He steps back, breaking the physical contact and leaving you feeling suddenly, frustratingly cold. He picks up his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a casual grace that makes you want to scream.
“I’ll be at my desk,” he says, giving you one last, lingering look. “Timing is everything in a case, after all.”
Summary: hotch meets a mysterious woman on a solo night out, and realizes that they both have daddy issues.
Pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader
Word Count: 1.2k
Warnings: mentions of daddy issues, age gap, kinda suggestive, allusions to sex and one night stands
Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.
Hotch couldn’t tell you the last time he’d been in a bar all by himself—he just couldn’t. When Haley was still alive, the operative word being alive, they would have the occasional and very rare date night to go to a bar together, sure. And he did try to participate in the team outings as much as possible as a single father. But the last time he was in a bar, alone? Now that seemed like a lifetime away.
But some things never change, he supposes. The whiskey still burns down his throat after each sip, something so comforting in a way he couldn’t quite explain. There’s still some football match playing on a TV somewhere in the bar—as he could hear the announcer and the occasional outburst of cheers or groans from the booths behind him. The lighting is still dim, low enough to make people feel like their mistakes might not follow them home. And the music—an old Springsteen song bleeding faintly from the speakers—still manages to make everything feel just a little more cinematic than it really is.
He likes that. The illusion of meaning.
Aaron Hotchner isn't the kind of man who does things spontaneously. Everything in his life—every choice, every movement—is measured. Precise. But tonight, he finds himself wanting not to think. He doesn't want to calculate or lead or fix. He just wants to be.
That’s when he notices you.
You’re seated two stools down, legs crossed, fingers lazily circling the rim of your glass. You look like you belong there—like the bar is an old friend, not a crutch. There’s something magnetic about you: the way your lipstick’s slightly smudged, the way you watch the world with a kind of detached curiosity, like you’ve already heard every story and none of them have surprised you in a very long time.
You feel his eyes on you before you see him. “Careful,” you say, still looking straight ahead. “Staring too long might make me think you’re interested.”
Hotch smiles behind his glass. “Would that be a problem?”
You finally turn to look at him. He’s handsome—sharp suit, tense shoulders, tired eyes that look like they’ve seen too much. You can tell immediately that he didn’t come here looking for trouble. Which makes you want to be it more than anything. “Depends,” you say, cocking your head slightly. “Are you the type to make polite conversation, or the type to make confessions?”
He considers your question like it’s a riddle. Like you’re a case file. Then he adds, “Depends on which you’d prefer.”
You smirk. “Confessions, then. Polite conversation is for people who plan on remembering this in the morning.”
His brows lift—just barely. Enough to give him away. “So you’re not planning on remembering?”
“Oh, I’ll remember,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “But I’m not expecting anything more than the night.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes. Interest? Intrigue? Maybe even relief. He shifts in his seat slightly, closer. “Alright then,” he murmurs. “A confession.” You raise a brow, nodding for him to go on. “I haven’t done this in a long time,” he says. “I don’t even know why I came here.”
You lean in, whispering conspiratorially loud enough for him to hear. “That wasn’t much of a confession.”
He glances at your lips, then your eyes. “Fine,” he says. “I came here because I didn’t want to go home. And because sometimes, drinking alone in a crowded room feels less lonely than being in your own house.”
That shuts you up for a second. “Okay. Now that’s a confession.” You nod slowly. Then, think about his answer for a bit, and giggle while adding, “A bit poetic too, are you a poet?”
“No, definitely not.” He laughs softly. You tip your glass in a silent toast, and he mirrors the gesture. “You?” he asks. “Your turn.”
You shrug, swirling what’s left of your drink. “I have a habit of liking older men. Usually ones with tragic backstories and sharp jawlines.”
He chuckles—quiet, low in his chest. “That sounds specific.”
“Huh,” you hum, taking a generous sip from your drink, “is it?” You roll your eyes subtly to the unamused look he attempts to give you.
His mouth twitches again, like he’s fighting back a smile. “Do you say that to all the older men in bars?”
You feign offense, hand over your heart. “Only the ones who look like they haven’t smiled in a decade.”
He exhales a curt laugh, and for the first time tonight, it reaches his eyes. “And what does that say about me?”
You lean in slightly, resting your elbow on the bar. “It says you’re overdue.” There's a silence for a brief moment, and your eyes curiously watch over him as he takes a few steps closer to you and place himself onto a nearby stool. “Your turn again,” you murmur as you push your glass towards the bartender for a refill, not breaking eye contact.
Hotch considers you carefully, like he’s weighing whether it’s worth crossing a line. Then, with a voice quieter than before, he says, “I think... if I were twenty years younger, I’d ask for your number.”
You smile. “You think age is the problem here?”
He doesn't answer right away. Just watches you, eyes dark with something unspoken. “I think you’re dangerous.”
That makes you grin—genuine, mischievous. “Funny. I was going to say the same about you.” Then you gesture to his suit, “You’re either an accountant or a spy, and I don’t peg you for someone who has much interest in numbers.”
He watches you for a beat, something sharper slipping into his gaze. His voice drops lower—barely a murmur between you. “How’s your relationship with your father?”
You blink, startled by the shift. “Not particularly great, why?”
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “We’re going to get along great.”
You nearly choke on your drink, laughter bubbling out of you. “Jesus,” you whisper, setting the glass down as you catch his eye. “That was a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
He shrugs, unbothered, eyes still pinned to yours. “You said confessions, remember?”
You lean closer, fingers ghosting over the rim of your glass again—only now you’re not fidgeting. You’re daring. “Alright then, confession number two: I’ve never wanted to kiss a man as badly as I do right now.”
Hotch doesn’t move for a second. Then he shifts on his stool, knees brushing yours beneath the bar. “That so?”
“Mmhm.” You tilt your head. “But you strike me as someone who doesn’t do casual.”
“Normally, I don’t. But tonight, I think I’ll make an exception.” There’s a beat, a shared breath, and then he’s reaching out, fingers brushing the underside of your jaw, guiding you to him like he’s done it a thousand times before.
The kiss is slow, precise, controlled at first. But it doesn’t stay that way. Your hand fists in the front of his suit jacket, dragging him closer until it’s mouths and heat and the steady thrum of restraint slipping between your teeth. When you part, breathless, you stare at him like you’re not sure whether to laugh or drag him into the nearest dark corner.
“You wanna get out of here?” he asks, voice low.
You glance at the untouched rest of your drink, then back at him. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Summary: You kissed him until he looked like a walking valentine.
He let you. Now Wilson’s covered in lipstick marks, half-laughing in the bathroom mirror—and you’re trying very hard to pretend you won’t show House the photo you just took. (You definitely will.)
Tags: Domestic Fluff, Soft Boyfriend!Wilson, Established Relationship, Kissing, Lipsticks, Gregory House Is a Menace (Mentioned), Lighthearted
Page divider by FireflyGraphics
The bathroom mirror reflects back something that makes you bite your lip to keep from laughing—Wilson, standing there with lipstick kiss marks scattered across his face. Deep red lipstick marks his cheeks, his forehead, and the bridge of his nose. They trail down his jaw and disappear beneath the collar of his shirt, evidence of your attack just moments ago.
"Don't," Wilson says, but he's smiling despite himself, that soft smile he reserves just for you. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he catches your expression in the mirror.
"Don't what?" you ask innocently, even as you're already reaching for your phone.
"Don't even think about it."
"Too late. I'm thinking about it." You hold up your phone, framing him in the camera. "Come on, just one picture. Please?"
Wilson turns to face you fully, and the sight is even better from this angle. There's a particularly perfect kiss mark right on his cheekbone, and another on his chin. His hair is slightly mussed from your fingers, and his shirt collar is askew.
"Why do you need a picture?" he asks, but his resistance is already weakening. You can tell by the way he's not actually moving away.
"Because you look adorable," you say honestly. "And I want it as my homescreen. I want to look at this every time I check my phone."
A flush creeps up Wilson's neck, adding to the artwork you've created. "That's exactly why this is a terrible idea."
"One picture. Just for me." You step closer, tilting your head. "Please? I promise I'll treasure it forever."
Wilson sighs, but it's the sigh of someone who's already lost the argument and knows it. "Fine. One picture. But—" he points at you seriously, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the lipstick kiss on his finger from where he'd touched his own face earlier, "—you absolutely cannot show House."
"Why would I show House?"
"Because you two show each other everything just to torture me," Wilson says, but there's no real heat in it. "And if House sees this, he'll never stop. Never. I'll be hearing about it until I'm ninety."
You can't help but grin because he's absolutely right. House would have a field day with this. You can already imagine the commentary, the jokes, the way he'd bring it up at the most inopportune moments. "I won't show House," you promise.
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying!"
Wilson gives you a look—that particular look that says he knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. "You're going to show him within twenty-four hours."
"I am not—okay, I might accidentally leave my phone where he can see it."
"That's the same thing!"
"It's completely different. That's him snooping, not me showing."
Wilson shakes his head, but he's laughing now, and you take the opportunity to snap a photo. The click of the camera shutter captures him mid-laugh, lipstick marks and all, looking happy and loved and absolutely perfect.
You look down at the photo and your heart does a little flip. "Oh, this is definitely going as my homescreen."
"Let me see," Wilson says, moving to look over your shoulder. You tilt the phone so he can see, and he groans. "I look ridiculous."
"You look like someone loves you very much," you correct, already setting the photo as your wallpaper. "There. Done."
Wilson wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both look at your phone screen. "You're impossible," he murmurs against your ear.
"You love it."
"I do," he admits quietly. Then, after a pause: "Just... really don't show House. He'll make my life miserable."
"Your secret is safe with me," you say, turning in his arms to kiss him properly this time—though it just adds another lipstick mark to his collection.
Your phone buzzes with a text. You both ignore it, but you already know it's probably House, asking where Wilson is, or making some sarcastic comment about something completely unrelated.
Wilson pulls back slightly. "That's House, isn't it?"
"Probably."
"And you're going to show him the picture."
"I'm not going to show him the picture!"
Wilson just looks at you.
"...I'm going to try very hard not to show him the picture."
"That's what I thought." But he's smiling again, pressing a kiss to your forehead that probably leaves a faint lipstick mark there too. "Come on, I should probably wash this off before we go anywhere."
"Or," you suggest, "you could leave it. Make a statement."
"The statement being 'I have completely lost control of my life'?"
"The statement being 'I'm loved.'"
Wilson's expression softens, and he cups your face gently. "I am loved," he agrees. "Even if it means House is going to mock me mercilessly when he inevitably sees that photo."
"If he sees it."
"When."
You don't argue, because you both know he's probably right. But for now, you just pull him close again, adding a few more lipstick marks for good measure. After all, if House is going to tease him anyway, you might as well make it worth it.
Omg a movie marathon with tasm!Peter being in criminal minds?? I think his friendship with Spencer would be saur cute, especially if he was with bau!reader!!! 😭😭🖤
Thanks for requesting my love! This is probably all highly inaccurate, I don’t know how to build bombs and I was scared to do too much research and get on a watchlist </3
bau tasm!Peter x bau!reader ♡ 665 words
“But he couldn’t have done it with urea nitrate.” Spencer’s brow is furrowed, his eyes stuck on some point in space. “It’s highly regulated, he’d need to make it himself and nothing we profiled indicated he had those kinds of resources.”
“Maybe he knows someone who does?” While Spencer is still in his contemplation, Peter’s bouncing all over the place. He keeps getting up and sitting back down, spinning his chair in circles. He’s been tapping an uncapped pen against his jaw for the last five minutes; Spencer hasn’t noticed, and you feel like it’s probably your job as his girlfriend to tell him but neither you nor anyone else on your team wants to interrupt his thinking. “If he knew someone who worked in a lab or maybe at the university, he could have gotten it from them.”
“But would someone really make an explosive chemical like that without asking any questions?” JJ wonders. “They had to have wondered what he was using it for.”
Peter’s pen stops moving. He sits up in his chair. “Maybe he didn’t ask.”
Everyone else’s brows furrow, but Spencer’s unfurrows. He looks at Peter. “We didn’t profile he had a partner, but it could be—”
“A mentor!” Peter laughs, ecstatic. “That’s the helper!”
“Only he doesn’t know he’s helping,” Spencer agrees, getting out his phone. “When the fire department got there—”
“They poured water on the flames, decomposing it into—”
“Urea and nitric acid.” Spencer puts his phone to his ear. “Garcia, we need a list of all non-students or faculty who had access to the labs at the university. Start with family of professors, administrative staff…”
“Hey.” You slide onto Peter’s desk, wetting your thumb when he turns to you and brushing it over his cheek. Blue ink smears across his jawline. “I’m getting the impression that you guys figured it out, but, uh, do you want to tell us what you figured?”
Peter’s grin is half sheepish. He wraps a hand around the back of your knee, squeezing excitedly down your calf. “The reason we only found that fertilizer compound on the site of the explosion was because the original compound was this homegrown explosive, and when water hits it it separates into its original parts.” He starts talking faster as he explains, amping himself up again. “The only people who would have access to the chemicals needed to activate it are professors in the university labs, so since we profiled he doesn’t have a background in education…”
“He’s probably getting access to the lab through the professor,” you finish. Your boyfriend grins proudly, taking your hand and kissing the inside of your wrist. Behind him, Rossi makes a face, and you retract your hand shyly, using it to smooth down the cowlick at the crown of Peter’s head. “You think the professor taught him how to combine them, too?”
“They could’ve,” he says. “Even if someone doesn’t have a science background, professors are always excited to talk about their field. The unsub only would have had to ask a couple of questions to get them to show him.”
You hum, nodding. “You’re a genius,” you tell him.
Peter grins, jutting his chin towards Spencer. “That’s him. I’m just the wall he gets to bounce ideas off of.”
“Shush,” you chide, forgoing the team’s judgment for a moment to press a kiss into his hair. He smells like his shampoo, like freshness and home, and he squeezes the back of your knee in response. “You’re both freakishly smart.”
“Okay.” Spencer shuts his phone off. “Garcia’s narrowed it down to three, we need to bring them in for questioning.”
“Here’s your moment,” Peter says, nudging your leg with his. “Ready to kick down some doors, sweetheart?”
You laugh. “Think Morgan will let me have a turn?”
“He will.” He stands, kicking his chair under his desk and helping you down. “I told him I’d build upgrades into his phone over the weekend. He owes me a favor.”
house md x criminal minds muahahahaha (reduce your expectations to zero)
pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader
words: 2.7k
warnings: FLUFFIEST FLUFF IN ALL LAND, language, canon doesn't even exist at this point rip, established relationship, spencer and reader being sooooooo in love, House is in it for like 2 minutes T_T, new jersey slander, vegas slander, florida slander (only for funsies, i have never been anywhere except vegas teehee), minor Chase slander (this is solely for the plot i love my problematic daughter)
a/n: listen i TRIED but house has like 2 minutes of screen time I'm SORRY I'M SORRY OKAY? I only now got back after the hiatus and I didn't know how to end it and well yada yada yada this cesspool of disappointment happened. also apparently I cannot write a fic of anything without making a brooklyn 99 reference so here you fucking go <3
Getting shot did not feel as badass as expected. It hurt like a bitch. Damn every single movie that made it look cool. And damn every single paramedic who said you were lucky it didn't hit any vital organs. My brother in Christ, I am the most vital organ. It hit ME. I am in inexplicable pain. Fuck you, you thought.
A case in Princeton? What could go wrong? Well, several things, apparently. A, you had been shot, as we already know. B, you were probably going to run into Chase, which was the last thing you needed right now. C, much worse, by the end of your little adventure, your boyfriend was going to be well acquainted with Gregory House, for all the wrong reasons.
You didn't exactly have a say in which ER they were rushing you to, but even in the barely conscious haze, you tried to mutter "Mercy... Mehr...," before you passed out, which the paramedics unfortunately interpreted as you begging for mercy. What you were actually trying to say was that you wanted to be taken to Mercy General Hospital, and by no means, Princeton Plainsboro. You were taken to Princeton Plainsboro.
You had no idea how much time had passed. All that you were aware of at the moment was the static white noise that you'd been hearing for hours on end slowly dissolving into proper sounds that your brain could interpret. Shrill beeping of medical equipment, the faint hum of the AC, muffled voices and rushed feet, presumably outside whatever room you were in, pages being turned. Pages being turned? Of course. A sound you were well accustomed to. Spencer. You were instantly at ease.
You opened your eyes as slowly as you could, so as to not overwhelm your eyes with all the light after being unconscious for so long. It didn't work. It was still too bright. You couldn't see shit for a few seconds. After taking a couple of seconds to adjust, you carefully looked around the room.
It was a typical room for a hospital, you thought. Simple, minimalist, boring, mildly drab, if we were being honest. But something about the interiors seemed... off. Familiar. The walls. This sickly shade of green (which was a poor design choice, by the way— no sick person would get better in this sorry excuse of a room). You knew this place. Oh, shit.
You tried to call out for Spencer, let him know you're up, but then decided you didn't want to do it like this. You wanted to wake up all nonchalantly, like it didn't matter that you were shot by a bullet; you were still extremely cool and awesome. You thought to ask "Enjoying your book?" so you'd seem mysterious and also convey that even in this state, you were observant enough to know what was going on around you.
While in the process of deciding how to soft-launch your newly found consciousness, your throat, your very own throat, betrayed you. The only sound that left your throat, despite having an entire monologue ready in your head, was a pained cough. But it got his attention, so that's something? He quickly shut his book and sprinted from across the room to be at your side, his entire focus on you.
"Hey. You're awake."
"You're, like, so pretty right now."
"Really? Oh, uh— well, thank— thank you. You, uh, you look really pretty too," he managed to muster up, clearly caught off guard by your declaration, despite the fact that you were his girlfriend of well over months at that point.
"Sorry. Painkillers," you explained, even though it was a completely conscious decision to make him blush like that. "You okay?"
He exhaled a laugh at your question. "You ate a bullet, and you're worried about me right now?"
"Yeah, I'm considerate like that. You still didn't answer my question."
"Yeah, I'm okay," he replied, his eyes soft as he scanned you. You never stopped catching him off guard, be it with your concern, your intellect, your care, your love, or even just your mere presence, captivated him. He loved being loved by you. "You feeling okay? Doctors said you'll be fine, mostly, save for some internal bleeding."
"It's okay. That's where the blood's supposed to be."
Spencer gave you a deadpan look, clearly not amused.
"Actually, though, my mouth is feeling a bit tingly?"
"Oh. Well, that's not normal. You shouldn't be feeling anything right now, also you got shot in the abdomen, so it really—"
"Yeah, yeah, I was hoping you could just kiss it better for me? You know, cause technically you're a doctor and everything?" He visibly relaxed after he understood what you were actually doing.
"Gotta say. You make a compelling argument. That is the prescribed treatment, yes," he played along, as he leaned in to close the distance between you.
Every time you kissed him, it felt like the first. This time was no exception. Modern medicine be damned, you could survive just off his kisses. He kissed you like a man starved, and you, well, you were a giver. The smile on your faces as you broke apart couldn't be erased even if you tried. Just pure joy and bliss.
"Next time, though, you can just, you know, ask me to kiss you. Radical concept, I know. But I'm your boyfriend. We sorta tend to do that. It's all part of the package."
"Yeah, it's these crazy painkillers, man. I swear. It's like I'm horny for you, but, like, emotionally."
"And they say romance is dead."
You exhaled a laugh, straining slightly as it reverberated through your wound. It wasn't an exaggeration that your laugh was music to his ears. Any time you laughed, it was instinct for him to laugh along with you. With love like this? Romance could never die.
"Seriously, though, you're okay?"
"Never better, Spence," you promised, noting that his concern didn't reduce one bit. "Seriously. I'm, like, zooted out of my mind right now. I can't feel a thing. I'm fine. I swear."
He deflated a little, knowing that you weren't in as much pain as he thought. Still, he had to be sure you were okay.
"I'll go tell your doctor you're up. Just in case."
"Honey, I'm fi—"
"We're just making sure."
You sighed, knowing there was no winning this. Besides, it's probably a good thing. The sooner your doctor was convinced you were okay, the sooner you can get the fuck out of this place.
"Hey, Spence?"
"Hmm?" he questioned, stopping halfway out the door, already on his way to call your doctor.
"Who's my attending?"
"Oh, Dr House."
The few minutes you were alone in that room were pure agony. This did not make sense. Even Remotely. House was your attending? Gregory House, who famously does not see patients, doesn't even do clinic duty or help at the ER when the hospital is short-staffed, was your attending physician. Either something truly drastic had happened since you left, you were actually in a coma and hallucinating, or he was fucking with you. Which does sound like a very House thing to do.
You watched as House entered first, cane tapping against the tile, followed by Spencer, whose face screamed I am doing my best to be polite, but I have so many questions. House, to your horror, was wearing his white coat. Clean-shaven. Professional. Smiling. There was a clipboard in his hand. Coma theory wasn't looking all too far-fetched right now. You were definitely hallucinating. This was The Bad Place.
“There she is,” House said, flipping through a chart that probably wasn’t even yours. “The FBI’s own bullet sponge. Looking good, Agent.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being nice?”
“I’m being professional,” he corrected. “You know, the thing you insisted I didn’t know how to be.”
Spencer raised a brow at you.
“I…” you gestured weakly, “may have painted a picture.”
“Don’t worry,” House said smoothly, still not looking up from the chart. “I’m sure you told Beautiful Mind over here that I’m a misanthropic, narcissistic, cane-wielding reprobate who shouldn’t be allowed near scalpels or people. Which is why I’ve decided to dedicate the rest of this week to being the poster boy for medical decency.”
Your eyes narrowed further. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Absolutely,” he said brightly, still not breaking character. “I took one look at him and thought, yeah, let’s make her eat her words,” he taunted, the last part of the sentence in faux glee.
Spencer, clearly still confused, looked between you two. “I’m sorry— what’s happening right now?”
“Don't worry about it, honey,” you said, your voice too high-pitched to be reassuring. This day couldn't end faster.
"I can't exactly help it, I'm your—"
“Boyfriend,” House interrupted. “I picked that up when she asked you to kiss her gunshot wound better," he explained, stressing on gunshot wound.
"Okay, how the hell do you kn—" You were interrupted before you could finish, once again by House.
"Just FYI, that’s not in the AMA’s list of recommended interventions.”
Spencer’s ears pinked, but he stood his ground. “Actually, she’s not wrong. Oxytocin release from affectionate touch can lower cortisol levels and reduce perceived pain.”
House blinked once. “So it talks back. And it knows things.”
"House," you warned.
“He's right,” House replied, now facing Spencer. “Unless her libido is compensating for cranial trauma. In which case, you should maybe keep the tongue down until we run an MRI.”
Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. You knew that sound all too well. That was the sound of Spencer Reid’s neural pathways short-circuiting.
"House, I swear to God—"
“No, no, this is good!” he beamed at Spencer, ignoring you completely. “You’re weird. I like that. And considering your girlfriend once got back together with Chase for exactly 3 days because he made her a mixtape, you're something of an upgrade.”
Was that... was House giving you his blessing? Is that what this was? Or were you reading too much into it? Either way, you couldn't get out of there any damn sooner.
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh, God. Sedate me. I beg you.”
"Relax. The bullet didn't hit anything. You'll be up and gun-slinging in no time." He snapped the chart shut. “Reid. Want to come talk about your girlfriend’s insides with me in the hallway?”
Spencer looked at you for permission, ever the gentleman. Also, he looked sceptical. And mildly afraid.
“Go. Please. Maybe he’ll behave if you’re watching.”
“I won’t,” House said cheerfully. “But we’ll both pretend I will, and that’s basically the same thing.”
As they left, you heard House murmur, “So. You ever try Vicodin recreationally?”
"Dilaudid, actually."
You slowly reached for the morphine dispenser and set it on the highest possible level.
~
The morphine wore off soon. Too soon, honestly. You were up, staring into bright white lights and sad green walls in no time. Spencer, thankfully, was by your bed. Alone. House-less. That was vaguely terrifying, actually. He looked confused. Confuddled. Not exactly dumbfounded or scared, but very concerned. Typical House interaction aftershock.
"Honey? You okay?"
"Either everything he said was definitely sarcastic, or we need to deliver a profile as soon as we possibly can."
You managed to muster an amused laugh, which quickly died down after you sensed the genuine horror in his face.
"Oh, you're seri— honey, he was kidding. He likes to mess with people, that's all. He wasn't being serious, I promise." Well, for the most part. But he didn't have to know that. He needed reassurance right now. He needed to know he wasn't crazy. Again, typical House interaction aftershocks.
"Okay, that helps a bit. A tiny bit. Although I definitely have questions."
"How about I answer them while I cuddle my boyfriend in this huge-ass bed?"
"It's like you're Romeo," he teased, as he climbed into said huge-ass bed.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the interrogation began.
"Exactly how are you acquainted with Greg?"
"Oh, he's Greg now?"
"Long story. Again, how do you know him?"
"Well, you know how I joined the team as a forensic pathologist? Before that, I had a brief stint as a medical fellow in his differential diagnosis team at this here hospital," you admitted, like just the memory had mildly inconvenienced you.
"Somehow, I'm more disturbed that you had to live in New Jersey."
"Hey. Just because I'm too tired to argue doesn't mean I'll tolerate New Jersey slander."
"The state animal of New Jersey is the orange construction cone."
"Please, like Vegas is any better. What happens in Vegas stays the fuck there 'cause no one else wants it."
"Alright, compromise. Florida sucks," he suggested a truce. His eyes were on you, already waiting to lock it in.
"Florida sucks," you concurred with a satisfied smile, closing the deal and the distance between you. He broke away after god knows how long, albeit begrudgingly. Damn oxygen.
"Alright. Next question."
"Shoot. I'm so ready right now."
"So... Chase." He begins. Well, you weren't prepared for that.
"Alright, maybe not that ready."
"No, no, I'm just curious. Was it, like, a really good mixtape, or—"
You hit him with the pillow you had at your side for support, just as he braced for impact and failed. The bastard laughed at your agony and pulled you in closer, into a harder embrace.
"I'm kidding. I'm just messing with you. If you don't want to talk about it, we don—"
"No, no. I do. It's not a touchy topic or anything. He was just... well, a lousy boyfriend."
"Hmm. Lousy how?"
"He did try. I'll give him credit. But whenever he fucked up, it was big, you know? And having House meddling the entire time didn't help either. It's just, it never felt right. Like it was so close to being what I wanted, but no matter how much we tried, it could never be... that."
"What about me? Am I what you want?" he inquired, his tone playful, yet you sensed the hesitation that lingered.
"Honey, you are what I need."
"I think we need to renegotiate on the painkillers."
He drew another laugh from you and joined you in your glee as he admired you in silence. Just as he was thinking about how much he loved you, he was met with a revelation.
"You know, in a weird, twisted way, we wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for House."
Your face scrunched into pure disgust, and much to your chagrin, he was right.
"Ugh, honey, I need you to promise never to tell him that."
"Agreed. Also, follow up on the last question."
"Come at me, lover."
"Oh wow, okay. Moving on. So, if I were to over majorly screw up, what songs would you prefer on the mixt—"
You hit him with the pillow once again.
"Truce, truce," he proposed for the second time that day, still laughing.
"You are so lucky you're cute."
"I am aware, yes," he replied, his voice all playful.
"Are you? 'cause you're blushing real hard right now."
"I think I'm allowed to be flustered by my girlfriend's shameless flirting."
You fake an exaggerated gasp. "Who you callin' shameless? You know, I could take you in a fight, Reid."
"Oh, we're on last names now?"
"Keep deflecting, I'll show you what a proper uppercut looks like."
"I'd rather you don't rip your stitches, actually. You're still very much healing."
"I'm letting you go. For now," you warned, pointing a finger at him threateningly. Menacingly.
"I am shivering in fear. On the inside. I swear." He kissed your temple and got off the bed rather unceremoniously. It made you laugh, so he'd take it.
"Rest, okay? Get some sleep."
"I'll be dreaming of you."
"I take it back. I love your painkillers."
He heard you laugh yet again, his favourite sound in the entire world. Part of him wanted to record it and play it on loop. Other parts of him wanted that sound, that music, etched on the insides of his ear.
"Oh, and before you go to sleep, I do have one last question."
"Ask away, darling."
"I met Greg's oncologist friend earlier?" he posed it like a question, like he wasn't really sure if he was right.
"Wilson?"
"Yeah, him. It's just, do they— do they know gay marriage is legal now?"
in which you kiss your best friend when the clock hits midnight, you feel bad, but he’s all too forgiving.
pairing: spencer reid x reader
genre: fluff
tags: alcohol consumption (who's shocked). kissing. best friend!spencer reid. avoidant reader. teensie bit of angst but it is resolved and i've even kissed you on the forehead by the end.
word count: 2.8k
a/n: take a shot every time i post a fic with parties and alcohol. happy belated new years!!! i wish i had spencer reid to kiss at midnight </3
Past midnight on New Year's is uncharted territory. Fireworks have stopped lighting up the sky, the excitement of waiting for the clock to hit 12 and the date to flip over into the new year fades, and everybody starts heading home, or out.
Unless, of course, you're you, and you've spent the entire night already fizzling with anxiety, your stomach weighted with a bed of uncertainty.
You've made your rounds to the groups of people you've otherwise not spoken to since they arrived, directed people you've never even met before to your bathroom, and wished you were just a little bit more sober so you could have the motor skills required to clean up the tray of sandwiches that now sits scattered on your kitchen floor.
Now, you're sitting on your couch, a plastic cup of vodka and cranberry juice between your hands, eyes fixated on the clock displayed on your TV with a time of 00:12, and the date of January 1st.
"Pretty sure the party is outside," you look up from the screen to find Spencer standing in the doorway of your living room. Your lips twitch into an awkward smile, your shoulders shrugging.
There's people outside your flat actually mingling with one another, all drunk enough to break through that 'I don't know anybody here' mentality, burnt out sparklers decorating the tables. They look like they're having fun, which was you, all up until eight minutes ago. When you fled from the group of people following a kiss that wasn't supposed to happen.
It had been a joke between you and your friends all night. Being told Spencer looks like he could use some action, and kissing him at midnight on New Year's Eve was the perfect excuse for it. You didn't account for the self deprecating nausea that would follow doing such a thing.
"I needed some air," you mutter to him as he finds a seat next to you on the couch.
"Inside the house?"
"My backyard smells like weed."
He nods his head, and your leg crosses over the other as a deep sigh leaves your lips.
"Sorry for kissing you," you mumble.
It's a weird feeling to sober up within the span of two minutes. Something shocking your system so much you can suddenly see straight again, and your legs don't stumble over one another as you flee the scene of a crime. You thought everyone was joking when they said it sometimes happens like that, but now you're living it, and truthfully, you hate it. The sheer amount of alcohol you spent all night gradually building in your body is hitting you all over again like a truck now that the shock has worn off, and it's messy.
"I saw it coming," he flashes you a small smile. You hate that too.
"Of course you did," you groan.
"I heard you and your friends talking about it in the bathroom earlier, I mean," he clarifies. "I didn't know if you'd actually do it, but then I saw how drunk you were and I know how you are when you're drunk."
"Irresponsible."
"Impulsive," he corrects you. "Which is okay. Everyone is on some level when they're intoxicated. You could've done something worse."
"I don't think there is anything worse."
"Than kissing me?"
Your stomach sinks at the smallness of his voice. That isn't what you meant. At all.
"It's okay," he then says, sitting up a little straighter. "Do you want some water?"
You hesitate. "Um, yeah... I probably... probably should. Drink some."
"I'll be right back."
You sit there silently, staring at the people outside through the living room window, instead of the man you can see clearly in your kitchen, who is navigating it expertly, because he's been here so many times you've lost count. Which makes this all so much worse.
You thank him when he's back and handing you the water, swapping it with the drink in your hand that he puts down on the coffee table.
With a sigh, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. You can't tell if he's avoiding treating you cautiously because he doesn't think much of the kiss, or because he thinks too much of it.
"Did I fuck everything up?" you ask him, voice wobbly.
He must contemplate your question, because he takes awhile to respond. When he does, it's gentle, and his fingers trickle along your back in comfort. "No, I don't think so."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
He guides the cup of water to your lips in an attempt to force you to drink more of it, and you try hard not to think about his hands covering your own. And fail. Miserably.
For the next sentence that leaves your lips is entirely motivated by how his skin feels against yours.
"I've had a crush on you for a year."
He really takes his time with answering you this time. No amount of reassurance or sympathy can take back what you've just announced, nor make it any better. You'd regret the words that dance in the air surrounding the two of you if you had any semblance of control over your body and its functions.
"I know," he whispers. "You're not very subtle."
Of course you're not.
"Great," you pull away from him, standing up on shaky legs, alcohol rushing to your head. "Now that that's all cleared up, I'm... I'm going to go to bed. I think. Even though I can't really. Can you help people go home? The... um... guest room is set up. If anybody needs to stay."
He's caught you before you even realise you're falling, cup of water dropping from your hands and spilling all over his lap. And now yours. Considering the only way he could keep you from collapsing to the floor and hitting your head was by tugging you towards him. Onto his lap.
What a fucking joke.
"Don't run away again," he asks you, earnestly, just as you make an attempt to escape from him. His hands instead settle on your waist, holding you still.
"I'm sorry."
"For liking me?"
"For everything," you can't look him in the eyes, instead fixating on a frayed strand on his sweater, but you can feel his eyes boring holes into the top of your head.
"I don't think this is a conversation we should have when you're this drunk."
"I don't think this is a conversation we should have ever," you grumble.
"I sincerely disagree."
"I like you. You don't like me. I kissed you at midnight, then I ran away. Conversation done. Can I go now?"
He's reluctant in loosening his arms around you, but he does, and you clamber to your feet.
"I thought you were going to bed," he calls after you when you don't take the turn towards your bedroom, and instead head towards your front door.
"I'm a compulsive drunken liar."
He knows better than to force you anywhere, but you guess for his own peace of mind he doesn't want you going anywhere alone. Thus, he follows you. Silently, at least.
The air is cold, and it's raining, and you don't even need to say anything for him to tug his sweater off and onto your body. If he wasn't so... Spencer, you'd assume he's doing this to play with your feelings after your confession. You know he's just doing this because he's your friend.
Friend.
"It's raining," he comments, covering his eyes with his hand, watching as you fearlessly stride out into the pouring rain anyways.
"Ever so observant," you mumble, droplets rolling down your face, creating streaks in your makeup. You don't even care.
"I really don't think you should be out here in the rain," he scolds.
You ignore him.
"Can you at least tell me what you're going to say to me tomorrow?" Air escapes your lips with every word from the cold, forming a cloud in front of your face. You try to focus on that, labouring your breathing to see it again, and not whatever is about to come out of his mouth in response.
He must give up on trying to get you inside and away from the wet weather. "That defeats the purpose of waiting until you're sober."
"I'll probably forget by tomorrow anyways."
"That's what I'm worried about," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
You lift your head and look at him, putting blurry and dark features into their places, and thinking, again, just how terrible this night has gotten.
"I won't forget kissing you," you mumble. "If that's what you mean."
"I know," he nods his head, averting his eyes from you for possibly the first time all night. He stares at the pavement in front of you, and you follow his gaze down to it. Your shadows decorate the concrete beneath spaced apart street lamps, close enough together it's almost romantic. The rain begins to turn them into splotches, and suddenly
you can't see outlines of your bodies anymore. "I, um, don't think you should've kissed me tonight."
You hum in agreement, for it's really the only noise you can make right now. It feels like he's wrapped a hand around your heart and squeezed, but he's ever so perceptive, so he backtracks his words the second he realises how you've interpreted them.
"I mean because you're this drunk. I don't like knowing the first time we've ever kissed is when you're not in control of it. I know, on a technicality, you wanted to kiss me, but I wish it would've come from you sober."
You're silent. You only are really able to focus on one part of what he's said, considering your comprehension skills at an all time low. Your eyebrows furrow as you mull over one sentence, before whispering, "The first time we've ever kissed?"
His lips purse. "Yeah. I never pictured it to be like that."
"You've pictured our first kiss?"
"I really don't think this is anything that shocking. I kissed you back, did I not?"
You splutter to think of a response that doesn't make you look utterly stupid. "I thought—I thought... God, I don't know. You were kissing me back to be polite, I guess?"
And fail.
"Why would anybody ever do that?" he deadpans.
"To save me from embarrassment in front of everyone?"
You want to scream. Run back to your house and disappear from him because now you just feel ridiculous. It seems like kissing somebody back as an act of service and not out of pure want is a concept that is lost on him. For he doesn't seem to believe what you're saying to be a real thing people do. The idea of it comforts you a little—he wouldn't have kissed you unless he wanted to.
"How did you picture our first kiss?" you ask, instead, ready to fall back on the excuse that you won't remember this tomorrow. It's not true, and he knows it. Your coherent speech is proof enough.
He entertains you anyways.
"In my apartment," he says. "Sitting at my kitchen counter. Baking, and I was explaining to you why preheating an oven is important, and you were arguing with me about it. It's really stupid."
"It's not," you shake your head, smiling at the picture his words put together in your brain. "I like that better than a drunk New Year's kiss."
"Me too."
You turn onto yet another street, getting further and further away from the party, and all your friends. They could burn down your flat right now, and you'd never know. But it's quieter out here. Despite the heavy sound of raindrops crashing onto the pavement, it's quieter. Everything slows down and you're forced to confront your feelings, and it's easing your anxieties about the situation with every word you and Spencer exchange.
You still feel terrible.
"I'm sorry I kissed you tonight."
"You've already apologised for it," he tells you.
"I'm apologising for letting it be our first kiss," you murmur, stopping dead in your tracks. His strides are longer, so he takes a second to realise you've stopped, but he does as well, and turns back. He looks at you again, finally. "We can forget it was."
"I'm terrible at forgetting things."
"I know," you tilt your head, studying his face the best you can in the dark. It's a long shot, but you think you can see the smudge of your lipgloss on the corner of his mouth. The idea that he didn't even bother to wipe it off—and the rain didn't wash it away—is all you need to boost your confidence just enough for what you decide to say. "I know this isn't exactly how you pictured it, but I really want to consciously kiss you. Again."
"It's crossed my mind too," he agrees, and your heart flutters.
"Really?" your voice is barely even a whisper, clouding in front of you once again, yet this time you don't even think about focussing on it.
And his voice is just as quiet as he replies. "Yeah."
The butterflies thing is real, you deduce, when he steps forwards and cautiously lets his hands cup your cheeks. You could faintly hear the sound of music coming from a house nearby also throwing a party, yet the second his hands touch your skin, the sound of his breathing is all you can focus on.
Even though you think you know the answer, you still hesitate in asking, "Can I kiss you again?"
He doesn't give you a verbal answer. Just a smile—which turns the butterflies over in your stomach—and a nod. You lean up and press your lips to his, and this time it's so much better.
His mouth is warm despite the cold, and he relaxes, instead of tensing like he had when you'd kissed him an hour ago. Melting into you, and you, him. In the ridiculous setting of a street next to yours, outside of a dark house you don't know the occupants of. With his wet hair sticking to his forehead, and yours to the back of your neck. You should feel disgusting. Cold, and drained, with your clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin. You don't. Arguably, you've never felt better.
The butterflies thing is real, because they pick up in speed when his hands drop from your cheeks to your neck, to your shoulders, to your waist. Mapping out your body in the middle of this dark street. He settles them on your waist, though, and you wonder which Spencer you're currently with when he tugs you closer to him. Hips against hips, and making you mewl quietly when his teeth accidentally—or not—graze your bottom lip.
You think for just a second he's going to take things further right here and now. There's a small part of you that almost wants to beg him to. You've wanted him for so long, and now you have him, and you're scared this is going to be the only and last time you ever will. He doesn't do anything more than kiss the corner of your mouth before pulling away, and he's firm on his decision, even when you search for his lips again. He almost gives in—truly, it's tempting. But he doesn't, and you almost protest about it.
Almost, because then you see his eyes. Wide and kind, and they're staring at you. Like he had been all night, but this time without concern for how much alcohol you were consuming, or pity for a stupid drunken act. You want to kiss him again.
"Thanks," you murmur, voice hoarse, and he laughs.
"You're welcome," he says.
It's awfully romantic, you think. To be out here in the torrential rain, and to still want his hands on your skin. For him to still want to put his hands on your skin. The Spencer you know should be talking your ear off about
how a rainstorm in the dead of winter is incredibly risky, for either of you could end up with hypothermia tonight. He should be uncomfortable with the way his shirt sticks to his torso, or how sopping wet his sweater currently is hanging off your body. Instead, he's saying nothing about the downpour, and he's keeping his hands on you like he's going to lose you if he lets go.
You feel your legs go weak, and you mumble, "I want to kiss you again."
"Again?" he's mocking disbelief.
You want to insult him about it, but you don't get the chance to. For he's tilting his head down to you anyways, and wet lips are meeting yours once again.
That’s what Dana tells him. That’s what Jack tells him. And none of his residents will say it to his face, but he can see the disappointed judgement in their eyes when you walk away from him, smiling to yourself like a schoolgirl with a crush, while he thinks of the best way to let you down easy.
Your seven weeks were almost up.
And you were amazing. Really, you were. But Robby couldn’t help the feeling in his chest when you start calling him Michael more often or when you look at him like maybe he isn’t all that broken. It’s like a weight in his chest, fluid in his lungs that has to be drained, a tumor that must be resected before it does more damage.
So that was his sign to pull the trigger on what was becoming a lovely relationship, one that Caleb had offhandedly expressed support for. “She’s good for you. Makes you laugh. Doesn’t let you indulge in your self-depreciating tendencies.” Robby would hit him with a fly swatter if he could.
Everything was planned in the back of his head. He’d walk you home after this shift, slowly bring up the topic of “needing to focus on himself” as you apartment building came into view, and viola…he would burn another bridge that was built too close to his heart, where his feelings for you were becoming too big for him to handle.
But those plans disappeared into thin air when an FBI unit showed up to his emergency department in search of an attempted murder victim. More specifically, when you were stitching a minor wound on their unit chief, clearly enamored with his dark hair and his pretty brown eyes and his no nonsense attitude.
At first, Robby tried to ignore it. Who cares if you wanted to flirt with a Quantico suit who looks like he hasn’t smiled in years and has a decent hairlike for his age and doesn’t have crows feet etched around his eyes? Certainly not Robby. But the gossip flourished shortly after Santos overheard the pretty blonde FBI agent whispering to the lanky one with a boyband haircut, “I don’t know the last time I’ve seen Hotch smile.” To which the boyband-haircut FBI agent responded, “Or loosened his shoulders.”
You carefully padded the area around Agent Hotchner’s wound with fresh sterile gauze after tying your last suture, clearing any remnants of blood. “So what does SSA stand for? Super special agent? Secret special agent agent?” You continued light conversation, just for another minute to talk with your tall, dark, and handsome patient.
Hotch chuckled, his eyelids fluttering instinctively when the gauze got too close. Fuck, his eyelashes were pretty, too. “Supervisory special agent.” He replied.
You grinned and pulled out dressing for the stitches. “Oh, that sounds very important.” You hummed.
You knew the man in front of you was an FBI profiler, that if he really didn’t want to play along with your flirty conversation, then he would end it there. But to a man who sold his soul to his job, you were a comfortable break of sunshine through the clouds.
Hotch smiled, not enough for you to call it one, but enough that his nosy team outside had their jaws dropping. Amhad approached them innocently with a pen and notepad, like he was about to interrogate them. “So, what do you think the likelihood of them getting drinks would be?” He asked, like this was definitely not going to influence his wager.
The agent who had already introduced himself as Derek, after Princess conveniently needed something from the top shelf of the supply closet (Jesse was literally standing right next to her), leaned against the high counter of the desk hub. “Honestly? It might happen once we finish up this case.” He admitted.
Amhad scribbled something down on his notepad and nodded. “Does he usually do stuff like that?” He added, hoping to pull more info for his betting board.
Derek laughed, catching the attention of a few nurses and the rest of his team. “‘Stuff like that?’ You mean smiling? Talking?” He questioned, crossing his arms. “We have a pretty strict rule of not profiling each other. But right now…” He trailed off, looking back to the exam room. You were glowing while Hotch commended you for your suture work, holding the mirror just low enough to showcase a rare grin from the man. “I’d say he’s got himself a little crush.”
A little crush.
The words rattled in Robby’s ears as he gripped his iPad so tightly that his thumbs nearly shattered through the screen protector. Dana looked up from her computer monitor just in time to catch the vein threatening to burst across his forehead.
“What’s got ya down, boss?” She asked with feigned ignorance, leaning back in her rolling chair.
Robby peered over his glasses, cutting her an aggravated glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grumbled.
Dana smirked and threw her arms behind her to prop up her head. She was too pleased with the situation unraveling in front of her. “Oh yeah? You mean you’re not throwing a hissy fit because someone else is playing with your toys?” She baited.
Robby tossed the iPad on the desk next to her. “She’s not a toy.”
“No? Then why are you treating her like one?” Dana spat back.
That hit him square in the chest. He shook his head, like he was trying to convince himself. “I’m not treating her like-“
Dana took the iPad and stood, ready to walk away from this conversation. “Save your breath, Robby. If the girl wants to flirt with a hot detective and get drinks and, I don’t know, fuck around and move to Quantico, then let her. She’d give you the world, but you’re just using her as a stepping stone to your next seven week itch. Let her be with someone that deserves her.”
Robby stood frozen at the desk hub as Dana headed to the next patient’s room. He knew he didn’t deserve you. He knew this fuckass FBI agent would probably treat you like a princess. He knew that he should still let you down easy tonight.
You came out of the exam room, a giddy smile on your face, that quickly faded when you saw Robby staring at you. “What? What’s wrong?” You asked gently, approaching him slowly.
Robby just smiled, ignoring the ache he felt when your smile vanished just from looking at him, and shook his head. “Nothin’. Thanks for handling that.” He deflected, desperately hoping to see you smile again, but for him this time, not that agent with a sharp jaw that isn’t softening with age and-
“No problem, Doctor Robby.” You fake saluted with the tiniest smile before walking away.
Doctor Robby.
Not Michael.
That dagger sank deep and twisted in his lungs. You were pulling away from him. You were realizing exactly what Robby was trying to protect you from. That he’s no good for you. That he’s only going to drag you down deeper and drown you if he stays.
Robby should be grateful that Agent Hotchner has you checking your hair and straightening your scrub top in the bathroom before returning to his exam room. That would make his plan for tonight flow a lot smoother. But suddenly, the reality of losing you, of giving you up, of handing you to another man, had him sick to his stomach.
He didn’t know how, but Robby was going to win you back. He didn’t have a choice.
pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader
summary: hotch is trying his hardest to keep it together when your so-called friends crash the night out, good thing the bau are world class shit stirrers, based on this request.
warnings: fluff, protective hotch but also protective bau!! brief reference to them meeting which can be read here
word count: 1.3k
✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar
Hotch was, against all odds, and probably his own expectations, actually having a good time. Shocking, really. But he knew exactly why, it was you. You sitting under the glittering mirrorball light, talking with your hands mid-explanation.
It was your first official time meeting the team, and he wasn’t even a little bit surprised by how quickly you charmed every single person at the table. You had that effect on people. It was something he’d always admired about you, and okay, maybe envied a little too. He wasn’t exactly known for being warm or approachable. His voice didn’t magically pull smiles from strangers. Yours did.
And yet somehow, you—completely out of the blue—had walked into a bar similar to this one and asked him, a total stranger, to pretend to be your fiance for the night. Still one of the most absurd things he’s ever heard and he deals with absurd for a living.
Maybe that bit of envy came from a selfish place, though. Because he liked to think that the effervescent side of you was something you saved just for him, but it wasn’t because you were like that with everyone. All grins, all giggles, all theatrics because that’s who you were. And it made him furious inside to imagine anyone taking advantage of that. Like those awful friends who made you feel like you had to lie in the first place.
Still, in a roundabout, slightly messed-up way, he guessed he owed them one. Because their cruelty had delivered you straight to him.
He was mid-sip of his drink when he caught the way your smile wobbled. And when you did a double take towards the front door, his eyes were inclined to follow to see who or what he was going to have to glare at for sucking the light from your face that fast.
He didn’t even try to hide the exasperated sigh that left him.
“Oh boy,” you muttered, eyes still on the door.
“Do you know them?” JJ asked, leaning forward over a cluster of empty cocktail glasses. “Because they’re pointing.”
“And coming over,” Morgan added, eyebrows raised.
You straightened in your seat. “That’s…the quarter of the group responsible for me meeting Aaron.”
“No!” Penelope gasped, hand flying to her chest. “You mean those friends? The ones you had to lie to? The whole fake-fiancé saga?”
“In the flesh,” you confirmed, grabbing your drink and taking two very necessary gulps as Aaron braced himself for the evening to dissolve into performative lunacy.
You shifted in your seat beside him, shoulders going stiff in that I’m fine, this is fine way that meant the opposite. And yeah, his jaw clenched. Because the idea of you having to perform just to feel safe, or liked, or respected? Made his blood run hot. Especially when you were surrounded by people who actually saw you—really saw you—and didn’t need a single performance to adore you.
“Oh my god! Okay! We all have very important parts to play,” Penelope whisper-yelled at the table.
“Just don’t make it weirder than it has to be,” Emily muttered, toying with her paper straw.
“You want another drink?” Rossi nudged Aaron who just glared at the older man. “Come on, lighten up. I didn’t get to see you in fiancé-action last time.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Hotch said dryly, reaching over and resting his hand over yours in a squeeze.
You turned to face him and the panicked look on your face made his stomach knot. “I’m sorry for this. I had no idea they’d be here, I haven’t even spoken to them in months.”
“You don’t owe me an apology, just like you don’t owe them a damn thing.” His tone softened. “But if you want an out, just say the word, I’ll make up an excuse and we’re gone.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but it was too late.
“Wow,” came a voice you knew all too well. “Look who it is.”
“Veronica.” You offered a perfectly polite, perfectly fake smile. “Dani,” you added, glancing at her tagalong.
“Mind if we sit with your fiancé and friends?” Veronica asked, already pulling a chair over from the table behind because she wasn’t actually asking or waiting for permission. She wedged herself in between you and Emily.
Dani copied her motions, plopping herself down between Penelope and Spencer. The poor genius looked like he was calculating the fastest way to disassociate, especially when Dani’s manicured hands rested a little too close to his drink.
“So,” Veronica said, all teeth. “Are you going to introduce us?” She glanced around the table. “How do you all know the happy couple?”
“We work with Hotch,” Morgan answered smoothly, lifting his glass. “FBI.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s… intense.”
“Depends on the day,” Emily chimed in, “But yeah, keeps us busy.”
Veronica’s icy gaze slid to you, her mouth twitching. “Must be nice. All that… structure and stability. Probably pays off a little more than fashion, huh?”
You barely had time to get a word out before Penelope jumped in for you. “Oh, sweetie. One campaign of hers pays more than my entire annual salary. And I’m not exactly working for peanuts.”
You let out a sheepish laugh, just as Aaron’s thumb pressed gently against your hand, as if reminding you to breathe.
“Anyway,” Dani piped up, suddenly remembering she had both a voice and a personality, “how’s wedding planning going? You must be deep in it by now, right?”
“Weren’t you just looking at venues?” Rossi added with a grin, like he’d been personally waiting for this moment. Hotch made a mental note to get him store-brand whiskey for his next birthday.
“We were,” Hotch replied as casually as he could manage. “She wants a beach wedding. I want one where her dress doesn’t blow into the ocean.”
Morgan snorted while JJ shook her head, trying and failing to hide a smile.
“Tell the truth,” Emily grinned. “You just don’t want sand in your shoes.”
“I don't want sand in my everything,” Hotch said flatly, taking a sip of his drink at the involuntary conversation.
“Fair,” Morgan laughed, tipping his glass towards him. “Sand gets everywhere. Man’s got a point.”
“Well, the guest list must be pretty large then,” Veronica went on, smiling just a little too sweetly. “Half the FBI, and of course us, your best friends. You’ll need something that can accommodate everyone.”
“We’re keeping it small,” Hotch almost snarled, his tone landing somewhere between polite restraint and you’re not fucking invited. Not that there was an actual wedding, but if he ever did marry you, those two would be the last names on the list.
“Oh! But you have to have bridesmaids, right?” Dani pressed on, gesturing between herself and Veronica. “I mean, you’re probably thinking of us, your best friends—”
“We haven’t gotten that far,” you cut her off.
“Besides,” Emily added with a shark-like smile, “it’s so hard to find dresses that don’t clash with fragile egos.”
Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop them. Morgan was grinning like a man thoroughly entertained. JJ stifled a laugh behind a cough. And Spencer? He just looked politely baffled, having subtly nudged his drink as far away from Dani’s claws as possible without making it look like he was giving it to Rossi.
Hotch, meanwhile, added a new line to his growing mental list: whatever bottle Emily wanted for her birthday, she was getting the top shelf version. Hell, maybe two.
Some of the tension in his chest eased a little and he hoped yours had too. Because if there was one thing his team excelled at, it was rallying around someone they’d decided was theirs. And judging by the grins, side-eyes, and Emily’s very intentional lack of filter, the BAU had officially clocked in.
